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“Yes, please,” I say. “That would be great.”
We say goodbye, and I hang up. Another wave of nausea rushes up, and I run to the bathroom, only to vomit furiously into the toilet. What’s going on? How has this poison permeated my life? Panting, I rest my head on the porcelain rim, and desperately wish for Peter.
19
Peter
“What do you mean she said she isn’t coming back?” I ask George. I haven’t heard a thing from Whitney. Why would she send a message via the chauffeur? The elderly man shrugs his shoulders.
“Mr. Coleman, Miss Porter said she wasn’t feeling well and she thought it would be better if she stayed at her place.”
I stare at him.
“Did she seem sick when you picked her up from the vet?”
He shakes his head.
“No, she seemed fine and said to come back in about four hours after she’d packed her things.”
Now, I’m baffled.
“This doesn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have gotten sick from the vet’s office. Even if someone there had the virus and gave it to Whitney, she wouldn’t be showing signs so early.”
The chauffeur is just as confused as me.
“I don’t know, but Miss Porter definitely did not sound like herself over the intercom when I went back to get her. I think she really is ill.”
“Thanks, George. I’ll call her and see what’s going on.”
I dial Whitney’s number and she doesn’t answer so I send a text.
Peter: Are you ok? What’s wrong?
Whitney: I’m not feeling well. I must have come down with something. You’re supposed to visit the stores in Pennsylvania tomorrow anyways, and I don’t want to get you sick and risk infecting people.
Peter: That’s very considerate, but sweetheart, I can cancel my trip and take care of you. I’d rather do that.
Whitney: No, it’s okay. I’ll be fine, thanks. I just need some time to myself this evening.
Shit. What is going on with her? Is she ill? But if she wants some space, then fine. I take to my bed alone that night and toss and turn, unable to sleep without Whitney beside me.
Then, the next morning, I head out to Pennsylvania. The stores in the state are doing well. I only went because I was a bit concerned about one county in particular outside of Philadelphia that seemed to have a high concentration of the virus, and I wanted to make sure that the Shake Place there was taking proper precautions.
As soon as I get back to the city, I call Whitney, but there’s no answer. Maybe she’s just sleeping. I send a text for her to ring when she gets up, and she immediately messages back that she’s fine and will call when she feels up to it. Wait a minute. If she responded to my text so quickly, then she must not be asleep and could have picked up. I try not to let it bother me, even as my heart thumps with unease. What the fuck is happening? Why is she avoiding me?
Three days later and I still haven’t heard her voice. I only get brief texts occasionally, and it’s driving me batshit crazy. What the hell? Is she really so sick that she can’t have visitors? Do I need to storm over there myself and escort her to the hospital? What the fuck is going on? I pull out my phone and text Whitney again, determined to get some answers.
Peter: Whit, I’m worried about your health. If you don’t answer my call, I’m going to have to call an ambulance.
Whitney: That isn’t necessary. I’m fine. I just need some time apart. I need to think about some things.
Peter: What things?
Whitney: I’ll call you when I can.
I’m so fucking confused. I thought things were going well. I know our relationship was moving fast, but we both seemed to be on the same page. I pace my kitchen while wracking my brain trying to figure out what is going on in her head.
This isn’t the way things are supposed to happen. We’ve had a few minor disagreements, but we always work them out in a very short time. I try to call her again, only to get a message that she’s not accepting calls from my number.
What the fuck?!?! I swipe at a water bottle sitting on the counter and send it flying across the room, startling Demeter into dashing up the stairs for cover. I’ve never had a woman affect me this way. I don’t have a bad temper, and I can’t recall ever throwing something in anger. I need to pull myself together and just give Whitney some time like she requested. I need to remember that this is a stressful period, and let her handle things in her own way. But where the fuck is this coming from? What triggered her need to retreat?
I throw myself into a frenzy of activity in an attempt to distract myself from Whitney. I head to the gym to work off some of this steam. I immerse myself in my work. I take trips to do in person check-ins with some of my regional managers, and we make the rounds to be sure no one feels pressured into working in an unsafe environment.
