8. Derek

Wyn arrived at work today with the force of a whirlwind. There's a flurry of activity on the floor. A new bar fridge has been installed, and enough soft drinks to supply a small bodega have arrived. Several women from admin are milling around, unpacking the drinks, and helping him hang a large corkboard on the wall behind his desk. As soon as it's up, it's plastered with pictures of peach trees and place settings.

His headset is firmly in place, and he's talking animatedly but not loudly enough for me to hear what he's saying. Now and again, I see him talk under his breath. Now that I've known him for longer, I find it easier to read his lips. He's saying, "Fuck this shit," I'm almost sure of it.

He's busy. He's getting things done today and not letting anything stand in his way. He hasn't so much as looked in my direction since he came in to drop off the hot chocolate.

The stuff is delicious. It's the crack of hot beverages. For the first time in weeks, I'm not missing coffee.

As I reach out to pick up the cup to take the last sip, I notice a tiny tremor in my hand.

Hmm, that's unusual.

I better keep an eye on it. I might mention it to Dr. Robson next time I see him. Parkinson's doesn't run in the family, but still, one can't be too careful.

I drain the cup and toss it, dunking style, into the trash. It drops in with a soft swish. I jump up, powered by an unknown dynamo, and punch my fist into the air. The motion seems to keep going even after I've come to a stop. I'm cushioned by a wave of euphoria that's way, way out of keeping with the level of achievement I should feel. I don't care though. My heart rate is up and my mental alertness is sharp. My energy level knows no bounds.

It's a great day.

It's a beautiful world.

It's—

"Wyn!" I roar.

His head appears in the doorway, the rest of his body hidden. His eyebrows are arched high, and he looks at me expectantly. "Do you need anyth—"

I take a deep breath and steady myself. "Did you spike my hot chocolate with coffee?"

"I did," he replies without a hint of regret. "Four shots." He eyes me up and down critically. "But I think I might take you down to three tomorrow." Before I've decided whether to admonish or thank him, he adds, "Pesto chicken, whole wheat pasta, and greens for lunch." He says it definitively like it's not up for discussion. Like the decision has already been made.

Something deep inside me stirs, cranking gears and starting to rise. Unfurling slowly as if being woken from a thousand-year slumber.

Okay, fine.

It's my dick, all right? My dick is the thing that's stirring.

I'm not sure what to make of it, and I sure as hell don't know how to explain it. It doesn't make sense as it's in direct conflict with almost every other aspect of my personality. I'm as surprised as anyone about it. Can't make heads or tails of it, really.

But based on the evidence currently needing to be rearranged in my pants, I have a bad feeling. A terrible, nonsensical, indisputable impression. A feeling that maybe, just maybe, I like it when this little shit bosses me around.

To avoid thinking about that, I get stuck in emails and calls. I fly through them. My productivity is out of this world. My recall and attention to detail are next level. I'm functioning like someone I hardly know. Someone I distantly remember. Someone I vastly prefer to the uncaffeinated version of me.

I'm about to dial into my next call when an alert pops up, letting me know it's been pushed back…by me. I click into my schedule to investigate, only to find a thirty-minute window has been blocked out every day between one and one-thirty for the rest of the month. It's been labeled LUNCH and highlighted in red, along with a no-nonsense comment letting everyone with access to my schedule know it isn't flexible.

At precisely one o'clock, Wyn breezes in and pushes my keyboard out of my grip to clear space on my desk. He drapes a white linen napkin on my lap with a slight flourish and lays out my cutlery, taking his time to arrange the knife and fork just so. Then he sets down a plate laden with chicken, pesto, a smattering of greens, and a veritable mountain of pasta.

I find myself unable to speak, and not just because my mouth has pooled with saliva at the mere sight of carbs within arm's reach.

Wyn stands to my left, watching me with his arms crossed over his chest. He doesn't blink. Big blue orbs observe me. Soft lips press together. I'm left with the distinct feeling that if I don't eat my food, I'm going to be in big trouble.

Me. In trouble.

Me, Derek MacAvoy. In trouble with my pint-sized PA. A man whose salary I pay. A man who only has access to the building because I permit it. It's so ridiculous that I feel an overwhelming, all-consuming urge to laugh. It almost doubles me over. My chest swells and my nostrils flare in an effort to keep it at bay.

I spear a piece of chicken and three pieces of fusilli, moving my hand slowly to my mouth.

Wyn watches, lips relaxing ever so slightly and scooting to one side when I chew and swallow.

He doesn't move until I've had three more bites, and even then, he doesn't go far. He leaves my office with a determined sway of his hips and returns a minute later with a glass and a large bottle of spring water. It's a brand I haven't seen before. The bottle looks like it's made of cut crystal.

"What's that?" I ask dumbly.

"Oh, this," he says. "This is only the purest spring water money can buy. It's the number one brand of water recommended by water sommeliers worldwide, and before you ask, yes, water sommeliers are a real thing."

He prattles on about pH levels and the dangers of contamination. At a certain point, my focus slips. I watch his lips move. The gentle swell of his bottom lip nestles into his top lip and then parts when he speaks. His voice is soft and smooth, but there's an edge to it I didn't hear at first. A strength. A clear, cutting potency that makes me lightheaded.

By the time I've eaten and Wyn's wiped down my desk and repositioned my keyboard where he found it, I feel strangely relaxed. My eyelids are a little heavy and the tension I usually carry in my shoulders has left me. My hands, which have been tightly clenched since I turned fifteen, are open, laying flat on my desk.

It takes me ages to recover. News of a serious delay in the delivery of steel beams ordered months ago does nothing to dent my mood. Nor does a message from Barbara Anne, reminding me—again—that I need to let Ryan and Miller know who my plus one is for the wedding. In fact, by four o'clock, I've done everything that needs to be done today.

I use the time I've freed up to watch Wyn work.

The deep feeling of well-being leaves me, replaced by something uncomfortable that roils around and grows urgent. Wyn's removed his bow tie again today. He left it on until well after lunch but then yanked it off and dropped it onto his desk an hour or two ago. He has two buttons of his shirt undone again.

Two buttons.

Two fucking buttons.

I watch him and watch him. I beg myself not to, but the second he hangs up the call he's on, I lift my handset to my ear and dial his extension. I could try telling myself I have a good reason to talk to him. I could probably put it down to schedules or meetings or dry cleaning or something like that.

I could, but I won't.

I have no reason to call him. None at all.

Not if you don't count wanting to hear the sound of his voice.

He answers the phone and spins his chair around slowly, tilting his head back to take me in.

"Where are we with the wedding? I need an update."

"Ah, excellent news, Mr. MacAvoy. I just got off a call with Ryan, and he's signed off on a venue. The Orchid Lani on Lana'i. It's an incredible find. Completely exclusive, only twenty-four bungalows, and very private. I've booked the whole place, and Ryan is thrilled."

"Really? Ryan? Thrilled? How the hell did you manage that?"

"Oh, I happened to mention that the Orchid Lani is by far the most kid-friendly resort on the island."

"Is it?"

Wyn spins his chair around so he's facing me head-on. He lowers his chin slightly, but his smile doesn't waver. His eyes blaze with electricity and something else. I'm not sure, but I think it might be pure, unfiltered don't-fuck-around-or-you'll-sure-as-hell-find-out.

"You're a busy man, Mr. MacAvoy," he says lightly. "Are you sure you want to get bogged down with this level of detail?"

I find myself battling a rampant urge to laugh for the second time today. I fight to contain it, but my lips peel back, exposing my teeth. He holds eye contact until my spine fries.

If it's a staring contest we're competing in, he wins. I drop my eyes and wait for him to speak.

"Also, a band has been booked, but don't mention it to the grooms. It's a…surprise for them. The menu still needs work, but I'm almost there with the wedding favors—a selection of local treats and delicacies, including jars of honey on the comb. Ryan loves it. The major outstanding issues at this point are the flowers and finding a photographer."

I want him to keep talking. I want to keep listening. I want to ask him, "How's Bridget?" and "What's happening with her piece of turd ex-boyfriend?" I want to send him home early so he can be there for his friend. I want that, and I don't want it. I want him to stay right where he is and I want to stay where I am, and I don't want to stop talking to him.

I also want to run. The longer I sit here, the more I want to run. The urge strains through me, starting in my calves and working its way up my legs. My core engages hard, bracing for impact. Ready for action. Ready to bolt.

And the more I think about it, the more I think running might be a damn good idea.

Before I have time to make tracks, there's a knock on my door. A soft there-but-not-there tap I've begun to associate with a man of small stature and an excess of audacity.

"Come," I say, scooting my chair under my desk a little more than it was.

"Quick question," says Wyn with a soft look I suspect is meant to set me at ease but does the exact opposite. "What's the budget for the wedding?"

I give him a number that's excessive but not flat-out immoral. He jots the number down in his little notebook and blinks a few times before looking up.

"Hmm," he says with a sweet smile that has a sharp sting at the end. "I think I might go over that."

I sleep badly. I toss and turn and get too cold and then much too hot. I wake up drenched, my heart pounding with the taste of a hoarse cry in my mouth.

I dreamed of flying again. It's a dream I haven't had for ages, but I remember it well. I used to have it all the time. It started in high school and went on for years. Over and over, it found me. It waited until I was weak, and then it attacked. It's always the same. There's somewhere I need to be—have to be—it's a matter of life and death, and the only way to get there is to fly. Not on a plane. I have to fly myself. Like fucking Superman. Obviously, I can't. I try, but I can't take off, and when I do, I can't steer, and when I learn to steer, I can't land. I fly higher and higher and eventually wake up falling and screaming.

It feels like I'm dying.

My heart is pounding like I've narrowly survived a near-death encounter.

I sit up and put the light on. I reach for the glass of water next to my bed and drink it quickly, swallowing hard to push the lump in my throat down. It sates my thirst but doesn't calm me.

The irony is that I'm the last person on Earth who should be dreaming of flying. Gravity loves me. It always has. We're all susceptible to gravity. None of us aren't. It's heavy, and it weighs us down. It weighs everyone down. Everyone. But for some of us, it's heavier. I'm one of those people. It weighs me down more. It finds me in the night and pulls me down until I can't breathe. It finds me in the day too, sucking the life out of everything around me. When it's really bad, it drains me completely, leaving a dry husk where my insides usually are. For years, I've wandered through life like this. Heavy. Low. A black hole where something important should be.

It's just the way it is. It's the way it always has been.

It comes and goes.

It's been bad lately.

That's to be expected. Getting divorced is no walk in the park. It's known not to be. It's one of the most stressful things that can happen to anyone. It's right up there with the death of a loved one in terms of stress. And that goes for divorcing normal people, not people like Barbara Anne. During the day, I keep it at bay. I push it down and try not to think about it, but at night, when I'm half-asleep, I see things. The look on Barbara Anne's face when I left. Defeated. She looked defeated. Barbara Anne, the most formidable person I've ever met, looked defeated. I see Miller as a boy, a teen, and a man. I see hopes and dreams and things that didn't work out the way I thought they would. The way I hoped they would. The way I wanted them to. I see headlines and numbers. Big-ass numbers. I see our family home in her name. Her maiden name. I hear things too. I hear what people are saying about me.

Poor Derek.

Yes, poor Derek.

I heard she cleaned him out.

Oh yes, I heard that too. Did you hear she's taken up with her naturopath? He's fifteen years younger, can you believe it?

I did. Just dreadful…though I heard Derek's the most terrible womanizer.

Ha! Me. A womanizer. I'd laugh if it wasn't completely unfunny.

Yes, I heard that too. There've always been rumors about him. I've always thought he seemed cold.

Yes. Cold and distant.

Very distant. Can't say I blame her, really. Must be hard to live with someone like that.

No. Can't say I blame her either.

During the day, I don't care about things like this. During the day, I rise above it, and despite what Barbara Anne's always said, I know there's no such thing as winning a divorce.

No one wins. Everyone loses.

That's in the day. During the night, words grow claws and hook into my skin. When I sleep, those claws rake down my face and chest and make me bleed. During the night, there's sure as shit such a thing as winning a divorce. And I'm sure as shit not the one winning.

Since it's nighttime now and my heart rate has yet to return to normal, I close my eyes and replay Barbara Anne's message over and over in my mind.

Plus one. Plus one.

What a fucking ridiculous way of putting it.

Plus one?

I'll show them plus fucking one.

I'll show them plus fucking one and a half if they aren't very careful.