Page 19 of Work: Strictly Professional

I’m so busy with my attention to detail that it takes a while for the letters on the page to organize themselves into something comprehensible.

“Oh my God!” I yelp when they do.

Divorce papers?

YES!

I mean, no. I mean, I’m terribly sorry. What a difficult time and what an awful experience to go through. My deepest condolences.

That’s what I mean.

I don’t know. Does one say condolences or congratulations when someone gets divorced? I guess it depends. I guess it’s one of those things you have to judge on a case-by-case basis.

I glance at Derek, unable to tell if condolences or congratulations are in order. Either way, the sadness from before is still there, skipping over nearly black pools like a stone on a flat body of water.

The sight of it catches my breath and leaves me feeling shaky. I can’t let it stand. It’s my job to assist him. To help him. Tokeep his life running smoothly. Right now, I’m failing. There’s nothing about him that looks assisted or smooth.

Except for his hair. That shit is smooth as hell. Dark-chocolate strands of silk swoop off his forehead and stay in place as if it’s been styled by some sort of mystical force.

“Just give me a sec,” I cry, trotting out of the room at a brisk pace. I open my bottom drawer to extract the first-aid kit I keep there and then dash to the boardroom to fetch a couple of glasses. I run back at a speed I definitely couldn’t keep up for more than sixty or seventy yards.

I arrive back in his office, wares in hand, panting like I’ve run a marathon.

Damn, I’m unfit. As soon as my life returns to something resembling normal, I’m joining the gym.

Just wait and see. I’ll do it. Don’t think I won’t.

I open the first-aid kit and retrieve the remedy I keep on hand for this kind of emergency: a couple of those little bottles of whiskey you get on airplanes. I crack them open and pour a glass for Derek and one for me. It’s only once I’ve done it and amber liquid glints in glass that it occurs to me how inappropriate this is. Derek isn’t Sasha. He isn’t like any of my previous bosses. He hasn’t given me any reason to think he’d appreciate this type of fraternization.

Beside me, a deep puff of air is roughly expelled. I can’t be completely sure because his expression remains neutral, but I think it might be Derek MacAvoy’s version of a laugh.

He raises his glass, long fingers wrapping almost all the way around it, and waits for me to raise mine. I tilt it toward him. To be on the safe side, I take extra care to ensure my fingers don’t touch his.

I feel the sound of glass on glass in my bones.

He downs his drink in a single sip, swallowing without any reaction.

“Uh-oh, I thought we’d sip it slo…” I stop talking and down my whiskey, eyes watering as I try not to cough.

He holds his glass out again, so I rummage in the first-aid kit for the last of my medicinal beverages. Typically, one dose is enough, but I keep extras just in case.

By the time we’ve both taken another shot, I’m warm inside and out. A thin film around my face buzzes when I move my head fast. It occurs to me distantly that I can’t remember what I had for lunch today. I remember being at my desk and going out to get a salad for Derek, and I remember watching his door intently, but I can’t seem to remember eating the salad I bought for myself. Come to think of it, it might still be on my desk.

“Golly,” I say a few times despite not being British and being unable to think of a time I’ve found it necessary to use that word in the past. Black ink streaks across the paper, leaving well-practiced marks in its wake. His initials, then mine. Words and big numbers come in and out of focus as pages turn. “Golly, that’s a lot of money to hand over to someone.” I’m aware my filter is slipping, and I’m not happy about it, but short of ordering a massive pepperoni pizza and washing it down with a gallon of water, I’m not sure what I can do to rectify the situation.

Another puff of air leaves him. I feel it on the side of my face, light and warm, then hot. When it’s heated my entire face, it slides down my neck and under my collar.

“As my dad used to say,it’s only paper,” says Derek. His lips part to show me a sliver of teeth.

“O-only paper?” Seems like quite a bit more to me if these numbers are anything to go by.

“Yeah, that’s what he said. He used to say it all the time when I was starting out. Every time I was at a crossroads, weighing things up, worried about what the wrong decision would costme, he’d say, ‘It’s only paper, my boy. You can always make more.’”

“Sounds like the two of you were close,” I say quietly.

“Yeah, we were. He was my best friend. I hero-worshipped him, I guess you could say. It was easy between us. It always was. We got along. I loved spending time with him.” A low hum rumbles from his chest. “Neither of us ever had to send letters from legal to get each other’s attention.”

“Is that what you do with Miller? Is that why you do it?”

---