Page 45 of Work: Strictly Professional

“No, no, we’re not done with hobbies.” I glare at him until he concedes, “I collect art and fast cars.”

Art and fast cars. The fucker. How dare he make hobbies hot.

“Art. Cars. Got it. I like—”

“I know what your hobbies are.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. You collect stationery. Little notebooks with matching pens and rulers. And cute Post-it notes and stickers and nice pastel paper with flowers on it. I bet you have a ton of tiny containers to store it all in.” He looks me up and down, taking the measure of me, making his final allegation. “I bet you have a whole lot of tiny glass jars too. Bet you bought them thinking you’d use them all the time, and I bet they’re all still at home, unused, possibly still in their packaging.”

I’m deeply, deeply annoyed. Offended, even. Not least because what he’s said is terrifyingly accurate.

“I donothave tiny glass jars.” I happen to own twenty-four small- to medium-sized glass jars with little cork lids, but that’s neither here nor there. And no, I haven’t decided what touse them for yet, but that’s neither here nor there either. “I do scrapbook though. My gran taught me how when I was a kid, and Bridget and I like working on projects together. It’s actually a very, very cool thing to do.” I mark up the page a little, even though it feels like I’ve been the one doing most of the talking. “Where were we…sports. That’s it.”

“Swimming, running, working out with a trainer,” he replies.

“No team sports?”

“No. Not since I was a kid.”

“Why not?” Technically, the follow-up questions aren’t on the questionnaire, but Derek strikes me as a man with massive latent jock potential, so I think clarification is required. For believability.

“Wyn,” he says, keeping his eyes on the road and his grasp on the wheel light. His voice changes. It’s lower. Softer. Raw. “It’s not…I can’t… It’s not wise for men like me to be close to other men.”

The weight of what he’s saying hits me. Even though I can’t see his eyes because of his shades, I know what I’d see in them if I could. Pain. Ancient pain that makes my chest ache. “So you hold yourself back?”

“Always.”

“So, no close friends?”

“No. Lots of acquaintances. Lots of people who owe me one, but Barbara Anne didn’t like it when I was friends with women, and I’ve never felt like it was a good idea for me to get close to other men…” He drifts off, and we drive in silence. “One friend,” he says after so long it takes me a second to catch up. “One friend I was close to.”

My heart, despite being all too aware that I’m fake dating, notactuallydating, Derek MacAvoy, squeezes uncomfortably and starts to pound.

“What was he like?” I ask, a little breathless.

“His name was Carlo Diaz.”

It’s far from a surprise. The man keeps a photograph of him beside his bed. Of course they were friends. It’s hardly unexpected. The only thing even vaguely surprising about it is that Derek’s admission seems to have grabbed me by the back of the neck and plunged me head first into deep water.

I struggle for breath and kick to the surface just in time to hear him say, “I was a sophomore in high school, and he was the new boy. He joined halfway through the year, and we sat next to each other in math class. We became friends right away. Just hit it off, you know. It was easy with him, and it was hardly ever easy for me with anyone. We were just kids. We laughed at dumb things and hung out at each other’s houses after school. I didn’t notice it happening. It was slow, I guess. One minute, I was helping him with math problems, and the next, I was dousing myself with cologne before he came over and making complicated plans to see more of him. I wanted to spend all my time with him. All my time. Everything else felt like a waste of time.”

He indicates and pulls over, parking the car on the side of the street outside the shop we’re going to.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he answers, and at first, I think that’s the end of the story. That he’s stopped talking. That he’s done. “Nothing happened at all. Carlo was at my place. We were hanging out in the living room. I’d started breaking Doritos into pieces and tossing them at him. He was laughing and doing the same thing.” This time, he’s quiet for so long that I’m positive he’s stopped talking. There’s a blanket of something heavy and dense cloaking the car. Very heavy. Very dense. Unbearably heavy and dense. “Remember what I told you about my dad?” he asks almost dreamily. “Remember who he was to me?”

Your friend.

Your hero.

“Yeah,” I say softly, “I do.”

“Well, like I said, nothing happened. Nothing was even said. It was just a look. My dad came into the room, stood in the doorway, and looked at me. He looked at me, then Carlo, then me again, and he didn’t say a word.” Derek takes a long, shallow breath and lets it out slowly. “He just looked at me. Three, maybe four seconds. That’s all it was, but it was enough… Enough to let me know that everything we had between us, everything good between me and my dad,all of it…” He pushes his sunglasses up and looks directly at me, eyes hidden behind glossy black lenses, fine lines around his mouth hinting at the tension in him. “None of it was unconditional.”

“I’m sorry.”

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