Page 23 of Work: Strictly Professional

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, unfiltereddon’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…surprisefor 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—haveto 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.

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