Page 57 of Work: Strictly Professional

“Best weddingever!” I yell again, arm slung over Wyn’s shoulders as we make our way back to the bungalow. He laughs and bumps into me as we walk along slightly out of step, an excess of booze setting the pace.

“Not to blow my own horn,” he says, “but I completely agree. That was a shit hot, slickly organized wedding if ever I’ve seen one. The food was…”

“Amazing.”

“The music…”

“Had everyone dancing. Did you see Ryan’s grandparents breaking out their moves?” he asks.

“Yes! Oh man, they were adorable.”

“It wasn’t just that though, it was the flowers and the lighting, and my God, the peach blossoms…when they started falling…it was…”

“Soulful,” Wyn supplies earnestly.

I nearly fall over laughing.

“Soulful,” we repeat to each other until we stagger into our suite, weakened by laughter.

We keep talking as we shower. We get in together, though we didn’t discuss it, and we get out together too. We turn to face each other once we’re in bed, both tucking an arm under our heads to prop us up. I feel tired and overexcited. I need to rest, but I don’t want to fall asleep. I want Wyn’s body so much my dick throbs with every beat of my heart, but what I want more is to see him smile and laugh again, to hear his voice tell his stories. To learn every single thing that’s ever happened to him. To know what makes him, him.

I decide to ask questions first and proposition him later.

I ask about his childhood, where he grew up and vacationed. I ask about what he and his sister fought about and who won. He can’t remember what they fought about, but he does remember he always won. “Except,” he says, “if you meet her, don’t ask her about it because she has a really bad way of remembering things wrong.”

“Did you always know you wanted to be a PA, bunny?”

“Yeah, honey.” He doesn’t skip a beat, so I have a feeling he’s at least as toasted as I am. “To be honest, it’s something most people fall into. You know, they start out in admin while trying to decide what they want to do with their lives and end up an assistant without really planning for it to happen. Not me though. I always wanted to be a PA.”

“Why?”

“Wanted to be helpful, you know. Wanted to make someone’s day easier.”It’s not just me, right? That’s fucking adorable, isn’t it?I can’t tell if I want to bite and squish him or if I’m in the middle of something that feels worryingly like a swoon, when he tacks on, “Plus, I wanted to boss people around and get paid to do it.”

There it is. Soft, full lips curve, and he shows me a sliver of teeth that steadily widens.

“You?” he asks. “What made you decide to become Derek MacAvoy, honey?” He purses his lips and uses a funny, uptight voice to say my name, but it softens when he adds the endearment.

“Oh, you know, bunny, just a deep-seated desire to make enough money to allow me to take over the world.”

“Hmm, no, I don’t think that’s it.”

“You don’t?”

“Nah, I think you probably had something to prove.” It’s so accurate I don’t know how to respond. I search my addled mind for an answer. While I’m working on that, he says, “Why’d you get divorced?”

The suddenness of the change in subject catches me off guard.

“Um…” I ready myself to give him the usual spiel about growing apart and being different people now to the people we were then, but I hear myself say, “Because I was a coward.” Maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s the fact I’ve needed to talk about this to someone for years. “I loved her as a friend, and I thought that would be enough. I married her because I was scared of what people would think, and I was scared of what my dad would say if I didn’t marry a woman. You know what the funny thing is? My dad died ten years ago, and I stayed in the marriage. He’s dead, and I still care what he thinks.”

“What do you think he would think if he were still here?”

“I think he’d hate it.” I do think that. A big part of me thinks that, at least. The rest of me fights it. The rest of me can’t quite accept that’s who my wonderful dad was. “But, like, maybe, you know, maybe he’d have gotten used to the idea. You know, maybe he’d have been okay with it if he saw I was happy and still”—I close my eyes and take a breath—“like this. Do you think that’s dumb?”

“I think it’s okay to love your dad and want his approval even though he let you down.” It’s a gut punch that almost takes meout. I’m winded. Unable to get a breath in or out. It’s painful and happy and sad, and exactly what I needed to hear. “It’s okay if you don’t want to say, or if you don’t know, or if you think you know but aren’t sure, but if you do want to tell me what ‘like this’ means, you can.”

There isn’t much space between us, maybe half a foot, maybe less, but suddenly, that space feels unbearable. Intolerable. Excruciating. I can’t lie still and hold eye contact at the same time, so I roll over and turn the lights out. Darkness finds and envelops me. It erases the light. I wait for gravity to find me and remind me what a scared, lonely shit I am.

It doesn’t though. Because I’m not alone.

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