Page 46 of Work: Strictly Professional

They’re only two words, and they sound hollow. They sound like too little. Not nearly enough. The urge to reach out and put my hand on his shoulder and take some of his pain from him is almost overwhelming.

“Me too,” he says with a sad smile. The smile flickers and brightens. “You could have knocked me down with a feather when Miller came out as bi. He was so young. Just a teen, yet he told us with no apologies, no need for approval. Just a statement of fact.” He laughs softly. “I couldn’t believe it. How did someone I make possess such bravery? Such certainty. I couldn’t stop looking at him. Couldn’t take my eyes off him. For days, I just looked at him and thought, I must have done something right after all.”

“You sound really proud of him.”

“I am.”

“Does he know that?” I say it without thinking, without pausing and giving myself time to realize that I’m overstepping.

“Of course he knows that. He’s my son.”

By the time I get to the beach, the sky is an abstract of deep oranges and soft pink. The sand is cool beneath my bare feet, and I walk quickly to deliver the freshly air-fried nuggets to Jamie. Much as it pains me to admit it, it’s a good thing Derek came along. While I wasn’t looking, he added party plates and napkins to my basket, things I now realize come in very handy when feeding small children on beaches.

“Oh, thank you! You’re a lifesaver,” says Jamie’s mom, Jenna. “The hotel brought fries and crudités for him, but no luck. I think he buried most of them in the sand over there.”

Jenna is dark like Ryan, but her aura is light. Still, the light smudges under her eyes give me the feeling that flying with kids under the age of ten is not something she’d recommend to anyone.

Jamie smashes his nuggets and then begins running rings around the adults. He’s an adorable child with huge brown eyes and slightly crooked fringe that makes me suspect he’s handy with scissors. I think overtired might be the best way to describe him right now. He’s stopping and starting things, asking Jenna to pick him up and put him down. Ryan and Miller take turns chasing him around, but they’re the grooms. The VIPs. They have a lot of guests vying for their attention.

I check my phone for the hundredth time and send a message that’s in no way polite to the photographer, and then Derek waves me over. He’s sitting on the beach, an old fashioned wedged into the sand beside him.

“What can I get you?” he asks, calling a server over with a subtle flick of his finger.

“Mojito, please.” I need a change. Piña coladas have been doing nothing for me.

Derek places my order and watches as Jamie runs up to Emily and almost bowls her clean over, spilling sand from his bucket all over her as he tries to show her a shell he found.

“D’you have a pen on you?” he asks.

Do I have I pen? Of course I have a pen. I collect the damn things.

I hand him a pink glitter gel pen with a thin smile.

“Jamie!” he barks. Jamie looks up with a mix of surprise and fright, and I wonder if someone should tell Derek that stabbing kids with pens is frowned upon, no matter how overtired they are.

Derek motions to Jamie and he comes sidling over cautiously. Derek holds out the pen.

“D’you know what this is, Jamie?”

“Yeah, it’s a pen.”

“No,” Derek says twisting his face as if it’s a ludicrous suggestion. “It’s a magic maker.”

“You don’t say magicmaker,” corrects Jamie. “You say magicmarker.”

“Are you sure? I thought it was a magic maker. Do you mean to tell me I’ve been saying it wrong all these years?” Jamie starts to giggle. Derek smiles and digs his feet into the sand, poking only his toes out and wiggling them. “And do you know what these are?”

“Toes!” says Jamie, confident he’s right.

“No!They aren’t toes! They’re little pigs without any faces.” He hands Jamie the pen. “Why don’t you draw a face on each little pig, and I’ll try to guess if it’s a happy or sad face.”

Jamie sits down, bends one of Derek’s toes back at a worrying angle, and gets to work. By the look of things, his fine motor coordination is exactly where it should be at four, so he’s occupied for a long while. Jenna and her husband, Geoff, throw grateful glances in our direction at regular intervals.

I take small sips of my mojito and toy with the idea of flinging myself into the ocean.

He’s good with kids?

Oh Jesus. I can't catch a break.

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