Page 27 of Due South

She’s super into it, and her enthusiasm is infectious. Also, on the few occasions I’ve spent time with Cris, usually when he’s travelling with India, I’ve noticed he’s a good listener. Probably has to be since I doubt India lets him get a word in edgewise, but even with Mi Young, who’s like me—happy to listen to other people talk so she doesn’t have to—he seems engrossed.

I’m jealous of Cris and India. Being able to talk to each other and touch each other in public as much as they’d like. Not that they shove their relationship in everyone’s faces because that’s not terribly professional, not to mention I don’t think that’s India’s style—god forbid anyone see her as a human who loves her spouse—but it’s the small things. His hand on the small of her back, the way she stands on tiptoe even in those crazy shoes she wears so she can whisper something in his ear… What I wouldn’t give to do those same things with Lucy.

But that’s not what we’ve signed up for. No private jokes, no casual brushes of our hands, no people pointing at us and saying, “They’re so cute it’s revolting.” None of that. Because what we have is sex. Astoundingly hot sex, yes, but just sex nonetheless. And okay, maybe a little bit kinky sex.

I shouldn’t be thinking about Lucy while I’m at the office party. At least not the dirty thoughts I’ve started to have. A buzz in my pocket drags my mind out of the gutter, and when I check it, I’m not surprised. It’s a text. From my mom.

Found out today the cost of Darren’s PT went up by $20/session. We could cover it, but it would be nice if you could help out. We’re overextended as it is.

Normally when I get these emails or texts—because it’s never in person, never over the phone, oh, no, because we can’t actually talk about this—I dutifully recalculate the amount of the check I write every month. Eighty dollars here, forty there. It’s chipped away at my money, at my freedom, and something Lucy’s mom said yesterday jumped into my head:Don’t you want to get married and have babies?

Yeah, I do. And my own family seems entirely unconcerned that, with them consuming all my resources, I’ll never be able to. Of course people with no money get married and have families all the time and I don’t begrudge them that at all. Everyone deserves stability and happiness wherever they can find it. But for me… I can’t imagine asking someone to share their life with me when I have nothing to offer them. And what if they have debts? A lot of people do from student loans or credit cards or medical bills. I can’t imagine feeling on solid enough ground to have a child until we’d paid those off, and having kids is something I want too.

That angry part of me I don’t like very much, try to tamp down as much as possible, comes to life. It lives at the base of my skull, and it makes my head feel heavy and as though it’s too small. I don’t want to be angry, but I’d also like to have my own life, one where my wishes and desires aren’t entirely constrained by responsibilities to people who don’t even like me.

I could ditch out on them, stop writing checks altogether, but I don’t want to be that guy. For however much my mom laments how hard she works and how exhausted she is, she’s always been there for us, tried her best to give us everything we needed. I try to do the same, but without the massive guilt trip.

Is it too much to ask to have everything? It feels that way. I take a swallow of the bubbly in my glass and sigh before checking my watch. Nine. How much longer do I have to stay here before I can get back to the office?

Just as I’m about to leave my half-empty flute on one of the tables, the door to the restaurant opens, and Lucy comes in. She looks…she looks like I was given a wish and I wished for her. Which, as amazing as she is, would be stupid. If you only get the one wish, always ask for unlimited wishes. Always.

But if unlimited wishes weren’t an option, I’d gladly take her. Her dress is more risqué than what she normally wears in the office, fancier, and I wish she could be my girlfriend so I could take her out to places where she’d have an excuse to wear dresses like that all the time. It’s a soft turquoise color that looks good with her hair. I think. I’m not exactly an expert on these things, but that’s a thing people say, right?

She takes small steps over to where India and Singh are deep in conversation and Leo’s now staring into his empty champagne flute. He looks up at Lucy’s approach, and when he gets a load of her, well, he does that up-and-down look I never thought guys did, but they do. But I can’t totally blame him, what with that dress.

Lovely as her dress is, what I’d like is to take it off of her, because I know now however banging she may look in her clothes, she looks even better in the lingerie she’s wearing under them, and tonight can’t be any exception. Skin-colored heels on her feet make her legs look as though they go on forever, and yeah, she’s got on stockings. I need to go splash some water on my face since taking a cold shower isn’t an option, and then maybe I can find the wherewithal to talk to her. I want to talk to her, even if I can’t put my hand on the small of her back, even if she can’t whisper in my ear. I want to wring every second, every minute out of this that I can.

Heading down the hall, I nod at a couple of colleagues and then find the door to the restroom. Unisex, like the bathrooms at work. And inside—oh, inside. An idea springs to my head, and despite my best efforts to wash it away with the cold water I splash across my cheeks over the big central sink, it won’t leave. This bathroom is inspiring, and I know just the girl who might be interested in turning my inspiration into some perspiration.

Chapter Ten

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December 21st

Lucy

My clutch buzzeswith the force of a text. When I take it out and click it on, it’s a message from Evans:

Meet me in the bathroom.

What the hell?

Uh, no.

I shake my head. So, okay, we’ve had sex in the office kitchen. And the copy room. And he went down on me under my desk. But a public restroom? Jeez, Evans. A girl has standards.

I watch the hallway where the bathrooms are, but he doesn’t emerge looking sheepish. Instead, there’s another buzz of my phone.

Do you trust me?

Those four words poke at something inside me. I do. I feel safer with Evans than I’ve ever felt with anyone before, which is weird considering we’ve done some foolish, reckless things together. But the answer is yes, always.

You know I do.

Then meet me in the bathroom. Now. This is not a request.

Oh. It’s so strange other men have touched me in such intimate ways and never have any of them made me as hot as this rude text.This is not a request.So we’re playing like that, huh? I can do that.

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