Stash by David Matthew Klein

needed to get in to see the doctor,” Gwen said. “What you’re going through is important.”
    “Well, it turns out I’m ovulating fine. It could be something with Roger, but we might never know.”
    “I hope it works out.”
    “One way or another it will,” Marlene said. “I heard Roger tell you not to worry. It’s true. He’ll get you out of this.”

Off-Label
    Two cars sat like boulders in a field of empty parking spaces. Brian doubted anyone was in the office; the cars had been left since last night, young researchers or admins sharing rides to the bars after work and not making it back, spending their Friday night getting laid or drunk or both. Who was going to be working on a summer weekend? He, for one. And it wouldn’t be the first time. Brian accepted weekend, night work, and travel as part of the equation: long hours plus high pressure equal financial rewards and a comfortable life for his family. The role of provider suited Brian, traditional though it was. He felt fortunate that Gwen could be a stay-at-home mom and give her attention to the kids and volunteer work, this episode with the pot yesterday just a minor accounting error on an otherwise healthy and balanced ledger. Not every family was as fortunate as his.
    It’s true he no longer carried the banner of global aid and community service that had motivated him to attend medical school. His family was his community now, and he served them well. He knew the mantras: think globally, act locally, make the world better one person at a time—Gwen, Nora, Nate.
    He swiped his card to unlock the door. The weekend sign-in pad sat on a table near the door, the open page blank of signatures. He had the building to himself.
    His office was third from the end in a row of six offices withwindow views on the parking lot side and a sea of cubicles on the other. He found his laptop where Teresa had said she left it, bottom drawer of his desk.
    He turned it on, then called her cell number.
    “You coming in?”
    “I thought we were working at my place.”
    “I had to get my laptop, so I came to the office.”
    “You mean you’re going to make me get dressed?”
    “That’s up to you.”
    “I just got back from a run—I at least have to take a shower.”
    “Don’t forget the surveys.”
    That flirty banter—
You’re going to make me get dressed?
and
That’s up to you
—had been going on the entire six months they’d worked together.
    Brian was ten years or so older than Teresa, and senior to her on the company’s org chart. She had been transferred up from New Jersey after the acquisition and assigned to help Brian with Zuprone market development. She didn’t report directly to him; theirs was a dotted-line relationship, which meant he supervised and mentored but did not own her. She still reported to her manager at corporate, which Brian preferred.
    Their banter appeared benign enough. Teresa had a reputation for chatting this way with every guy in the office. A more important safety feature—and the reason he allowed himself to flirt in the first place—was Teresa’s weight. She had a pretty face and dazzling smile, but Brian felt no attraction and no inclination to do anything. He had comfortably classified Teresa in the “good personality” segment: no threat, no risk.
    Until recently.
    Over the six months Teresa had worked with Brian, she’d lost a lot of weight. A lot. It’s a good thing he remembered what she used to look like because another few pounds and she’d be pushingknockout status and he’d have to be careful. She’d overhauled her wardrobe several times, looking better and sexier with each one, and had started wearing shorter skirts and tighter tops.
    Brian suspected she dosed on Zuprone—and why not, if it worked like that? He wasn’t going to ask. They’d never spoken about her weight or the shedding of it; he never acknowledged her appearance or made a comment about how she looked. That wasn’t their style of