Page 59 of Work: Strictly Professional

We throw ourselves onto the sofa in a tangle of arms and legs, and I begin flicking through a carefully curated album ofwedding photos that just so happens to not include a single clear picture of Derek MacAvoy.

If I thought work sucked before Hawaii, God, was I wrong. It’s worse now. Way worse. In addition to the agony of having to take down my mood boards and toss the leftover wedding stationery, I’m bored out of my mind. There isn’t nearly enough to do now that I only have one full-time job to deal with.

Derek’s out with a client for lunch, so I’m all alone on this big-ass white marble floor. I don’t even have to plan a meal for him today. Or serve it to him. I tidy my desk and repack the soft drinks, arranging them alphabetically rather than by color. I hate it as soon as I’m finished, so take them all out and put them back as they originally were.

When I’m done with that, I take out my wallet, which is bulging so much I can barely fold it closed, and count my money. It’s a lot. It makes me feel funny. Strangely turned on and ashamed at the same time. Weirdly, I kind of like it. I arrange the bills by dollar amount and stuff them back into my wallet. It’s the most cash I’ve ever had on me. It probably isn’t even safe to carry this much on my person. It probably makes me a target for a violent crime or something.

Hmm, wonder if I should head to Rodeo Drive and see if I can find a way to lessen the risk to my safety?

I mean, buying myself something pretty always boosts my mood.

Derek breezes in a few hours later, heads straight to his office, and switches the glass window that separates us from clear to opaque.

26

Derek

So this is whathell is like. A parallel universe where everything looks the same and the thing you want more than anything is right in front of you, but you can’t have it.

On Monday, I was stoic and sure of myself. What happened in Hawaii stays in Hawaii. I repeated it to myself like a mantra. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to harass one of my employees in the workplace. No way at all. It’s asking for a lawsuit. No, it’s begging for a lawsuit. It’s out of the question.

On Tuesday, Wyn came into the office wearing a pair of snug navy-blue work pants that he’d rolled up at the ankle and a pair of gleaming white, red, and green sneakers with interlockingGs splashed all over them, and I found myself feeling distinctly less stoic. He looked so adorable, preppy, and professional that I had to keep the gallery window frosted all day to stop myself from begging him to let me blow him again.

Work was no better today.

I’m home and in bed now but I can’t sleep a wink. I toss and turn and think ridiculous things about pastel roses and gas caused by cabbage. I think about them until they start makingsense. I switch to humming songs commonly played by ice cream trucks after a while, and that leads me to what Wyn said about kids.

Me wanting more kids?

Surely not. That ship has sailed. Yes, I wanted more desperately, but Barbara Anne hemorrhaged after giving birth to Miller, and there was no way we could do that again. Understandably, she didn’t want to, and I didn’t want to put her at risk.

In the blue-black of night, I imagine myself as a father again. I imagine doing things differently. Being different. I imagine taking time, making time, and being there for a child in a way I wasn’t for Miller.

I imagine doing all these things with a partner whose hand fits perfectly in mine.

After a few hours, I get up, drink a glass of water, get back in bed, and repeat the entire process.

At dawn, I fight my way through a thick fog of exhaustion and get ready for what I have no doubt will be another hellish day at the office.

27

Wyn

I’m a full fiveminutes late to work today. Zero fucks given. This is what I’m like now, just a chill guy who doesn’t live for his job. Just comes in, works, and goes home. If I’m late, I’m late. No biggie.

And no, I’m not doing it in the hope my asshole boss will call me into his office and scold me.

I mean, yes, I did like having his full attention while we were away, but I’m not desperate for it. Please. I’m not that pathetic.

“Wyn,” he calls as soon as the elevator doors open. My stupid, pathetic heart starts racing.

I trot hurriedly to his office, not even bothering to put my bag down.

“Yes, Mr. MacAvoy,” I say hopefully.

His face is unreadable. Mouth a straight line. Two deep lines run parallel between his eyes. Those two lines should give me pause. Instead, they make me feel infinitely buoyant—it looks like there’s a scolding on the horizon. Yay.

Okay, okay, maybe I am that pathetic.

---