Page 2 of Due South

In the kitchen, I make her third cup of the day and manage not to spill it down Evans’s shirt front as we almost collide in the doorway. A flutter of “sorrys” follows because both of us could probably get Canadian or British citizenship based solely on the amount of apologizing we do.

His hands have somehow ended up resting on my waist in an effort to keep us both from being covered with coffee. The warm weight of them feels nice and almost indecently intimate. Clearly it’s been a while for me in the sex department if this minor human contact flusters me so much. Evans is flushed when he finally pulls away, and I can’t imagine I’m not a similar shade of pink.

“Hey, uh, Lucy. Thanks for formatting the report for Springfield. It looks great.”

I smile at him and bob a curtsey. “No problem. I’m glad it was helpful.”

He looks as though he’s about to say something else, but instead he ducks a nod before heading into the kitchen. That’s right, it’s yogurt time. Every morning at ten, without fail when he’s in the office, Evans gets a yogurt from the fridge. The flavors change—peach, pineapple, key lime, strawberry banana, blueberry—but the timing is so unswerving, I could set my watch by it.

I knock lightly on India’s door and don’t wait for a response before pushing it open. She’s still on the phone with Greg, and I don’t want to interrupt.

“Yes, we should have that to you by this afternoon. Lucy’s putting the finishing touches on it.”

India mouths a thank you as I hand over her cup, and her eyes close with pleasure when she takes a sip.

“Yes,” she says into her phone. “I agree. Lucy’s a treasure. And you’ve never even tasted her coffee!”

It’s a small and stupid compliment, but I do take pride in doing my job well and in keeping India happy, so I let the warmth of it fill my chest as I head back to my cubicle.

“O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree…”

*

Evans

Eating my yogurtand scrolling through my crammed-to-bursting inbox, it’s possible I start to daydream. I need a vacation. A real one. Not one where I take a day off work and do all the errands that have been stacking up on my to-do list since the last time I took a day off. I mean, yes, I should definitely clean my apartment because that place is a hole, but I’d also like to go to the beach. Go for a swim, not just sit there with my sleeves and cuffs rolled up, taking a quick walk in the sand before I head home.

I’ve got to have the time for it too, because it’s not like I ever take vacation. Maybe after Christmas I’ll ask India when would be a good time to do it. I can be flexible since this is the only obligation I have to work around. I don’t have a partner I have to coordinate with or a pet to take care of, and while my mom will tell me it’s a terribly inconvenient time, that’s what she’d say no matter what.

I can hear it now. “A vacation? That’s nice, Chuck. Your father and I used to love going up to Monterey. If you go, I might be able to recommend some restaurants, but it’s been so long, what with having to be home with your brother and all, probably all our old favorites are closed. But you go on, enjoy yourself. It’s not a good time with all of Darren’s appointments, but we’ll manage. We always do.”

My forehead meets my desk, narrowly avoiding my half-full cup of yogurt. That conversation’s going to be fun. And she’ll probably call me more than usual if I stick around, asking me to help out since I’m not working. I’ll have to go someplace else. Or maybe lie about going someplace else, which I don’t want to do, but she doesn’t give me a choice.

Maybe I won’t come back.

The idea simultaneously feels as if I’ve sprouted wings and all my internal organs have turned to cement. It’s a nice fantasy, to walk away from it all—the demanding job and my exacting boss, my just-as-taxing family, my crappy hovel of an apartment, and my rickety-ass car.

I could go to Mexico—it’s not like it’s far—and live on the beach. Fish for a living. Only a few problems with that. First, my Spanish isn’t great. Second, I burn like whoa in the sun. I’d have to slather on SPF 10,000 eight times a day and that stuff’s expensive, which would probably eat up any money I made fishing, which probably wouldn’t be much because—third—I don’t know how to fish. Or own a boat.

Then there’s that whole internal-organs-of-cement thing. As much as I complain about my job and my family, I love them, and they need me. Walking away isn’t a thing I do, which I’ve always been proud of. Showing up isn’t always easy, but I do it. And will keep doing it. The idea of disappointing everyone, letting everyone down—that’s a better reason to stay put than any other.

But I can get away for a few days. I deserve that much. I think.

So I take the employee handbook down from its place on the shelf—which still says JVA and not BCG, another project India will probably slough off onto me or Lucy—and look up the vacation policy.

If I’m reading this right and doing my calculations correctly, I have roughly six weeks of vacation saved up. Not that I’d take it all at once because, if I did, I’d come back to a charred suite of offices where BCG used to be. India’s mellowed some over the past six years or so—though she’s still one of the most neurotic people I know, and that’s saying something—but since Jack left, she’s been wound pretty tight, and she’s come to rely on me to handle a lot of the management responsibilities.

She’s amazing at the work she does, but she’s in no way a people person, which is something I do well. People aren’t afraid to come to me for help, and I have a better understanding of us mere mortals, unlike my cyborg boss. But I admire how hard she works and how smart she is. We make a good team. Which is why I can’t leave.

Also, I’d feel bad leaving Lucy to fend for herself. When I’m not here and she is, she bears the brunt of Hurricane India. I…I like Lucy. So, okay, I maybe more than like her, have had a little thing for her since the first day I met her, but it’s of no consequence for a bunch of reasons. One of which is a point in the JVA employee handbook: fraternization between employees is strictly prohibited.

Not that it’s been a real concern since Lucy’s never given any indication of interest in me outside of the pleasant camaraderie between people who have survived the worst of India and lived to tell the tale, but… Nope. That’s the end of it.

Maybe while I’m on my vacation, I’ll meet a nice woman who likes awkward but intelligent men who work too much and make a decent living they can’t enjoy. Because that’s every woman’s idea of a dream man.

Good luck with that, Evans.I can barely speak a sentence to women outside of a work context because I don’t want to impose, and I feel the urge to apologize just for existing. And if I don’t want to apologize to India while I ask for this vacation, I’d best get back to work and earn it.

*

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