It’s six o’clock Monday morning. I’m sitting behind my desk at the office, reading the final chapter of Love in the Time of Cholera.
I have never been this depressed.
It’s not only the novel’s overarching theme, which is that love is a plague comparable to cholera and people in love suffer from a mental disturbance. It’s that I haven’t been able, even for a single moment, even while reading, to stop thinking of Shay.
I’m like Florentino, the main character in the book, who becomes so obsessed with his beloved that he eats flowers and drinks cologne in an attempt to replicate her scent. I read that passage and thought, Sure. I can see it. I’d eat Shay’s panties if I had a pair.
Then I threw the book across the room.
I want to do the same thing now as I finish the fucking thing, because after days of reading, I’ve arrived at the end, only to discover that the misunderstandings and obstacles that stand in the lover’s way take fifty fucking years of torture and longing to overcome.
I should’ve known in the beginning when he asked permission to court her and right then a bird shit on her embroidery work that we were in for some serious anguish.
If a bird shits anywhere near me today, I’m changing my name and moving to the South pole.
Worst of all is that the “hero” of the novel is both the protagonist and the antagonist. Talk about red flags. This guy invented them. I honestly can’t tell whether he’s madly in love or just mad.
The heroine, on the other hand, is all Shay.
Proud, stubborn, headstrong, independent, this broad Fermina knows what she wants and won’t stop until she gets it. Her husband, Dr. Urbino—yes, she marries some other guy before her and old Florentino get together a million years later—tells her she can’t have any pet that doesn’t speak, so she goes out and gets a talking fucking parrot.
He thinks he’s being all clever because he doesn’t like animals but doesn’t want to seem unreasonable so he sets an impossible bar, then she says, “Oh yeah? Hold my beer.”
Shay to a T.
The guy you had a one-night stand with turns out to be your new boss?
Don’t let him get the upper hand. Tell him he looks like an owl.
The new boss makes one of your co-workers disappear?
Declare the boss your boyfriend and try to seduce him.
It’s insanity. All of it. Me, her, this goddamn book.
I toss it aside and stand, stretching my legs. It’s too early for whiskey, so I make myself a coffee in the built-in coffee maker in the wall behind my desk and drink it as I pace the length of the office and try to clear my head.
The city is gray today. The thick marine layer blocking out the sun stretches all the way from the beach to downtown. I gaze out the windows as I pace, thinking of green eyes and tragic love stories, and remind myself for the hundredth time that she can’t be mine.
But goddamn. I’ve never wanted something more. I’m obsessed with her.
She’s my plague of cholera.
A knock on my office door distracts me. The receptionist doesn’t get in until eight, so I’m forced to deal with the interruption myself.
When I open the door, I find Scotty from the mail room standing there with a brown kraft envelope in his hand.
“Morning, Mr. McCord. This is for you.”
He holds it out. I take it, wondering who’d be sending me something so early. Aside from the mail room guys and security, I’m almost always the first one in.
“Thank you, Scotty.”
When he blinks, I realize he’s surprised I know his name. Then I remember Shay admonishing me for being awful around the office and decide to pretend I’m human.
“And good job, by the way.”
Scotty pulls his brows together. “On delivering your envelope?”
This is why I don’t talk to people. This right fucking here. “I meant overall. You’re doing a good job. Keep up the good work.”
Then I close the door in his face so I don’t have to see his expression of confusion anymore.
At least I didn’t slam it. Shay would be proud of me for that.
I unwind the little red string from the envelope’s clasp and pull out a sheet of paper.
Dear Mr. McCord,
I have a few questions about the quarterly financial report you asked me to prepare for you. Would it be possible to schedule a brief meeting with you today to go over them?
Sincerely,
Ms. Sanders
I didn’t ask her to prepare a quarterly report, the sneaky little thing. She just wants to talk to me. And whose dumb idea was it that we communicate via inter-office memo anyway?
Oh, yeah. Mine. Because when I started reading Love in the Time of Cholera last week, that idiot Florentino was sending love letters to Fermina, and I knew it was Shay’s favorite book, and it seemed romantic.
Now that I’ve finished the novel, hand-writing letters seems like only something a man with no self-control and an unhealthy fixation on a woman who’ll cause him fifty years of angst would do.
I told her those romance novels were bullshit.
I pick up the phone and dial her extension.
“Shay Sanders speaking.”
“Good morning, Ms. Sanders.”
She exhales the smallest, shakiest breath, then clears her throat. “Good morning, Mr. McCord.”
“What are you doing in so early?”
“Trying to get a head start on the week, sir. Also…I couldn’t sleep.”
God, her voice. Why does her voice do things to me? It’s not like it’s throaty or seductive. It’s just hers.
I’m so fucked.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Try magnesium.”
After a beat, she says tentatively, “Pardon?”
“Magnesium. It helps with sleep and anxiety.”
“Oh. Um. I will. Thanks for the tip.”
I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose, and scream at myself internally for being a giant, useless, plague-infected fool. “No problem. About that report—”
“Yes,” she interrupts. “I really need your help with it. It’s been giving me some problems. Could I come up to your office for a few minutes to speak with you about it?”
When I don’t respond because I’m struggling with how much I want to see her versus what I know is right, she whispers, “Please?”
Please. Never has a single word had such an effect on my body.
I close my eyes and attempt to banish the image of her begging me to let her come as I drive into her cunt from behind. Bent over my desk, her skirt pushed up over her perfect ass, my hard dick dripping with her—
“Yes,” I say too loudly. “Now. Come up now. Immediately.”
I slam the phone down and exhale a hard breath.
Fucking hell. This has disaster written all over it. Next thing I know, I’ll be eighty-five years old, and Shay and I will finally be going on our first date.
I pace until I hear a knock on the door. The moment I open it and I see her face, I know I’ve already lost.
I pull her inside by her wrist, close and lock the door, take her in my arms, and kiss her.
