Page 80 of Handle with Care
“I never trusted Will. He might be hot, but too quiet,” Carine says.
“There’s definitely something shifty there,” Nancy says in agreement.
And then:
“Good thing Dylan didn’t go down too.”
God, I’d love to go down, but that’s another unhelpful, poorly timed thought best kept to after-hours jerking off. None of this makes me feel any better. In fact, the last thing they say makes me feel even worse.
Guilty. Like the whole thing should be my fault.
And I don’t know how to keep from obsessing over Will or wondering where the hell the exhibits actually went. Convinced they’re still in the building, I spend my lunch times and breaks alternately prowling around downstairs in my endless search for anything Vivienne Westwood or messaging Will to an unending, crushing silence.
Despite feeling like I’ve failed everything, the work on the exhibition continues. A sternly worded email goes out to all staff to not talk about the lost—or stolen—items off-site. And to stop with all the gossip and speculation, which keeps escalating.
Now, Will runs an art theft ring. The collection was sold to fund his drug habit.
The collection was stolen to make me look bad, I overhear in the gallery between a couple of the techs. Except Will got caught, and it blew up in his face.
Glum, I check my phone for the millionth time for messages, but it’s been three days of silence, and I’m in deep despair. Because I only have a week left in my job, and we finish the install in theory on Friday for Saturday night’s opening. Ordinarily, I’m all in on parties, but at this rate, I’m planning to give it a miss if I can.
And I really wish I could talk to my mom because she was always good at listening. Back when I hit my teen years, I told her about my early dating experiences, my crushes, the heartaches. And about being jerked around by my first serious boyfriend, who was a couple of years older than me and turned out to be a total ass.
Except Will’s not a jerk. Far from it.
If anything, I’m the jerk in this scenario. The black-and-white gossip at the museum just underlines it. And not only that, but being alone in the evenings gives me an awful lot of time to reflect on our weeks together. If I’m honest with myself, which is admittedly a struggle I need to work on when it comes to Willand relationships, I started falling for him on that trip up north. When we stayed overnight in the hotel. Since then, I’ve been seeing the real Will. Getting to know him. And if I’ve learned anything, Will has integrity and takes his work very seriously, even more than me because he especially had something to prove.
And not knowing anything about museums other than what I’ve told him or he’s read, he hardly screams out master criminal. But anyway, that’s a whole lot of thinking that’s a distraction from the bigger problem in my heart.
Which is the heavy silence that radiates from my phone. Every night after work this week, I take public transport to Will’s, hoping to see his SUV on the street or the lights on in his flat. But there are no lights, no truck. No response. My Sherlock detective skills lead me to conclude he’s not there, and not only avoiding me.
Maybe he’s at his brother’s place, though I’m not sure exactly where Gray lives. And I have no way to find out. Fuck me.
Stephen tells me to let Will go, since it’s no good to chase someone who doesn’t return calls.
Except I know Will’s hurting, and I could take rejection a lot easier if he hadn’t looked so terrible the last time I saw him and then found out he was fired. Maybe it’s selfish, but I’d rather have him tell me to go away to my face.
Which brings me to Friday morning. On Thursday night, I email Lily and the director, to find myself now in the boardroom with them at 9:00 a.m.
The boardroom is bright and airy this morning, the white walls reflecting the light. It’s empty of Will’s familiar laptop. I find the pile of museums books I loaned him moved to the spot where I usually leave my laptop overnight. Lily’s in a navy floral wrap dress. The director’s in a charcoal suit, looking premium.
I sit perfectly tall in my chair, wearing my best professional outfit: white short-sleeve shirt with a cotton sport coat, dove-gray trousers, shiny black shoes. I’m groomed and pressed and even did an extra effort on my skincare routine in the morning. I did everything I could to feel ready for today.
I didn’t compulsively text Will, which is my new morning routine. Call it personal growth.
“Good morning, Dylan,” Miguel says as he comes in and sits to the side of me. Call it ballsy or stupid, but I’ve kept my usual seat at the head of the table. He’s backlit by the bright day behind him, with the view over the Thames. On the river, small boats go back and forth under Tower Bridge, which streams with commuter traffic. Then, I remember the Cam and punting with Will not so long ago. Lily sets down her tea on a coaster, taking a seat closer to the door and the glass wall of windows from the corridor.
I swallow hard when I look from one to the other. This was a lot easier when I practiced this meeting in my head for hours last night when I couldn’t sleep. In my rehearsal, like any performance, I visualized myself talking to them with confidence, no hint of awkward, like it was a regular conversation.
Except now, everything’s on the line.
“Thanks for meeting with me this morning.” My voice feels unnaturally loud in the dead silence of the room. “I know you’re both very busy.”
They wait.
I die.
Clearing my throat, I wish I had some papers to shuffle or that I could get away with drumming my fingers on the edge of the table like it’s an acceptable thing to do in the middle of a meeting.
