Page 24 of Due South

I have to admit I tried to look up Evans’s name because I’d never heard it before. It took me more than a few tries to spell it close enough to google it, but when I had, I’d smiled. Chanoch. I found a website where I could listen to people pronounce it, but they didn’t say it all the same way and I couldn’t remember exactly what it had sounded like in his voice. It’s Hebrew, and it meansdedicated. Which fits. Evans shows up here, every day, and works hard. Even when India yells, even when things go wrong. No matter what, unless he’s traveling, he’s here. Faithful, reliable, constant Evans. Even when he’s away, I know I can count on him to answer emails or calls. Always.

Does he feel the same way about being thought of as dependable as I feel about being thought of as nice Lucy? Because I think other things about him too. Feel other things also, like the pleasant not-quite-ache of having had him between my legs only a few hours ago.

Which I need to stop thinking about, because surely one marathon bang with two earth-shattering orgasms is enough for one day. Besides, what my body is craving right now is Chinese food. I dig out my favorite place’s menu and jot down the same thing I always get: black mushrooms with oyster sauce and an order of egg rolls. And because it’s only polite—and not at all because I’d like to see his face, hear his voice—I walk the menu down the hall to Evans’s office to see if he’d like something too. Unless he’s got a stash of something in his office, I don’t think he’s eaten since his traditional ten o’clock yogurt. He must be starving.

I use the doorframe to swing into his office, and there he is, hunched over his desk with a look of fierce concentration on his face. But when he lifts his head, his expression gentles into a smile, and it warms me. It’s cold in here—that must be it—because I don’t want to think about the other reasons my nipples might be pulling into hard points, confined by the satin of my bra.

“I’m going to order Chinese. Want anything?”

He takes the menu on offer and flips through it before requesting the vegetable delight and the crispy orange beef, and thanks me before turning back to his work. It’s not as if we have a ton of time to waste, but I’d hoped for more interaction. It’d be nice to talk to Evans in addition to having sex with him, but maybe that’s too relationship-y. That would practically be a date, so yeah, shouldn’t go there.

Forty-five minutes later, I’m buzzing Evans because the food is here. I’d walk down to his office to let him know, but I might eat my own arm if I have to wait even two minutes longer than I have to. He comes into the kitchen while I’m unpacking the plastic and paper containers, stretching his arms and his neck, and I notice he’s taken off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. I wish he’d roll up his sleeves, but that’s not exactly a request I can make.

We silently unpack our food and serve ourselves, the memory of us going at it on the floor in here making the back of my neck and my cheeks hot. I’m planning on eating a silent dinner at my desk, maybe taking a break to catch up on some celeb gossip, when Evans clears his throat.

“Would you…like to eat together?”

Oh. A rush of pleasure spreads tingles from my chest through to my fingertips. He wants to spend time with me, even when we’re not having sex. It might be I’m the only human contact he’s had lately, and the outlook’s not much better, but I let myself believe this is about me. That if things were different, maybe he’d like to have dinner with me anyway. But I cover my silly hope, because that’s all it is.

“Sure. The company would be nice.”

Evans looks worn out, and the idea of us hovering over a shared desk is depressing, so I hold up a finger. He doesn’t question me, but takes up my plate and follows me out of the kitchen.

I grab the blanket off the back of India’s couch and spread it out on her floor. She’s got these big windows, and while the sun set some time ago, it’s a nicer view than the cube farm that surrounds me or the blank walls of Evans’s office. Maybe once Leo leaves, Evans will get his office. After India’s, it’s the nicest and it has its own bathroom. It should probably be his now if we’re going by how much someone contributes, but Leo’s been here forever and I suppose he’s earned a cushy office for his last few years before he retires. And Evans is nice enough not to complain.

Evans smiles at my makeshift picnic, and once I’ve lowered myself to the floor, he hands me my plate and then settles himself, leaning up against India’s couch. We both dig into our food and groan with delight. Dragon Palace is good, but probably not deserving of that kind of noise. No, that kind of noise should be reserved for only one thing.

Evans must be thinking the same thing, because when our eyes meet, his cheeks bloom red and mine feel as though they do the same. At least we share the same fair skin. Turning beet red with embarrassment is a trait most redheads can commiserate about.

After a few more bites, we come up for air, and Evans is looking at me. Do I have something on my face? Did I spill on myself? But, no, he shakes his head. “Are you really disappointed to be missing the holidays with your family? I know you usually go home to Iowa.”

It’s silly, but I’m flattered he remembered. Also guilty because I don’t remember where Evans is from. Has he ever even said? He doesn’t talk about family ever. Or friends.

I shrug in partial answer to his question. “I’m sad to be missing some things. Not so much others. What about you?”

“My family lives nearby—small town outside the city—so I see them a lot.” The corners of his mouth turn down. Does he not get along with his family? It’s hard for me to imagine Evans not getting along with anyone. Not that he’s friends with everyone here or close with anyone, but I get the feeling the people who don’t like him here don’t like him for precisely the same reasons Ido. Mostly it’s the young, aggressive dudebros, the ones who stare at my chest in unsubtle ways until India threatens to fire them for sexual harassment if they keep it up. “And we’re Jewish, so we don’t celebrate Christmas.”

This is not entirely a surprise. I’d wondered if he might be when I saw that his name was Hebrew, but a lot of Biblical names are, and it doesn’t necessarily tell you anything. Now that I have confirmation, the many times I’ve wished him a Merry Christmas or Happy Easter over the past six years flood back to me. In all that time, never did he correct me. I smack him gently on the shoulder, and he looks surprised.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been wishing you the wrong holidays for years.” My mother’s one of those people who decks out her house with seasonal and holiday knickknacks every chance she gets. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Fourth of July—anything you can think of and our house is dripping in banners and those window stickies, not to mention the bears whose outfits she changes on a regular basis. Holidays are a big deal.

He lifts one shoulder before taking another bite of his vegetables. “Why would I? You meant it kindly, and when I said it back, I meant it too. You were trying to be nice, Luce. And you were. Besides, we’re not much for holidays in my family. And definitely not the religious ones.”

“But—” I clamp my mouth shut before I can finish the sentence.But your name is Hebrew. Why would your parents name you something like that if they weren’t religious?

He laughs, a short, not actually amused sound. “You’d think a Jewish family who named their kid Chanoch instead of Joel or Samuel would be more religious, right?”

I screw up my face, because honestly, what do I know about Judaism? Not much, besides that Challah French toast is amazing, and I like latkes.

“My mother’s never been very religious, but her first husband was. I’m named after his father who passed away right before my mom found out she was pregnant. It’s pretty traditional in Jewish families to name babies after recently deceased relatives. Anyway, my biological father died before I was born and my mom got married again while I was still a baby. So that’s who I think of as my dad. And he’s…let’s just say even he probably doesn’t remember the last time he went to synagogue.”

“Oh. I’m sorry about your…”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Evans shovels another chopstick load of peapods into his mouth and chews, looking out the window. He doesn’t like talking about his family, but I can’t help but ask more.

“So are you an only child?”

---