Page 55 of Work: Strictly Professional

My speech goes off without a hitch. I get just the right amount of laughs, and Ryan’s mother wells up when I say how happy I am to be gaining a son like him. Wyn squirms and waves me off when I thank him profusely for his efforts in planning the day and remind everyone that if not for him, we’d all be in Vegas right now.

“You spoke well,” says Barbara Anne when I take my seat. Wyn gets up to direct the next course of the meal, and Sageheads to the restroom, leaving the two of us alone on this side of the table.

“Thank you.” It’s been tense between us many times, fraught more times than I can count, but it’s never been like this. Strange and distant. I don’t like it. In fact, I might like it less than I liked tense and fraught. What I like least about it is that I know I deserve it. Yes, Barbara Anne is a hellion who gave as good as she got during our marriage, but she didn’t know what she was getting into when she said, “I do.” That’s on me, and the guilt is heavy enough to make my knees buckle. Guilt is different from gravity. It has a different kind of mass, but it can drag you down all the same.

If anything, it might be harder to live with. It doesn’t just weigh you down. It gnaws at you too. I’m so tired of fighting to remain upright under the weight of it.

“I’m sorry.” I mean to say it loudly, but it comes out so quietly that I’m not sure she can hear me.

She turns her head, eyes searching mine accusingly and then softening when she sees the depth of the meaning behind it. She’s quiet for so long that I think she’s choosing not to respond, but then she says, “I was your friend, Derek. First, before anything else, I was your friend.”

My jaw clicks as I swallow and nod to acknowledge what she’s saying. She’s right. We were friends long before we were lovers. Good friends. Best friends. I thought that would be enough. I thought we’d be a power couple. A formidable team. I was right, and I was wrong.

“I wanted to tell you many times,” I say. It’s true. There were many, many nights she was crying and raging and begging me to tell her what was wrong between us. On nights like that, I could almost taste the words on my tongue. “I just…I couldn’t…I just couldn’t find a way to say it.” Her eyes are still on me, impassive, watching and waiting, so I continue, “You weren’t crazy to feelthat something was missing. You weren’t imagining it. It was selfish of me to think the way it was between us would be enough for you. You weren’t wrong to be angry. You still aren’t wrong to be angry with me.”

She’s quiet again, mulling over what I’ve said, letting it sink in. When it does, there’s a gentle tug at the corners of her mouth. It’s a tiny, vulnerable smile she doesn’t show often. It’s quick. There for a flash and then gone.

“Do you know Sage says anger is awful for you? He says it affects the heart’s ability to pump blood. He says it can lead to high blood pressure and heart disease.” The next smile is Barbara Anne back at her best. Fighting fit and mischievous, eyes stretched in aversion. “He says it can cause premature aging.”

Her shoulders shudder noticeably at the thought. I bite back a laugh and start feeling lighter.

Wyn and Sage make their way back to the table, weaving through throngs of people to get to us. Barbara Anne cocks her head toward them, mischief giving way to something I haven’t seen before. She holds a perfectly manicured hand out to me, eyes sparking with life, and endings, and new beginnings. “What do you say, MacAvoy? Shall we call it a draw?”

I put my hand in hers, bobbing my head astutely as if giving the matter serious thought. Like always, her handshake is a little too firm, crushing my knuckles together just enough to make me wince, causing her to cackle like a fairytale villain.

“A draw,” I say, and start laughing for real. We both do, finding humor in our shared idiocy the way we used to a long time ago. Years ago. Before we had Miller. Before we were married.

Wyn sits to my left. Barbara Anne is on my right with Sage taking his place beside her.

“The fish is excellent,” she says to Wyn. A white flag. A peace offering.

“Thank you. I gave the chef strict instructions to filet it.”

“Ah yes”—she makes a face—“nothing worse than having your meal look up at you as you consume it.”

Sage dissolves with laughter, seemingly unable to believe the hilarity of what she just said, though I struggle to find the excess of humor in it. He looks at Barbara Anne cross-eyed, as though she’s the most wonderous creature he’s ever encountered. He almost looks drunk simply from being in her presence.

I used to think that kind of display between couples was ridiculous. It didn’t make sense and at least half of me thought it was an act. A pretense everyone but me was in on.

As I watch Wyn carefully select his next bite, guiding his salmon onto his fork and spearing a caper just so, I find myself thinking that I’ve never seen anyone with more talent for loading a fork. And as he lifts the fork, his lips gently closing around silver, I become dimly aware that in addition to everything else that’s happened to me recently, I’m now a person who harbors deep-seated envy of silverware.

Our meals are cleared sometime later, and I notice Barbara Anne tittering and inspecting her fingernails when Miller gets up to make his speech. There was a time when I would have put my hand over hers to calm her when I saw her like that. That time is over. Sage puts a hand on her back, and she leans toward him. Instead of even the most fleeting barbs of annoyance, I find myself grateful to him. Truly grateful. Words from weeks ago echo in my mind.

I hope he makes you happy.

Miller’s speech is short and sweet, and though I’m not sure he means for it to be, hilarious. He has everyone eating out of the palm of his hand, pausing and letting things settle when it’s time for him to say a few words about Ryan.

“So,” he says, checking his notes and reading from them, “I promised Ryan I wouldn’t embarrass him, and I wouldn’t embarrass myself, and I wouldn’t be cringy, and I wouldn’t be too sentimental or sappy, and…basically, he made me swear not to say anything nice about him. As we all know, I’m only happy when Ryan is happy, so I won’t say much, but I will say this. Ryan”—he turns to face Ryan and raises his glass—“I regret nothing.”

Ryan’s head dips, and when he looks up at Miller, he’s a very different version of the Ryan we all know. He’s open and defenseless in a way that leaves me in no doubt whatsoever that as besotted with Ryan as Miller is, the feeling is mutual.

We raise our glasses and toast the new couple. Miller feigns taking his seat. He steps toward the main table and Ryan’s shoulders relax. As soon as they do, Miller steps back, standing in front of the microphone again and slightly adjusting its height.

“It occurred to me, Ry”—his smile is broad and can only be described as mischievous as hell—“you said I couldn’tsayanything. You didn’t say anything aboutsinging.”

Ryan groans audibly as the slow, steady notes of a cello pulse through the room, joined quickly by the piano. There’s a fall, then a lift. A slow, haunting melody punctuated by a soft crash of cymbals. Miller’s voice is low and smooth. A deep baritone river that flows through the room and makes me wonder why the hell we never sent him for singing lessons. Barbara Anne looks up at me in confusion, obviously wondering the same thing.

Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” pours out of Miller as if it’s easy. As if it’s always been there, inside him, waiting for this moment. The sound floats around the room like a silk ribbon on a sea breeze. It’s not just a song. It’s more. It’s a poem about life and love. Kitchen chairs and cutting hair. A song of praise. Breathy hallelujahs that have their own lives. Most of all though,most of all, it’s a prayer. An ode to worship. An ode to loving another so much it transcends everything else.

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