Page 56 of Handle with Care
“Fuck.” I toss my bag into one of the boardroom chairs, then flop heavily into another. I quickly wheel my way over to Will, near but not in his personal space, even by spacious Canadianstandards. “Will,” I complain theatrically, “you can’t break up with me because we’re not going out.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” I straighten in my chair, lacing my fingers over my stomach. We stare each other down in a stalemate. “Dead serious,” I say provocatively into the cutting silence.
We can hear the clock ticking behind Will like an unwelcome metronome keeping score of our volleys.
“On reflection, I think it’s illogical to let things go any further.”
“Who are you? Spock? What did you do with the real Will?” I frown hard at him. “Unless you were part Borg this whole time and didn’t tell me. Which, by the way, is something you really ought to tell someone on a first date, just saying. Takes poly to a whole new level.”
Will frowns at me. And he’s totally hot, which really isn’t helping. And he looks genuinely annoyed. Which is good because I’m also genuinely annoyed.
“Dylan.”
“Don’t Dylan me. I have an excellent point.”
Exasperated, he runs his hands through his hair. Then he takes off his glasses with one hand and rubs his eyes with the other for a long, pained moment before putting them back on.
“I think you’ve come back to work before you should because you’re still migraining. Which is at least partly my fault. And I’m really sorry. We should talk when you’re better. Rain delay. It’s very sporting.”
“Dylan.” There’s a warning in his voice.
I’m quiet, fidgeting in my chair, rolling it slightly from side to side.
“Can you not sit still?”
“Not really. ADHD, I’m afraid. Call it a win for neurodivergence. And running my mouth off.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know. That was rude of me.”
“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t know. I’m used to it.” I shrug a shoulder. Which is more or less true. My scattershot existence is familiar territory. My expression shifts to a more solemn one to match Will’s. “But listen. I don’t regret the other night,” I say in a low voice. “Tell me you regret it and I won’t mention it again.”
Uncomfortable, he squirms in his chair. Very maturely, I keep from calling him out on his display of fidgeting in his unease. And he flushes this most amazing color.
“I’m waiting.” I drum my fingers on the armrest of my chair.
Will opens his mouth. Then shuts it. Then he tries again, before failing miserably and shakes his head instead.
“Does that mean, yes, you’re riddled with regrets and hated every second of being with me? Or does that mean I have a point?”
“You’re… you’re impossible.” Will’s frown wavers.
I laugh at that. “Why, thank you. I’ll take that as a point for Team Dylan.”
“This isn’t a reality TV show likeRenaissance Manor a sporting event. This is a very serious, adult conversation.”
“Good thing I’m a very serious adult.” A heavy sigh escapes me as I tilt my head to the side, watching him carefully. “Tell me you didn’t have fun.”
“I… can’t.”
“I’ll take it as some kind of progress. A confession, if you will.” I spin once in my chair for good effect. When I complete my 360-degree turn, I’m rewarded with the delight of Will’s stare. He does the eyeglasses-off, eye-rubbing thing again. But there’s a hint of a smile playing with the corners of his mouth.
“No, really. I don’t want you to have another migraine.”
He stiffens. “That is entirely out of your control. And mine too.”
“Is it, though? Like, I’m guessing stress is a trigger. And I’m obviously stressing you out.”
