Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [8]
What the hell happened to this purse? Did I toss it when we moved? I think, as I finally clasp the vibrating phone that is clanging to the tune of *NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye.”
“It ain’t no lie, baby, bye, bye bye,” I hum underneath my breath, flipping the phone open and bringing it to my ear.
“Hello?” I pause. “Er, this is Jillian speaking.” I freeze, allowing only my eyeballs to move, as if somehow I’m getting caught doing something terribly illicit. I hear air move through my nose as I inhale.
“Uh, Jill? It’s Gene. Where are you?” Gene, my intern at DMP who occasionally poses as my assistant, is whispering into the phone.
“I’m here! I’m here,” I say with emphasis.
“Er, are you okay? You sound . . . strange.” I hear a phone ring in the background of the office.
“Fine, fine! I’m fine! What’s up? Where are you, Gene? Where are you?” I open the front door and peek out of it, as if he might appear on the other side. The hallway is empty, so I close the door firmly shut.
“I’m here, Jill. I’m at work!” He speaks very slowly as if I might not understand English. “You’re missing the big brainstorming session for Coke, and I was worried. Everyone is asking for you.”
“Oh,” I answer. “Uh, no, I’m feeling sick today.” My brain is spinning. “I, uh, just woke up and forgot to call. Sorry!”
“Okay,” he answers with hesitation. “You sure you’re okay?”
There are so many questions I want to ask him, drain from him, but just as I’m about to, I hear the front latch click open.
“Yes! Yes,” I hiss. “I’ll call you later!” I slam the top of the phone closed and toss it onto the pillows of the couch, where it lands with a bounce. Frantically, I spin around, just in time to see Jackson stepping inside.
My spine shoots up straight like I’d been plugged into an eight-volt, and the mere sight of him literally causes my breath to leave my body. I feel my chest tighten.
The humidity from the July air had pasted his wavy blond bangs onto his forehead, so they almost appear painted on, and black circles cloud his naked blue eyes, but he is still handsome in the way that causes girls to turn and look when he walks by, handsome enough that when we met at a campus party two years back, I’d given him, no, I’d pushed on him, my number without hesitation, even though we were both falling-down drunk and I was in no condition to impress anyone. Nor was he.
“Hey,” he says, tossing his messenger bag on the floor, and looking up at me. I am standing with my mouth agape, unable to form audible words. My eyes most certainly bug.
“Hey,” he says again, moving closer, eventually close enough to plant a kiss on my forehead. “I called you at work and no one knew where you were, so I tried your cell, but you didn’t answer. I wanted to come home to make sure you were okay.”
Still, I cannot speak, so I squeak out something that sounds like “eep.”
Jack steps back and looks me square in the eye. “Seriously, Jill, what’s wrong?”
“Not feeling well,” I manage. “Sick.” My throat feels like flypaper. I move to one of the (hideous) wicker chairs and sit.
“You look . . .” Jack cocks his head to assess me. “You look high.” He furrows his brow with concern. “What’s going on?”
“Sick, I’m sick,” I repeat. “Took some DayQuil. Maybe that’s why I look this way.”
“We have that? I thought you were on an antimedication kick.” Jack heads to the bathroom to check.
Oh shit, that was true. I was. My team had decided to represent a naturopathic client who claimed that just about everything could be cured by everyday foods found in your pantry, and in one fell swoop, I gutted our medicine cabinet.
“Ooh, no, changed my mind. As is my right! Right?” I bite into the cuticle on my thumb. “I ran out and bought some this morning.”
Jack pops back into the living room. “Yeah, you were all sweaty when I woke up this morning.