Page 42 of Man Flu

“Then what?” she continues. “Huh? You’re all pale and clammy looking. Something must have happened.”

“Oh yeah, something happened all right.” I take off my coat and drape it over the top of my bookshelf.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” She’s disappointed because I don’t care to talk about vomiting all over the hottest man I think I’ve ever been within five feet of.

“I had the stomach flu, Brielle. I yakked all over the guy. He took me home, watched me puke again, naked at one point too, I should add in … hot, right? Then he took care of Cora until she fell asleep. Oh, and now I have to face him every day for the indefinite future.”

Brielle slowly squats down into the guest chair across from my desk. “Oh, my Blahniks, are you serious?”

“You think I’d make that up?”

“That is like the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” she coos and bounces her feet. “Did he hold your hair and stuff?”

“Brielle—I’m absolutely mortified.”

“He took care of Cora, Hannah. That’s like—I mean, that’s something.” Every thought I’ve been trying not to think over the past few hours are now dribbling from Brielle’s mouth like a leaky faucet. Maybe he stayed and took care of me and helped with Cora, but whatever it was yesterday isn’t the same today. Or it’s more. This is hurting my head, which already hurts. “Are you going to see him again?”

“You mean, when I’m not choking up chunks?”

“Well, yeah.” She responds with true curiosity like I was serious.

“He asked me to go out with him tonight. I think he was joking, though.” That’s kind of a mean joke after being brutally sick for twenty-four hours. Who does that?

“Why do you think he was joking?” Brielle asks, leaning forward with interest as she presses her elbows into her knees. This is turning into another therapy session where I get schooled from a twenty-something-year-old on how to live.

“Come on, Brielle, really? Look at him. Look at me …”

“Girl, you have some serious self-image problems. You’re smokin’ hot for thirty-three. You look like you’re twenty. You could probably do something with your wardrobe, but you’re gorgeous. Stop doubting yourself.”

I look down at my cardigan and black dress pants. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” As I’m asking, I admire her ensemble of navy blue, fitted dress pants and a white button-down shirt that’s so fitted, it might explode into shreds with one deep breath. “I can’t dress like you. I have a child, and hips, and—”

“Gigantic ladies,” she continues speaking for me. Ladies … boulders, same thing. “And your hips form an hourglass shape. Plus, I’d kill for your ass.” You don’t want to see what that thing really looks like, honey. Trust me.

I roll my eyes at her remarks and redirect my attention to my blacked-out monitor. I tap my mouse, bringing the bright-as-hell thing to life, and slouch back into my chair.

“That’s it?” she asks.

“What?”

“Never mind,” she sings while popping out of the chair. She opens the door and walks directly into Logan’s cubicle. I watch, wondering what the hell she’s about to say to him, but it’s not as much about what she might be saying as what she’s doing. What the hell, Brielle? She hoists herself up onto his desk, knocking over his pen cup. I can see the giggles and hear the reverb. Her hand is on his shoulders, and she’s squeezing his tricep. She’s got to be kidding me. This is so inappropriate. We’re at work. I’m her boss. I’m his boss. This can’t happen. I stand up, pushing my chair back a few feet, clearly a little more enraged than I should be. I make my way to Logan’s cube in a nano-second and stare at the two of them like a mom—a mom with my hands on my hips. “This is completely inappropriate behavior for the office,” I scold them, but it wasn’t really Logan. It’s Brielle.

“Have you felt this thing?” Brielle continues squeezing his arm. “It’s like a rock. Did you pitch a lot?”

“I was a second batman—I mean baseman,” Logan winks along with his answer. “But, that’s history now.” Logan seems mildly embarrassed by the show of—err—affection Brielle is giving him.

“That’s so cool. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play baseball. Do you think you could maybe … teach me?”

My heart is throbbing in my chest, and my veins are filling with a surge of anger. “No, he can’t teach you how to play baseball.”

“Why not?” she argues, holding a mischievous arch to her brow.

“He’s injured.”

“No, I’m not,” Logan responds.

Yes, he is. That’s why he’s not playing baseball anymore. “So, you lied? Because it’s illegal to lie during an interview, you know?”

“I was injured, but I’m not now, so no, I didn’t lie.”