Page 55 of Handle with Care
“I struggle with depression,” he says at last. “It’s a problem. Like the migraines. They all got worse after the accident.”
“It sounds like so fucking much.” I shift to sit in the chair beside him, taking his hand as he looks uncertainly at me. He squeezes my fingers in response. “And I’m so glad you told me all this.”
Will nods, looking tired then. He releases me and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You deserve to know the truth about me.”
“The truth about you is that you’re incredible, Will. Like, fuck.”
“I… thanks.”
I smile affectionately at him. “Believe me, my policy of no boyfriends isn’t because of you. It’s to do with my own shit, you know? Maybe it’s immature. I’m twenty-two. Like, what do I know about relationships? But… I’d be happy to do yesterday again with you, if you want. In a minute. Though I think it’s probably a good idea work doesn’t know, if we do. Like you said before.”
“Okay. Agreed.” The way he brightens then fills me with hope. He gives me a hesitant look. “Do you mean it?”
“Of course I mean it.” I take his hand again. “Want me to prove to you how much I mean it?”
Will opens his mouth, blushes, and nods. Which is about when I take him to bed again, lost in the comfort of each other’s arms, the heat we make together with our bodies. And I prove to him how much I want him. How much we want each other in this moment.
Chapter Twenty-One
On Monday, there’s no sign of Will at work. My mind races a million different ways, backwards and forwards as I try to make sense of our weekend together. He’s got to be avoiding me. Then again, weirdly, things aren’t always about me. What if it was all too much and he’s not feeling well? I’m taken right back to the aftermath of our trip up north.
Will doesn’t message me, even though he has my number now. And not wanting to intrude, I don’t message him either.
When Tuesday rolls around and there’s still no sign of Will, I at last cave and message him at lunchtime, a simple “thinking of you,” which I think about way too much about before sending. All I got out of Lily was that he’d called in sick both days. Whether that’s real sick or fake sick, I don’t know. And no response comes. At least not during the day.
Which means it’s either something I did, or he’s actually sick. Maybe he’s embarrassed after opening up to me. Obviously, talking about his past didn’t come easily. I chew my lip, fidgeting with the strap of my bag as I wait on the tube platform to get to the latest exhibit pickup in central London. He did say this was the anniversary of his accident, though, and probably it has todo with that. There’s no way to avoid the pain of that memory, which obviously weighs heavy on him.
It’s late that night when I’m in bed reading the latest rom-com I got from Barnes Books when my phone buzzes with a message on the bedside table. I practically dive for it, praying it’s not Stephen or Russ or some spam call. And as luck would have it, it’s Will.
Sorry to disappear. I wasn’t feeling well. X
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keypad as I try to think of what to say.
I worried it was something I said or did X
I had another migraine. And don’t worry, it’s not your fault. I’ll be back at work tomorrow. I’ll make up for lost time.
“Fuck, I knew it.” I groan, shaking my head. He’s not going to overdo it again on my watch. Probably the stress of the anniversary of his accident didn’t help. And probably the vigorous sexing after a long day didn’t help either. Call it lesson learned.
Can I do anything to help?
No. It’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Dylan. X
G’night X
Shit. That’s a dismissal if I ever saw one. I stare at the dark phone in my hand for a long time till I admit defeat in favor of tossing and turning in bed.
On Wednesday, I blearilygood morningmy way from reception to the tearoom, across the office, and up to the boardroom that serves as our collections command center for the exhibition. When I enter, Will studiously taps away on his laptop. I’m surprised to see him for the first time wearing glasses, stylish of course, the waves of his dark hair falling over his forehead. He looks haggard. Handsome, but washed out.
I shut the door after me with a small click, leaning against it. The blinds are down but open. Will finishes typing out whatever it is he’s doing and at last lifts his head to look at me seriously.
“Hey,” I say as casually as I can muster, my heart thundering around the confines of my chest. Something about this already feels off. Like he’s breaking up with me when we haven’t even started dating. Narcissistic behavior, I tell myself sternly. He had a migraine. It’s not about me.
“I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have led you on.” Will’s voice wavers very slightly.
I blink at him. Twice, for good measure, as I try to make sense of what he’s saying. Good thing I shut the door. “You… didn’t?” I shake my head. “God’s sake.”
Will gives me an even look, a neutral expression veiling his true emotions. His hand is white-knuckling the edge of the expansive boardroom table where he sits beneath the clock. “We need to talk.”
