Page 58 of Work: Strictly Professional

I mentally rehearse all the things I want to say. I want to tell Wyn that I love women, and I’m in no way repulsed by them. I actually even quite like having sex with them. It does feel good. It’s just—I catch myself when I realize how ridiculous it would be to say something like that to Wyn. My fake boyfriend, Wyn. The only man I’ve ever even kissed—I don’t hunger for women the way I hunger for men. They don’t keep me awake or turn me to goo. They don’t make me shake with desire. And no matter how hard I try, I don’t fall in love with them. Eventually, I land on a small, sweet-sounding word. A word I’ve feared all my life. A word that finally feels right.

“I’m gay.”

“Same,” he says brightly.

For some reason, that might be the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. It cuts the tension in me like a knife slicing through butter. I fold into myself, eyes squeezing shut, and laugh until I can’t breathe, until tears roll down my face.

Same.

I just dropped a bombshell, and Wyn saidsame.

It gets me again. I laugh and laugh until Wyn says, seriously, “Does cabbage give you gas?”

I roar and sputter with laughter, “No, but red onion does.” From there, we take turns asking each other the most ridiculous things we can possibly think of. Not just ridiculous. Pointless too.

“Derek,” he manages to look solemn. “Where would you bury a body?”

“Um, in a forest, I guess.”

“Aforest?I thought for sure you’d say in the foundation of one of your buildings. You know, just drop it into the concrete while it’s being poured.”

“Wyn”—I try to match his earnestness—“should I be afraid to sleep in the same bed as you?”

“Definitely. Favorite flower?”

“Those big blue balls of puff. You?”

“Is that your way of saying hydrangea?” I nod. “That’s the worst description I’ve ever heard.”

“I said, you?”

“Roses. Pastel roses. Not red. I hateredroses. I might hate them as much as I hate ice cream trucks.”

“You hate ice cream trucks?” I yowl. “Whywould you hate them?”

“It’s the creepy-ass song they play. Don’t even try telling me it doesn’t sound like the soundtrack to a massacre.” I don’t have time to tell him how crazy that is because he changes the topic again. “Do you want more kids?”

“Uh, I’m almost fifty, Wyn.”

“So?”

We talk for hours. We don’t stop.

It’s only when the screech of the alarm brutally attacks me at seven a.m. that I realize I was so busy talking to Wyn last night that I completely forgot to sexually harass him.

25

Wyn

“Holy shit,” I say,unable to believe my eyes. “Did you go for a peel without me?” I release Bridget from the bear hug I have her in and inspect her skin critically. It’s official. She’s glowing. Her skin is red-carpet ready. It looks like porcelain lit from within. “Lactic acid or glycolic?” I demand.

“No! Of course not. I would never. I mean, I did do a little home thing. You know, one of those overnight exfoliant things. That, that…”

I gasp, hand clamped over my mouth when it hits me. “Bridget Katherine Vivien Leigh Hepburn. You had sex!”

“No!” she cries. “I didn’t, I-I… No. Maybe a little, but no. No. It was nothing. It was stupid. It was one time, and believe me, it’s never, ever happening again.” With that, she takes my hands in hers and starts bouncing around the room. “Hawaii! The wedding! Tell me everything.”

Her attempt to distract me is flagrant and, it pains me to admit, effective.

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