9. Wyn

The wedding is in eight days. Thank God I've managed to sort out an officiant with Saint Emily's help, but I've yet to find a photographer, and here I am, happily carving valuable time out of my day to drop Derek's dry cleaning off.

I don't even know what to say to myself about it anymore. I've tried reasoning with myself. Believe me, I have. I've tried everything in my power to talk sense into myself. It's just that, unfortunately, my attraction to my awful boss has yet to abate.

We're still not panicking. We aren't. We're just getting a little concerned, that's all.

The elevator doors open, and I step into his apartment. I'm instantly hit by a heady blend of coffee, leather, and Derek MacAvoy's intoxicating musk. I kick my shoes off at the door and toss my phone and keys onto the console table. I take a moment to fix my hair, studying my reflection critically in the mirror, and then walk to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water with ice. I throw the doors open and amble through the garden, absently thumbing the leaves of a fern before taking a seat in my usual spot. A lounger in a sunny spot I like best. A lounger I've worryingly started thinking of as my lounger. I reach over and break off a sprig of rosemary and mint from the herb planter box and drop them into my water as I put my feet up and enjoy the view.

When the antsy feeling that always finds me when I'm here becomes too much, I head inside and walk down the hallway to Derek's room. My heart starts causing a racket as I do it. It knows a fool's errand when it runs one. Sadly, it does nothing to stop me.

Derek's room is darker than the rest of the house. The walls are painted a deep slate gray, but I'm not sure that's the reason. The mood in here is darker. It has Derek stamped all over it. It's big and severe. Large pieces of furniture dominate the space. I can't explain it exactly, and I'm aware this doesn't make a lot of sense, but I can only say that being in here feels like I'm walking through the innermost parts of his being. Like I'm inside his mind.

I'm not though. Any fool can see that. I'm not in Derek's mind. I'm trespassing. That's what I'm doing.

I shouldn't be here. I really do judge myself for doing this. At some point, life's going to throw me a real curveball, and I'll know that doing this kind of thing is why it's happening. I won't even be able to be very upset about it. I'll know I totally deserve it.

It's just that I can't help it. I like it here. It's ordered and controlled. Heavy and dark with brilliant splashes of light. It's beautiful here. So beautiful.

I sit on his bed and remind myself yet again that this isn't me. I'm better than this. I don't do this kind of thing. I don't invade people's privacy. I wasn't raised like this. Then I reach over and open the bone inlay box Derek keeps next to his bed. The first time I did it, I told myself it was a one-off. I promised myself all I'd do was take a quick look, just a peek, really, to dispel the mystery of it, and then I'd never, ever do it again. I told myself it was an act of public service. Derek is such a question mark and keeps to himself so much that who really knows what kind of thing he would think is important enough to put next to his bed. I mean, what if it was evidence he'd committed a murder or something like that?

I opened the lid tentatively that time, skittish, looking behind me as I lifted the lid, fully expecting to get caught, fired, shamed, canceled on social media, and a whole bunch of other things that would be life-changing and truly terrible. My hand shook like a leaf, the lid creaked softly, and my breath caught as I looked in the box.

Photographs.

That's all. Not the bloody souvenirs of a serial killer. Not even a key to a safety deposit box housing a schedule that details the deepest, darkest secrets of Derek MacAvoy.

All the box next to his bed contains is pictures taken of people a long time ago.

Miller. Barbara Anne. Miller and Barbara Anne. Baby Miller, little boy Miller, and big boy Miller. Miller as he is now, grown up with his arms around a dark-haired man with a prominent nose, black-rimmed glasses, and a very begrudging smile on his face.

There are photographs of Derek too. Derek on his wedding day. Derek with an older man who looks just like him. Derek holding a tiny Miller to his chest, hair a mess and eyes bleary from lack of sleep. Young Derek, standing next to a sold sign planted in front of a small building. Derek a few years later, hair tamed, next to a sold sign in front of a much bigger building. Derek was handsome then, no doubt, but somehow, at least to me, the fine lines around his eyes and flecks of gray in his hair seem to have amplified his appeal.

In all the photos, despite the various crimes against fashion committed through the decades, Derek's eyes are the same. Dark and broody, simmering with rage when you first see them. Rage that softens at a second glance and softens more at a third. Rage that isn't rage at all. Rage that's pain. Ancient sadness masquerading as anger.

I flick through the photographs again.

Again, I humbly suggest I stop this madness.

Again, I ignore my own good advice completely.

My fingers flit through the images until I get to the one that stops my heart, squeezes it until I can't take a good breath, and keeps it like that, unsteady, unhappy. Unable to look away.

It's a photograph of Derek as a boy. A teen. Fourteen or fifteen, maybe sixteen at a push, I'd say. He's a tall, gangly bean pole. Long legs and knobby knees. He's standing next to a boy at least half a head shorter than him. Both of them are wearing tennis clothes, white from head to toe, and have their rackets in one hand and their other arm slung loosely around each other's neck. The other boy is grinning so widely his eyes are almost closed and the bottom half of his face consists of nothing but teeth.

That I understand. That I get completely. He has Derek's arm around him. What's not to smile about?

What I don't understand and don't like at all is the fact that Derek is smiling just as hard.

I hold the photograph in my hand and study it carefully. I've lost count of the number of times I've done this now, but every time I do, I spot something I didn't see before. The last time I was here, I noticed the boy was pushing himself up slightly. Not standing on his toes exactly, just lifting himself a little as if to make himself seem taller.

Today I notice that while Derek's posture is near perfect, his head is tilted ever so slightly toward his friend.

A wicked, poisonous concoction of jealousy and something that feels idiotically like hope churns in my belly. I turn the photograph over and trace my fingers over Derek's handwriting.

Carlo and me

It makes me feel sicker today than it did last time.

When I've had my fill, the photograph starts to simmer in my hands, quivering and getting hotter and hotter until I feel sure it will burn me. I drop it into the box and then quickly stuff it back into the middle of the pile.

I pull my shirt cuff over my hand and hastily wipe down everything I've touched. I smooth down the bed until the linen is as smooth as I found it and I have a slight crick in my back. I track back to the living room, pulling the doors shut and checking twice that I've locked them. Then I step into my shoes, scoop up Derek's laundry bag, and head back to the office.

I make it just in time to serve him his lunch.