Page 9 of Work: Strictly Professional

“Oh, Wynnie.” Bridget pulls me into a tight hug and says, “You know what that is, don’t you?”

I sniff and nod against her shoulder.

“Red flag,” we say in unison.

4

Derek

I don’t know whythe people who work for me irritate me so much, but they do. Always have. It started years ago, in the early days, when I started needing people to help me. Something about the smarmy, overeager way they treat me gets my back up. It exhausts me to my marrow. And I’m already fucking exhausted. I’ve had insomnia on and off since Barbara Anne and I split. Cutting down on caffeine and carbs seemed like a good idea at the time. I was told to expect better sleep and a more even temper, among a plethora of other health benefits, and God knows I could use that.

I guess it’s one of those things that takes a while to kick in. It’s been three weeks since my last sip of coffee and longer since I’ve had a nice bowl of pasta.

I’ve never felt worse.

I’m tempted every goddamn day to quit quitting, but I had a headache for three days straight from the caffeine withdrawals, and I’m loath to repeat that. I hate the thought of having a dependence on anything. Or anyone.

No.

I won’t cave. I just have to get through the rest of the morning without touching coffee, and I’ll be fine. I’m okay without the carbs, I think, but I can’t stand the thought of waking up tomorrow or the next day without a cup of coffee.

No. I mustn't think like that.

I just have to get through the next few hours, and I’ll be okay.

One day at a time and all that.

I look out the window separating my office from the reception area.

A gallery window. That’s what the architect called it. A gallery window, I ask you. It was meant to make me seem more accessible. Approachable, she said. I can’t imagine why I agreed. I have no memory of ever aspiring to be approachable. Quite the opposite, if anything. Thank God I insisted on privacy smart glass. I’ve gotten used to being on display, and in recent years, I admit, I haven’t used the privacy option as much as I thought I would, but this week, I’ve found myself changing the glass from clear to frosted by ten a.m. each day.

The last thing I need is my new PA watching me all day. He’s a nosy little thing, and I can’t stand it. I’ve never felt so observed. Since he started working here, he’s spent most of his time peering in my direction, looking at me as if he’s in the process of making a complicated assessment or drawing a damning conclusion about me.

His eyes are powder blue. Pale, almost translucent. Watery orbs that have filled with increasing judgment with each day that passes. They’re the kind of eyes that make me think he doesn’t have a privacy option. His emotions are splayed out for everyone to see. Hope, disappointment, annoyance, the desperate desire to please, it’s all there, written across his irises. Light-blue ink on a sky-blue parchment. It’s an uncomfortable gaze that slices through bone and brain matter, giving me an unpleasant feeling.A feeling that if I raise my voice anywhere near him, blue skies will cloud over, and rivers will run.

He’s lucky I’ve been working on myself recently. Otherwise, I might see that as a challenge.

My phone rings, and when I see Miller’s name flash on the screen, I answer immediately. I steady myself for a barrage of outrage over the letter I sent earlier this week, but he skips over that as if it never happened.

I can’t help smiling. Miller is impossible.

Like father, like son, as my ex, Barbara Anne, always says. She means it as an insult most of the time, but still, it’s hard to take it that way when it comes to Miller. I’m not saying he’s perfect, far from it, and I’m not saying things are good between us. They’re complicated and messy. They haven’t been good for years, but I love my son.

“Dad, I have a problem,” he says as soon as we’re done with stilted niceties. There’s something in his voice that makes my gut quiver. Yes, we don’t get along, and yes, we take turns taking wild swipes at each other, but that voice, coming from him, ignites the same feeling it used to when he was a little boy and he’d come home from school and tell me someone was mean to him.

“W-yin!” I yell. It’s Wyn with aY, not anI, in case you were wondering. I know it’s unusual, but he corrected me the other day. His eyes flashed when he said it and his head twitched so hard his dark curls bounced around on his forehead before settling back into their usual position. It seems like a ridiculous way to pronounce what should be a simple name, but I’m not here to tell someone else how to say their own name. “Tell Jason and the rest of them I’m going to be late for our call.”

Wyn blinks at me in disbelief, teeth and tongue showing as his mouth forms a perfectO. It looks like he means to speak. He opens and shuts his mouth, and when he does, an eerie,vastly unpleasant sense of recognition worms through my veins. It enters my body through the soles of my feet but travels up quickly. It’s tepid and nasty. Foreign but familiar. It’s a vague, distant type of recognition. A rumbling perception more than anything. A warning.

It feels like one of those times when you’re out and see someone you should know. When you can place their face but not their name. It’s like that, but worse. The first time it happened was on Monday morning when he put his bony hand out to shake mine, and it happened again yesterday when he stood beside my desk and made silly excuses for the dog’s breakfast he’d made of the minutes for the stakeholder meeting.

I’m at my desk now, sitting back in my chair, and he’s at his station, leaning forward as if he’s getting ready to run a race. He holds eye contact for three seconds. Three seconds or an hour. I can’t tell which, thanks to a new flurry of tepid worms.

His skin is smooth and pale, with a light sprinkle of freckles over his cheeks and nose. He tilts his head as if to improve his view of me. His eyes narrow and his butter-wouldn’t-melt demeanor evaporates before my eyes. Blue sparks and becomes electric. And like that, I recognize him.

I know him.

I know his name and his face.

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