Love Proof (Laws of Attraction) (8 page)

Angie looked at the amount.  “Are you sure?  This much?”

“Of course,” Sarah said.  “Thank you.”

She had been paying Angie off a little more every week, not only for
the current sessions, but for all the ones Angie gave her for free during
Sarah’s six months of unemployment.

“I know you’ll find something soon,” Angie always told her, and then
finally one day it was true.  Sarah never forgot generosity like that.  She
planned on giving Angie a big bonus at the end of the year, once she paid down
some of her other debts.  Angie was just a small business owner like Sarah’s
parents, and Sarah knew very well the risk Angie had taken in giving her credit
for so long with no guarantee of repayment.

If only everyone who dealt with Sarah’s parents felt the same way about
compensating them for their work, Sarah thought.  But she knew that wasn’t how
the world worked.  All she could do was her part.

“What time do you leave tomorrow?” Angie asked her as Sarah pulled a
sweatshirt over her sweaty T-shirt.

“Around three,” Sarah said.  “I want to get settled in Salt Lake and
have some dinner so I can go to bed early.”

“Get some sleep tonight, too,” Angie said.  “You’ve got circles under
your eyes.”

“Yeah, but you should see the other guys,” Sarah joked.  It was true,
Chapman looked like he had put on weight over the past six or seven weeks, and
all of them could probably use more fresh air than they were getting, but Sarah
had been disappointed to see how well Burke held up.  He still looked fit and
rested, even though they had just crammed in five different cities in five days
so they could make Thanksgiving week a short one.  The guy was indestructible. 
Still.

Sarah stopped by the grocery store on the way home from her workout to
buy herself something healthy.  She picked out a few pieces of fresh fruit and
a couple of lightly-fried vegetable samosas she found in the prepared foods
section.  She missed Indian food.  Good food of any kind, in fact, and her own
cooking even more.  She made one more stop, dropping off her dry cleaning and
picking up clean suits so she could pack for the next day’s trip.

Sarah hadn’t bought new clothes in over eight months now.  It was a
luxury that was no longer on her list.  She promised herself a full new outfit
when these depositions were all over, but until then she could make do with all
the designer suits she purchased back when she was feeling flush.  As long as
she continued to take good care of them, they should last, no matter how many
times she folded them, ironed them with crappy hotel irons, wore them,
perspired in them, and subjected them to the cleaners.

As soon as she returned to her apartment, Sarah checked her e-mail,
answered one or two, then headed for the shower.  Now that she had sweated up
her hair at the workout, she was safe giving it the full and laborious
treatment:  shampooing, conditioning, treating, blowing it out with the dryer,
then straightening it with the iron.  It was a process that could take as long
as an hour and a half sometimes if her hair was being particularly difficult. 
She hoped today wasn’t one of those days.  Angie was right:  she needed more
sleep.  Sleep and a long weekend off.

And a break from looking at Joe across a table all day long every day.

***

“Beautiful, huh?” the court reporter, Marcela, said as Sarah gazed at
the Wasatch mountains from the window of the hotel conference room.  “Have you
ever skied here?” she asked.

“No, I don’t ski,” Sarah said.  “Do you?”

“Once,” Marcela said.  “That was enough.  I forgot snow was so cold.”

Sarah smiled, just to be friendly, even though she didn’t really feel
like it.  She hadn’t slept well.  She felt edgy, irritable.

Joe’s Salt Lake City client was a woman in her thirties, well-groomed,
but with an unfortunately short haircut.  It wasn’t the woman’s choice.

“I used to have hair down to here,” she cried, tears slipping down her
cheeks.  Chapman had finally gotten around to asking a few relevant questions,
and was rewarded with copious weeping.

Oh, boy, Sarah thought, this one’s going to kill us in front of a jury.

And then the room started to go black.

It started at the edges of Sarah’s vision, like black bars, slowly
closing in.  Then her ears began to buzz.  She could feel sweat beading on her
face.

Sarah glanced down at her legal pad and tried to concentrate on the few
words she had written there, but the letters swam and wriggled out of focus.

When Sarah looked up again, she found Joe staring at her.  She scowled,
but he wrinkled his forehead and kept looking.

“Off the record,” he said.  Marcela stopped typing.  “Sarah, are you
all right?”

“Of course I’m all right.”  Even though she could feel the sweat
covering more of her body.

“Come with me,” Joe told her.  To the rest of the people in the room he
said, “We’re taking a break.”

When Sarah didn’t immediately stand up—and why should she?  He wasn’t
in charge of her—Joe came over and clasped her by the arm.  “Come on,” he
said.  “Now.”

Sarah slowly rose to her feet.  “What are you—”  But she couldn’t get
the rest of the sentence out.  Because suddenly the room swayed, and Sarah
swayed with it.  Joe braced his arm around her waist and escorted her out into
the hall.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Joe said, “You’re sick.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Sarah, look at you.  You’re bleach white.  There are black circles
under your eyes.  You’re dripping sweat.  Come on, where’s your room?”

It was true, she didn’t feel well—at all.  But he had no right taking
charge of her like this.  Sarah wrenched herself away.  “I’m fine.  I just need
to rest for a few minutes.”

As if accepting that as a signal, her legs began to give way.  She
leaned back against the nearest wall and started to sink down.

Joe bent over, scooped his arm behind her knees, and lifted her off the
floor.  Sarah drooped in his arms.  Joe wrestled open the door of the
conference room and called to Marcela, “Get her things.  Come with me.”

“What’s going on?” Chapman called, but Joe let the door swing shut
again.

“What room are you in?” he asked her again.

Sarah shook her head weakly.  She wasn’t trying to be difficult, she
just honestly didn’t remember.  After staying in so many different hotel rooms
over so many weeks, she had no hope of keeping it straight.  She started storing
each day’s key inside the little envelope the clerk at the front desk gave her. 
That way she could always refer to the room number written on the outside.

Marcela now joined them, holding Sarah’s purse and laptop case.  Sarah
pointed to the purse.

“Key.”

Even that much effort felt monumental.  Sarah had to rest her head
against Joe’s chest.

“Sarah?”  He sounded so far away.  “Sarah.”  Joe shifted her in his
arms so that he held her more securely.

“Got it,” Marcela said, showing Joe the key she found in Sarah’s purse. 
“Room four-eighty.”

“Would you come with us, please?” he asked Marcela as he started
carrying Sarah toward the elevator.  “I need you to bring those things to her
room.  But I’d keep your distance,” he added.  “We don’t know what she has.”

“What about you?” Marcela asked him, no doubt noticing that Sarah’s
sweaty face was just inches from his.

“Indestructible,” Joe told her.

Sarah heard it, but felt too weak to respond.  It was a line he had
used on her more than a few times.  And it still made her mad because it always
seemed to be true.

As they rode the elevator, Marcela asked, “What should I tell the
others?”

“Tell my client we have to reschedule.  And tell Paul to cancel the
afternoon.  I don’t think Sarah’s coming back.  At least not today.”

“Yes, I am,” Sarah forced herself to say.  “I just need to rest.  Don’t
cancel . . . ”

But she couldn’t say anymore.

Her stomach was starting to move.

“Oh, God . . . ”  Sarah pressed her sweaty face into Joe’s shoulder and
held on to one thought only: 
Not here, not here, not here . . .

Her room was just a few doors down from the elevator.

“Hurry, Burke,” Sarah urged.

Her stomach lurched.

“Oh, God . . . ”

As soon as Marcela got the door open, Joe raced with Sarah into the
bathroom.  Her knees barely hit the floor before her mouth exploded over the
toilet.

Everything she had eaten since high school, it seemed, tried to come
out of her.  One wave after another, gushing, exploding.

In between heaves, Sarah fumbled at the buttons of her jacket.  She
peeled it off and tossed it to the side where she hoped it would be safe from
any splatters.  Then she tugged at the bottom of her silk top, desperate to
lift it over her head.

“Sarah, what are you doing?”

“Get out!” she yelled, then vomited more.  Including all over the
shirt.

Now she was crying, in between heaves, as she twisted open the button
on her pants.  They were wool, lined, one of her nicest pairs.  And she still
had two more days of depositions when she’d have to wear them.

“What are you doing?” Joe asked again.  “Leave those on.”

“I can’t—” but then another wave hit her, and her gut exploded once
more.

Sarah rested for a moment against the toilet seat, and reached up to
push down the handle.  The bathroom reeked of vomit, and still Joe Burke stood
in the doorway.

Sarah resumed trying to take off her pants.

“You’ll freeze to death,” Joe said.  “Stop it.”

“Just help me,” she said.

Without asking why, he did.  He pulled them off in one quick move,
leaving Sarah in just her black bra and matching underwear, sitting on the cold
tile floor.

“Here.”  Joe spread out bath towels beside her and helped her shift her
knees on top of them.  Then he disappeared for a moment, and returned with the
thick white hotel robe that had been hanging in the closet.

Joe helped Sarah thread her arms through the sleeves, then he wrapped
it around her and tied the belt.  Just that little bit of jiggling against her
belly had Sarah twisting toward the toilet bowl again and losing so much of her
insides, it felt like it included whatever she’d eaten since junior high, and
maybe even elementary school.

When the wave passed, Sarah reached up and flushed again.  Then she
rolled onto the towels Joe spread out, curled her legs up into her for warmth,
and let out a low moan.

She felt Joe lifting her head, then placing a soft pillow beneath it. 
He laid another towel over her bare legs and feet.

“Go away,” Sarah moaned.

“I will,” Joe said.

But meanwhile he swabbed her face with a washcloth.

“It’s disgusting,” she mumbled.

“It is,” he agreed.

“It stinks,” she said.

“It does.”

“Why are you here?” Sarah murmured.

“I wanted to see you in your underwear.”

Sarah couldn’t help chuckling, just a little.  “You’re sick.”  But then
she felt the next wave coming.

“Oh, God . . . ”

“I’ve got you,” Joe said as he lifted her toward the bowl.

Sarah vomited until she could have sworn she got all the way down to
her mother’s milk.  When she finally—finally—felt empty, she flushed for the
third time, then rolled onto her side again and pulled her knees up to her
chest.

“I think I’m done,” she managed to say.

She felt Joe lifting her up.

She didn’t care that it was him.  All she wanted was what he was doing,
carrying her to the bed, pulling the sheets back, laying her between them and
covering her up.  He pulled the covers all the way to her chin.

“I’ll be back,” he said.  “Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

Sarah nodded.  She kept her eyes closed.  She stayed curled in a ball.

She heard Joe closing the drapes in her room until the light was
mercifully blocked out.  He didn’t turn on any of the lamps, but left the room
dark.  She heard the door click closed behind him.  Then she shivered miserably
in her bed.

***

A cool hand on her forehead.  She reached up to touch it.  It felt dry,
a little hairy around the knuckles.

She peeked open one eye.  “Still here?”

“Here again,” Joe said.

He laid his hand against her neck.  “You’re burning up.  Here.  Take
these.”

He shook two ibuprofen tablets into the palm of his hand and offered
them to her along with a glass of water.  Sitting up seemed impossible.  Sarah
didn’t move.

“You’ll feel better,” Joe told her.  “Come on, I’ll help you.”

Her body felt pummeled by a thousand aches.  She really was sick, she
realized—as if the puking hadn’t been enough to convince her.