I called in sick to work this morning. It’s the first time I’ve ever done this, and to be honest, I’m not happy about it. I guess I just like what I do, you know? Not many people can say that. My boyfriend works for the city, and he takes every vacation day he can get. He claims his boss is outrageously demanding, but I think he just hates working for someone else. I actually like it. Every morning I wake up, eager to reach my desk. I love getting there before my boss, waiting for him to step off the elevator onto our floor and make his way towards his office. He smiles at the other secretaries as he walks past them, but he saves his trademark high five and “Good morning, champ” for me.

Today, work wasn’t really an option. I spent the first three hours of my morning hugging the toilet, getting reacquainted with my last two meals. Up came last night’s dinner, originally a lovely roast chicken with a salad and wild rice. This morning it looked more like a chartreuse colored casserole, followed by yesterday’s lunch of mushroom pizza, now looking a lot like lasagna fresh out of a blender. During a brief period of digestive tranquility, I made the call.

“Maggie, why are you calling me at six in the morning?” my boss groaned, as I imagined him in bed. He’s definitely not the pajama-set type, but I couldn’t see him sleeping in the nude either. Maybe just boxers? I pictured him stretching out, one hand holding his cell phone, the other rubbing his sleepy eyes. “Maggie?” he repeated.

“Sorry, hello Mr. Chase!” I said, snapping out of it. Was he with his wife? It doesn’t matter, I told myself, as I gathered the courage to say, “I don’t think I can come in today. I’m feeling quite unwell, and-“

“What? Maggie, baby, I need you. I have that huge meeting; I need to run my presentation by you before hand,” he pleaded. He was definitely not with his wife. Where was he? “Are you sure you can’t make it?” he asked, sounding frustratingly cute.

“Um, I guess I could maybe come in late…” I stalled as I twirled a lock of curly, brown hair around my finger. Something wet caught my attention and I saw that there was a clump of vomit clinging to the curl. “No, no, I am really not fit to be at work today,” I insisted, knowing it was the truth.

“Dammit.” He was upset, and I pictured his mouth scrunching up the way it does when he’s angry.

“I’m really sorry, I know how important the meeting is. Maybe you can have Linda prep you after lunch?” I suggested, knowing it was no use.

He laughed, scorning my suggestion. “Maggie, I need you and no one else.”

God, those words sounded so good. I was about to respond graciously when the contents of my stomach began surging their way to my throat. “Mr. Chase, I have to go. I will call you this afternoon so we can go over your presentation,” I said, hanging up just in time.

I spent the next forty-five minutes willing myself to stop puking. Every time I felt a surge of nausea, I gripped the toilet seat as hard as I could, determined to settle my indigestion. I needed to get to work. Mr. Chase needed me to get to work.

            But my stomach didn’t settle, and when he called me at 6:45, I let it go to voicemail. I’d rather send a memo to the entire office announcing my school girl crush on Mr. Chase than let him hear me vomit. By then, my boyfriend was starting to wake up. I heard him turn off his alarm in our bedroom and walk down the hallway towards the bathroom. His familiar footsteps reached the door and he knocked twice.

            “Dan,” I called out. “Do not come in here.”

            “Huh? I need to pee. Let me in,” he said grumpily.

            “I’m sick. Give me a second and it’s all yours.” I flushed the toilet and got up, unsteadily grabbing at the towel rack for support. I brushed my teeth for the third time that morning and splashed cold water on my face, drying myself with Dan’s towel because mine smelled like puke. When I opened the door, I saw him standing facing the door, looking confused.

            “You’re sick?” he asked.

            “Yes, as in good, old, vomit-inducing food poisoning sick,” I snapped.

            “Oh,” he said sheepishly. “I’m sorry Mags, can I get you anything?”

            “No, just hurry up and use the toilet. I am eager to return to my post,” I joked. We traded spots as he took his turn in the bathroom. I leaned against the closed door, wondering if Mr. Chase had left his apartment for work yet.

            “Do you think it was that chicken you made last night?” Dan asked from inside the bathroom.

            “I thought you said you liked it?” I replied, aware of how defensive I sounded.

            “I did like it. I just meant, maybe you undercooked it by mistake or something,” he added as he opened the door.

            “Maybe,” I said, sliding past him to get to the toilet. I hadn’t considered the cause of my distress, I’d been too busy thinking about my boss shirtless.

#

            After Dan left for work, my nausea subsided for some time and I was able to read the paper in bed. Sprawled out onto Dan’s side of the bed, I began to relax, even enjoy my work-free morning. Just as I was getting to the obituaries, my twisted guilty pleasure, my phone buzzed, announcing a text from Mr. Chase. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked.

            “A little, but not enough. Sorry boss,” I responded, wishing I had the guts to replace “boss” with “incredibly sexy love of my life.” I lay back, pulling the comforter up over my head and breathing in the dark. Trapped with no outside air, I could smell the sick on my sleep shirt. Nothing like the smell of vomit to get it out of you. I threw back the covers and ran to the bathroom. Kneeling on the cold, square tiles, I began to sympathize with pregnant women; morning sickness must be a real bitch. In between heaves, I thanked the heavens for sending me my period last week.

            An hour later, I was back in bed. It was almost ten, so I knew Mr. Chase would be in his office by now. Was it creepy that I could play out his entire workday in my head? He was probably done with his first coffee by now, sitting at his desk going over the handouts for his afternoon presentation. He was pitching a new idea for a book, a memoir by a young author who grew up in twelve different countries, on six different continents. I’d worked on it with him for weeks, staying late at the office and ordering take-out. We made a great team, efficient enough to let ourselves take breaks and unwind. He told me about his childhood, living in the same neighborhood in suburban Chicago until he was fifteen and his parents divorced. I liked to imagine him as a teenager, with his thick, dark hair and penchant for heavy metal. No one in the office knew about that except me, and I liked to think that it stemmed from a rebellious phase, presumably mourning the loss of his parents’ marriage. I told him about my boring upbringing, my family never moving from our house in Brooklyn, my grandmother living with us until she got cancer when I was in the ninth grade. We shared our admiration for the author, experiencing more foreign culture by the time she hit puberty than either of us had to this day. I began wishing that the presentation would get pushed back and we would have more time together.

            As my mind replayed a particularly intimate conversation about him meeting his father’s second wife, my phone rang.

            “Sorry, but I haven’t made a miraculous recovery boss,” I joked.

             “Maggie, don’t worry about the presentation,” he said, sounding out of breath. “I’ll be fine. But I really need to talk to you, will you be okay to talk in fifteen minutes?”

“Well, I can’t promise that I won’t have a sudden, um, emergency…” I trailed off, unable to say “violent vomiting episode.”

“I have something big to tell you,” he continued. “It’s about a change in our relationship.”

            Our relationship. He just said we had a relationship. The phrase echoed in my ear as I sat up.

            “Yes. I can talk in fifteen minutes,” my words came out almost automatically. He hung up, leaving me in shock. Fifteen minutes.

#

            Now I’m stuck waiting. It’s been eight and a half minutes since he called. I’m sitting in bed, but I’ve got a trashcan at the ready, just in case. It would be just my luck to vomit after hearing him profess his love to me. The thing is, he can’t do that. He can’t just all of a sudden decide that he wants to change our relationship. We don’t even have a relationship, besides the extremely serious and passionate one that exists in my head. And I have a real relationship, with a man who cares about me. Despite our petty squabbles over which is better, the Lord of the Rings books or the Lord of the Rings movies, we are a truly solid pair. He even knows that I lust after my boss and teases me about it from time to time. Dan is good for me, and Mr. Chase should really respect that.

            Ten minutes now. I should have just gone to work today. This is why I don’t call in sick; missing one day can change everything. I wonder where his wife was when I called him this morning. Maybe they are going through a rough spot? Potentially caused by his massive crush on me? He called me baby, something he does very rarely, and mostly just at office parties after having too many beers.

            “Baby, you’re the best damn assistant I could ask for,” he’d say. I would blush, thank him, and scurry off to find Dan, who would usually be arguing with someone about the latest raise in taxes.

            But this baby sounded different. He really meant it, that little term of endearment. And now I was expected to reciprocate, something that I’d been mentally doing since the day I started working for him. It should not be difficult. I’ve got three minutes until he calls, and I’m feeling more nauseated than when I woke up this morning.

            My phone is ringing. He is early. I know what I have to say.

            “Hello?” I sound casual.

            “Hey, Maggie!”

            “Hi boss. What’s up,” I ask, my voice faltering slightly.

            “Well, as I said earlier, I have some news for you,” he says. My heart is beating faster than I thought possible.

            “Right…” I am stalling, and I don’t know why. If he is about to tell me that he left his wife, I should be thrilled. “Listen, Mr. Chase?”

            “Are you going to let me tell you or what, champ?” he teases. Before I can reply, I hear the doorbell.

            “Sorry, can you hang on just one second?”

            “Maggie, come on…” I can tell he is getting annoyed but I have no choice. I put down the phone and set my trashcan on the floor. When I reach the door, I check the hallway mirror for any obvious signs of vomit: all clear. I hear Dan’s voice outside, humming “My Girl”. I open the door and see him standing there with his arms full of flowers, cans of soup, and saltines.

            “I thought you could use some company,” he says, “Plus you know I love staying home from work.” I throw my arms around his neck, squishing the flowers and causing him to drop the crackers between us. I can’t believe I was about to consider crossing the line with my playboy boss.

            “Give me a second,” I tell Dan as I go to retrieve my cell phone.

            “Sure, I’m just going to make some of this chicken noodle stuff you like.”

            Back in our bedroom, I pick up the phone and hear Mr. Chase speaking to someone in the background.

            “I’m trying to tell Maggie about my promotion, she’s off doing something. Not very grateful considering what I went through to make sure she got a raise too,” he complains.

            “A raise? He was calling me about a raise?” I think to myself, embarrassed.

I hang up without saying anything. He wasn’t in love with me and that was that. The signs I saw… all wishful thinking. I hear Dan in the kitchen, belting out, “I got a sweeter so-o-ong, than the month of May.” Eager to forget about my near-disastrous misunderstanding, I join him in there.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Everything is great,” I say.

#

            That night, as I am falling asleep next to Dan, I think about how lucky I am and how often I take that for granted. As much as I fantasize about being swept off my feet by the handsome man I bring coffee to every morning, I’d just as rather stay on my feet with the adorable man who brings coffee to me every morning.