Page 15 of Due South

But last night…

Lucy.

I never would’ve thought she’d be the type to have sex in the office. But I’m pretty sure no one would expect me to have sex in the office either. Or anywhere for that matter.

No one has to tell me I’m not crazy handsome or in ridiculously good shape or in any way smooth. Girls like me because I’m not intimidating, but not so many of themlikeme like me.

Ilikelike Lucy. Have since my first day at JVA when Jack introduced me to her. She had smiled and blushed and offered a soft hand to shake and she smelled good. And then flinched because someone yelled her name from behind the closed office door.

Jack had shaken his head. “That’ll be India. Come on, I’ll introduce you. You’ll be working with her on some projects.”

I’d swallowed hard because, well, yelling. And now it’s been six years of walking past Lucy’s desk several times a day when India’s in the office. Trying to figure out excuses to talk to her the rest of the time because I like her voice and how she’s nice to me.

But she’s never seemed particularly interested in me. So we’ve been friends. And commiserated over India’s insanity. Because that woman… She’s probably the smartest person I’ve ever known in my life, but she’s kind of a head case. And I have enough crazy to deal with.

As I step out of the shower, my phone rings. I sling a towel around my waist and dry off my fingers enough so the touchpad actually works.

Speaking of the crazy. “Mom?”

“Can you come over? Darren is acting up again, and I need your help.”

I check my watch and head into the bedroom to start pulling out my clothes for the day, tucking the phone between my ear and my shoulder where it slips and I have to wedge it tight to get it to stay.

“I can’t. I have to go into the office. We’re trying to get this project finished up by Christmas, and I need all the time I can get. I’m sorry.”

“Your brother risked his life serving his country. And what do you do? Wear your fancy suits and look at screens all day.”

Yes, I know. My baby brother, the war hero. Served in Iraq and, in exchange, came back with a case of pretty serious PTSD, but he’s never been officially diagnosed and therefore never treated. Then came the domino of too much drinking to numb the pain and the terror, and he…well, what happens when you drink and drive. Crashed and messed up his leg and can’t get around so well anymore, which hasn’t helped his depression, his anxiety, or any of the other myriad mental health issues he’s got. But, yeah, I’m the real letdown; a good-for-nothing, cowardly paper-pusher.

“Oh, Chuck. I’m sorry. You know I don’t mean that, I’m just…tired. I’m doing the best I can, and I know it’s not your responsibility to take care of your brother, but sometimes it’s a bit much for just one person to handle. And your father, you know, he can help some, but with his knees and his blood pressure. I worry about him so much it’s just easier to do it myself.”

I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “I’ll try to come by for dinner, okay? But if I can’t keep my job, how are you going to live? If you want me to keep writing you checks, then I have to keep working. I can’t get fired.”

“Well, I was just hoping you could stop by. And if you can’t, it’s not a big deal. We’ll make do.”

I know she’s under a lot of stress. I know she is. Darren isn’t easy to be around on his best days, and on his worst, it’s hard. Really hard. But the guilt—it might kill me.

I know when she looks at him she still sees her All-American quarterback, the one the girls climbed all over, her very own hometown hero. Even when he’s shit-faced and raving. They still see the possibility, not the reality. My parents have always blatantly favored Darren. Even now, he gets all their time and attention. I know I don’t need it the way he does, but it’d be nice, once in a while, to be the good son.

Because I’m the one who’s providing for all of us. My dad retired a few years ago, which makes me the reason my mom could quit her job and be with Darren; bring him to appointments, keep him clothed and fed and out of trouble. It would be nice, once in a while, to get a thank you or an invitation to dinner because they want to seeme, not because they want help with Darren.

I’d like for them to take some interest in me and in my job. I know it’s not as exciting as being a soldier like Darren was, so maybe that’s too much to ask for. But maybe they could at least stop calling me Chuck? When’s the last time someone said my real name? I can’t remember. No one even asks any more. I’m Evans. Just Evans.

There’s a woman at HUD India’s buddy-buddy with who goes by Cooper. Just Cooper. For her, it comes across as this ultra-badass, singular, monolithic thing. Like a challenge:Yeah, you try to screw with me, you two-named mortal piece of human lint. For me, though, it’s as though I don’t even rate a first name. But Lucy…Lucy had asked. She hadn’t said it back, but she hadn’t made a face. What I wouldn’t give to hear her say it, to make me feel as if I deserved it, earned a privilege other people take for granted.

That probably won’t happen, though. Not even my mother can be bothered with the name she gave me instead of that sorry excuse of a nickname because idiot kids on the playground, and my teachers, refused to learn to say a single word. Two measly syllables. Chanoch. How hard is that? But it’s been too much to ask for from anyone, never mind a woman I had one wild and completely unplanned night of carnal delights with.

Can’t start thinking about that again, though, because then I’ll have to shower all over again. And like I told my mother, if I want to keep writing those checks, I need to get to work.

*

Evans

When I walkin the door, the office is relatively quiet. There are a few early birds like me, but it’s nothing compared to the buzz and hum of ten a.m., especially when India’s in the office. I head straight back to my own office. It’s tiny, but it’s all mine and it has a door. An honest-to-god office. When I got here, I’d been excited about having a cube. And now I have an office. All to myself.

I hang up my coat on the back of the door and flick on my computer. Hopefully I can get some work in before anyone bothers me. Because once it starts, it doesn’t stop. I’ve somehow become a conduit. Or a middle manager, I guess is what I’d be in corporate speak.

India tells me what needs to get done and I tell everyone else. In a way that doesn’t make them break down in tears or want to gouge India’s eyes out. It works pretty well, but it doesn’t leave a lot of time for my own work, and I’ve been busting my tail trying to get all my billable hours in.

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