The Goal

Promises. Promises.

When there’s no immediate response, I put my phone away and try not to be disappointed. I guess he’s busy with his mom and his old friends.

The rock that settled into my stomach when he left today grows a little larger. I miss him. And if I’m honest with myself, I think I’m falling for him. John Tucker has slid deftly into my life, filling spaces that I didn’t realize existed.

And he’s not the distraction I thought he would be. When I need quiet, he gives it to me. When I need fun, he’s there with a ready smile. And when my whole body aches, he has no problem fucking me until I’m a boneless mess. He likes being with me. And I like being with him.

I squeeze the back of my neck. Am I in too deep already? Should I get out now? Can I continue this without one of us getting hurt?

Tucker had guessed that I had my whole life planned out—and I did. The vision I had of four years of college followed by law school followed by a well-paying summer internship which precedes the perfect job at a Big Six law firm ending with retirement in some sunny place on the beach…it’s a plan that didn’t ever include a man. I don’t know why. It just didn’t.

Men are for…sex. And it’s easy to get and easy to let go. Or at least, it was easy to let go. Now, not so much, because the idea of not having Tucker makes that rock in my stomach feel like a boulder. Actually, the rock is making me feel queasy. I take a few deep breaths and try to remember the last time I ate something.

“You okay, honey?” Kitty Thompson asks in concern. Kitty is one of the owners of Boots & Chutes. She and three other former strippers run the club, and it’s one of the best places I’ve ever worked.

I rub my temple before answering. “Just worn out.”

“Only a couple more hours.” She clucks sympathetically. “And it’s slow tonight. I’ll probably let you go early.”

We both take in the handful of occupied tables.

With a decisive nod, she says, “Yes, you might as well take off. You wouldn’t earn much more than twenty dollars. Go home and get some rest.”

I don’t need her to tell me twice. Having a couple more hours of sleep before I need to be at the post office to sort mail sounds like a dream. So I hurry home and then fall into bed without checking my phone again. It’ll still be there in the morning.

At three-forty my alarm goes off. When I push up into a sitting position, I nearly pass out from dizziness. The contents of last night’s hastily gulped supper at the club threaten to make a reappearance.

I close my eyes and take several deep breaths. Once I feel like I can stand without throwing up all over my feet, I bend over to grab my phone.

Which is a huge mistake.

My stomach revolts. Vomit is in my mouth before I can make it to the bathroom, and I’m already throwing up before I can snap the toilet lid up. I drop to my knees as everything I’d eaten for what seems like the last week comes out and dumps into the porcelain bowl.

Oh God. I feel awful.

I heave until there’s nothing but pale watery bile. Still on my knees, I reach for a towel and wipe my face off. I’m sweating, I realize. Shaking, sweating, and sick as a dog. Weakly, I flush the toilet twice before dragging myself upright.

At the sink, I swish my mouth out with water and then stare at my pale reflection. I have to go to work. During every holiday season, there’s a shortage of workers and the full-time employees receive time and a half. I can’t afford to stay home.

I totter back to my bedroom only to stop at my door. Uh-oh. The water I swallowed isn’t sitting well. Sweat breaks out across my forehead, forcing me back to the toilet.

As I flush the mess away, I come to the realization.

I’m going to have to call in sick. There’s no way I can go in.

The clock beside my bed says it’s five past four. I’m already late. I pick up the phone and dial. My supervisor, Kam, answers right away.

“Kam, it’s Sabrina. I’ve been throwing up—”

“Do you have a doctor’s note?” he demands.

“No, but—”

“Sorry, Sabrina, you need to come in. It’s all hands on deck. You asked for these shifts.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts. Sorry.”

“I’ve been puking all—”

“Look, I have to go, but as a favor I’ll go punch your time card so you aren’t docked or written up for being late. But you need to get in here. We’ve got so many frickin’ boxes to sort, I can’t even see the other side of the room. Doesn’t anyone shop at the mall anymore?”

It’s a rhetorical question, apparently, because he hangs up immediately after.

I stare at my phone and then push to my feet. I’m going to work, I guess.

“You look terrible,” one of the temporary workers comments when I stumble in twenty minutes later. “Don’t stand by me. I don’t want to get sick.”

I squint at her through narrowed eyes and am tempted to barf all over her starchy uniform. “Me neither,” I say shortly.

Kam arrives with a frown and his iPad. “Get over into bay four and start sorting. We’re so freaking behind it’s not even funny.”

I resist the urge to salute. I agree with him, though—there’s nothing funny about this situation. I feel terrible.

The whole morning drags on. I feel like I’m covered in tar, each movement of my body requiring so much effort. I must’ve gotten a flu bug. I’m worn down, just like Hope had warned, due to the two jobs, the full load, the worry about Harvard. I pushed myself too much this semester and now I’m paying for it.

When the shift is over, I barely have the energy to pour myself into the car and drive out of the parking lot. I make it home, but the minute I hit the kitchen, another wave of nausea strikes. I slap a hand over my mouth and rush to the bathroom.

“What’s wrong with the two of you?” grumbles Ray, who’s standing at the open door. He’s wearing one of his stained white tank tops untucked over a pair of gray sweatpants. In one hand is a beer.

You. You’re what’s wrong with us.

Then the meaning of his words sinks in. “What do you mean the two of us? Is Nana sick?”

“So she says. She didn’t finish making my breakfast. She got sick and had to go pass out in the bedroom.” He jerks his head toward Nana’s room.