24. Derek

"Best wedding ever!" 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 me out. 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.

I mentally rehearse all the things I want to say. I want to tell Wyn that I love women, and I'm in no way repulsed by them. I actually even quite like having sex with them. It does feel good. It's just—I catch myself when I realize how ridiculous it would be to say something like that to Wyn. My fake boyfriend, Wyn. The only man I've ever even kissed—I don't hunger for women the way I hunger for men. They don't keep me awake or turn me to goo. They don't make me shake with desire. And no matter how hard I try, I don't fall in love with them. Eventually, I land on a small, sweet-sounding word. A word I've feared all my life. A word that finally feels right.

"I'm gay."

"Same," he says brightly.

For some reason, that might be the funniest thing I've ever heard. It cuts the tension in me like a knife slicing through butter. I fold into myself, eyes squeezing shut, and laugh until I can't breathe, until tears roll down my face.

Same.

I just dropped a bombshell, and Wyn said same.

It gets me again. I laugh and laugh until Wyn says, seriously, "Does cabbage give you gas?"

I roar and sputter with laughter, "No, but red onion does." From there, we take turns asking each other the most ridiculous things we can possibly think of. Not just ridiculous. Pointless too.

"Derek," he manages to look solemn. "Where would you bury a body?"

"Um, in a forest, I guess."

"A forest? I thought for sure you'd say in the foundation of one of your buildings. You know, just drop it into the concrete while it's being poured."

"Wyn"—I try to match his earnestness—"should I be afraid to sleep in the same bed as you?"

"Definitely. Favorite flower?"

"Those big blue balls of puff. You?"

"Is that your way of saying hydrangea?" I nod. "That's the worst description I've ever heard."

"I said, you?"

"Roses. Pastel roses. Not red. I hate red roses. I might hate them as much as I hate ice cream trucks."

"You hate ice cream trucks?" I yowl. "Why would you hate them?"

"It's the creepy-ass song they play. Don't even try telling me it doesn't sound like the soundtrack to a massacre." I don't have time to tell him how crazy that is because he changes the topic again. "Do you want more kids?"

"Uh, I'm almost fifty, Wyn."

"So?"

We talk for hours. We don't stop.

It's only when the screech of the alarm brutally attacks me at seven a.m. that I realize I was so busy talking to Wyn last night that I completely forgot to sexually harass him.