10. Derek

The call comes moments after Wyn steps out to fetch my water, a routine now so engrained I could set my watch by it—my keyboard has been brusquely cleared out of my way, a place setting for one has been laid, and I've been served a plate of food I didn't order. I'm only halfway through my meal, but I answer despite the fact I recognize the number and I'm damn sure it won't be a disturbance I enjoy.

I sigh heavily as the call connects. Barbara Anne is one of those people who insists on calling using video. Absolutely insists upon it. What's wrong with a fucking voice call? Answer me that. Why people these days are utterly determined to prove that without decent lighting, most people look like they're in the midst of a health crisis is beyond me.

Of course, Barbara Anne doesn't look unwell. She never does, no matter the lighting. She has her hair up with little wisps cascading around her face and a fountain pen in her hand. It's her official look. Her this is business not pleasure look. It's a complete lie. This call is pure pleasure, believe me.

"Hello, Derek," she says, voice dripping with sympathy.

Wyn makes his re-entry as she starts talking. He hot-foots it over to my desk and noses his way in front of my screen. "Mr. MacAvoy is having his lunch. I'm afraid he can't be disturbed."

Barbara Anne's mouth drops in shock. So does mine.

I have to hand it to Wyn. This is an act of such sheer audacity that it borders on madness.

He straightens and asks if she'd like him to book an appointment for her to call me later today. This time, she recovers quickly. Steely gray eyes narrow and a smile that has the potential to spit fire peels back to show a row of perfect teeth.

"Actually, Wyn," she says, "you're just the man I'm looking for. Miller and I"—lies, lies, lies, Miller doesn't give two shits about this—"have been tearing our hair out trying to get Derek's plus one information out of him. Time is against us, as you know. We need to know who Derek's bringing. I mean, of course, I'm bringing Sage, but it's not an issue if Derek comes alone. We just need to know if he'll have a plus one for the seating arrangements, you know."

I'm not sure if it's the dripping sarcasm, the glee, or even the hint of jealousy she's trying her best to hide, but her words grow claws, and they grow them fast. No, not claws. Talons. Bright red meticulously filed talons. Talons that rake deep into my skin.

Wyn takes a small step back, wisely recognizing that he wants no part of this conversation.

I lean in, dropping my own set of claws.

I'll show her plus fucking one.

Years of gravity, months of sleepless nights, and a lifetime of dreams of flying and dying have left me a less-than-stellar version of myself. The thick slab of ice I've hidden things behind, things I've forced down, things I've denied and fought as hard as I can, starts to crack. It's just a tiny splinter at first. Just a jagged line, so fine that it almost looks like a scratch on glass. A tiny splinter that quickly grows bigger. The crack deepens, radiating rapidly, threatening to fragment. Things I've never said fester and grow bigger and bigger. Big enough that I know that even though I'm not certain exactly what I'm about to say, I know it's going to be earth-shattering.

I know this before I open my mouth to speak. I know it, but still, I speak.

"I'm bringing Wyn," I sound unhinged but sure of myself. "It's early days, and we weren't sure how we felt about going public so soon, but it feels right." I'm a little less unhinged, surer now, and gaining strength. It's almost as though I believe my own lie. "So, I'm bringing him. As my date. As my plus fu"—I manage to avoid cussing, but not by a lot—"one."

The words leave my mouth and float through the air. For a second, I think if I move fast, I could chase them down and catch them. I could jump and scoop them all up and crush them in the palms of my hands. I could grind them to dust and pretend they never happened.

I can't though.

Before I have time to move, they hit their target dead center. Bullseye. On the screen in front of me, Barbara Anne freezes, her mouth open, as if she was singing a song when she lost signal. I don't need to look at him to know Wyn's pose is similar.

The depth and breadth of what I've said hit me in layers. It's like hot oil that's been poured on the top of my head and has run down my face. No, not oil. Gasoline. I sit frozen like Barbara, unable to move. I search her face for a sliver of something, anything, that'll make this okay.

I find nothing. She's still frozen, and seeing her like this wakes my oldest companion, the wild dog that sometimes walks beside me. I don't know its name for sure, but I've always called it Rage. That's what I feel. Rage. A lifetime of fear, shame, and denial has given way and been replaced with nothing but fury.

"Do you have anything to say about that, Barbara Anne?" They're my words, but not my voice. It's a deep, ugly growl I hardly recognize as my own.

That snaps her out of it.

"As a matter of fact, I do." Her eyes flash and she draws herself up, ready for battle.

She makes me wait for a few seconds, but in the scheme of things, considering what hangs in the balance, she could do worse. Despite everything, despite being divorced, despite being a successful adult, despite spending most of my life telling myself I don't care what people think, the fear I feel is acute. A cold, sharp blade to my throat. A blade that digs in, threatening to draw blood. "I hope he…" She sounds far away and unfamiliar. "I hope he manages to do what I never could."

"What's that?" barks Rage.

Her eyes change in a flash. Years rewind before me. Old fights and new fights, big grudges and small ones fall away. She blinks slowly, and when she opens her eyes, she looks so different it takes me a second to recognize the expression on her face. She looks tired. Barbara Anne looks exhausted. Tired to her bones and her marrow and beyond. So tired that, for once, she almost looks her age. Almost. Not quite.

"I hope he makes you happy, Derek," she says.

My heart breaks and recovers. Breaks and recovers. Breaks and starts beating again. Breaks and starts beating for the first time.

Beside me, Wyn smiles and nods supportively, only just managing to hide the fact he's all but vibrating with anger.

And that's a big part of the problem I have with Wyn.

He's adorable, even apoplectic like this, all pink-cheeked, flustered, and brimming with anger. His shirt is neatly tucked in, curls bouncing on his forehead from the effort it's costing him not to scream. His neck has started flushing too. Even his nose is coloring now. It's a pale dusty pink and might feel velvety to the touch. It's a nose you'd usually see on a rabbit or a soft toy.

I'd kind of like to rub my own nose against it just to see how it would feel.

Wyn clears his throat and fixes me with a look that leaves me certain that while this bunny might be soft, smooth, pink, and dusted with freckles, that's far from all he is.

Careful, MacAvoy,I tell myself. This bunny bites.