Trav
I’M TOTALLY freaked out. Since the shit hit the fan at JU on Wednesday, things have just been getting worse and worse. I don’t mean there were more “revelations,” although on Thursday some conspiracy blogger showed Bitchface Kylie Rutherford a photo of Derek, said “Kylie, this is Derek Bryer, an assistant director at Joy Universe,” and she exclaimed with what were very obviously crocodile tears, “He’s the one! He was there, the one in charge.” My only knowledge of the court system comes from books and TV, but I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t stand up. Still, it was another blow, with editorializing nut jobs protesting against JU, and Derek in particular. Honestly, after the fifth diatribe I read/heard, I gave up in disgust. It’s pretty clear that these people have no idea, that they’re just jumping on a bandwagon, gleeful that they have the chance to drag someone down. I worked once with a dancer from Australia who called it tall poppy syndrome.
It could be worse—it’s hard to see past the negatives right now, especially with Derek being directly affected, but it really could be worse. Most of the negative publicity is coming from the trashier news outlets. The more reputable ones covered the initial statement, but their follow-up reports keep stating that there’s no evidence to indicate JU was involved. A few of the talk show hosts are openly saying that Kylie Rutherford is just trying to distract the public. But… people love to think the worst, right? Derek’s not talking about it much, but from what I can gather, this is hitting really hard at JU’s bottom line, even though it’s only been a few days.
What worries me the most is that Derek’s not talking about it. At a time like this, shouldn’t he be pissed? Ranting? Unloading all his frustrations? Instead he says, in that nothing tone, that he’s angry, but hey, can’t do anything, and do I want to add anything to the grocery list/go to bed/watch whatever-the-fuck on TV?
That’s not normal, right? He’s repressing his feelings, and Derek is such an open, outgoing personality that it strikes me as intrinsically wrong for him to repress anything.
Or maybe it’s just me he doesn’t want to talk to?
I know he loves me, but maybe it’s not the same love I feel for him. Maybe his love for me is more of a “friends who fuck and have a great time together but aren’t meant to last forever” love. That would break my heart, because I’m in this for the long haul. I thought he knew that. Day Dot is due to close at the village in just a few weeks, but I’ve already told my agent to push back any auditions until September, and to turn down any that would need me to start work before January. Derek knows that. We also talked about going somewhere at Christmastime, and when we were looking at flights, they were all departing from here. I hadn’t exactly decided to move here, but I was thinking of taking some time off work to sort things out between us, work out what the best path is for the future. There’s no work for me here except in the parks, and that would be a huge step back for my career.
I thought Derek and I were on the same page, that we were both intent on working out a way for our relationship to move successfully forward, but… was I wrong? If he won’t talk to me about something that’s creating such huge upheaval in his life, maybe he’s not as invested in us as I am.
Or maybe I’m just making this all about me because of my insecurities, and I shouldn’t be. Maybe him not wanting to talk has nothing to do with me at all.
And I’ve come full circle. Whatever reason he has for bottling everything up, it’s not healthy and will just lead to worse problems later.
I let it go on Wednesday night. After all, it had just happened. Maybe he needed time to process. I let it go Thursday, too, because there were some new shocks and… well, I was still waiting for him to lean on me. Yesterday, I stewed about it all day, and finally decided I needed to force the issue… but after a good night’s sleep.
Which brings us to now. Bright and early Saturday morning. I’m due at the community theater in an hour, which doesn’t give us much time to talk, but Derek’s sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake him any earlier. Breakfast will be ready in about five minutes, and I’ll wake him them and we can talk over food.
“Hey.”
I turn from the stove, Derek’s raspy morning voice surprising but welcome. He’s standing in the doorway in his boxers, his hair every which way, eyes sleepy. I like seeing his morning muss. He’s so perfect the rest of the time that this feels like a real intimacy.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to sound casual but supportive and coming off as… constipated? Who knows.
He doesn’t seem to notice, just comes over to give me a kiss. It’s nice, if a little… perfunctory? Is he losing interest, or preoccupied?
I’m driving myself nuts.
“What’s this?” He looks at the pancake in the frypan. It’s the last one; the others are already in the warming oven.
“Breakfast.” I bend to take out the plate of pancakes and then adding the last one. I turn off the stove and lead him to the table, already set and ready to go. “Do you want coffee?”
He turns back to the counter. “I’ll get it. Can I top you up?”
I hand him my mug, and we go through the calming, comfortable process of settling in and dishing up food. I’ve just taken my first bite when he says, “I thought you had the community theater this morning.”
A perfect opening. Guess that means I can’t put it off anymore.
I finish chewing, swallow, and put down my cutlery.
“I do, but you’ve had a rough week, so I wanted to do something nice for you.” I watch him carefully as I speak, but he doesn’t react at all. “I also wanted some time with you—I haven’t seen you much in the last few days.”
He flashes a smile, that smile, the one I hate, and it makes my heart ache. He hasn’t used his megawatt smile on me for months, not since right after we met. Why is he suddenly hiding his real self from me?
“I’ve missed you.” It’s the first thing he’s said in three days that feels completely truthful. “I know you’re busy today, but maybe tomorrow morning we can go out somewhere together?”
Hm. Time to push more. “Wouldn’t you rather just stay here and relax? Things have been pretty full-on. If you want to talk about everything, I’m here.” That’s pretty blunt, right? Talk to me. Let me share your burden.
He shrugs, and any hope I had slips away. “Nothing to talk about. It is what it is.” He shovels in a large forkful of food, an obvious excuse not to talk, and I suck in a deep breath.
“Derek, just because it is what it is doesn’t mean there’s nothing to talk about. I know you have to be angry. This is a big deal. Why don’t you share that with me?”
He swallows his mouthful. “There’s not really anything to share. It’s… well, it’s all bullshit, but that’s life.”
My patience snaps. I shove back my chair and stand up. “That’s not fucking life, Derek. Life is when you talk to your partner about the things that are bothering you!” I grab my keys—damn it, his keys, to his house and his car—and storm out, slamming the door.
There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, but it takes second place to my anger. What the fuck have the last few months been about? Have I just been a convenient live-in booty call? Why did he bother helping me with my emotional crisis last month if that’s all I mean to him? I mean, honestly, if a guy spends time and effort pulling you out of a mental trap, you’re allowed to assume he’s committed! But people in committed relationships go to their partners for emotional support when things go to crap, and so clearly Derek doesn’t consider me his partner in any way. Couldn’t he have mentioned that before I started rearranging my life?
I slam into the car and hit the garage door opener. In just a few weeks, I’ll be out of work, and not only do I not have anything lined up, I actually put things off because I was planning to stay here with Derek for a bit. I was planning a future with him—and he knew that. We talked about it. Wouldn’t that have been a good time for him to mention that he’s not that invested?
And oh fuck, I’ve made it about me again.
AN HOUR later, I’ve taken ownership of one of the seats in the front row of the community theater, and I’m hunkered down nursing my rage—at both Derek and myself. I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that I’m in a shitty mood, because they steer clear. I haven’t snapped at anyone, I swear—although that might be because they haven’t given me the opportunity. I would probably have tried not to take my mood out on them, though. After all, they haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not their fault my boyfriend is a closed-off, emotionless moron who’s incapable of having a decent relationship, and that I’m so self-centered that I’ve interpreted his desire not to share as a diss on our relationship.
I really don’t know what pisses me off more.
Someone drops into the seat beside me. “Having a bad day?” a sympathetic voice asks. I grunt at Dimi.
“What makes you think that?” Hmm, maybe I should dial down the sarcasm. Repeat after me, Trav: not his fault.
“Maybe it’s the way you’re glaring at the set like you wish it would spontaneously combust,” he says drily. “Or it could be because you’re using that same glare on anyone who gets within four feet of you. We took a vote, and while we’d really like to just let you stew for a while, we need some advice, so I’ve been delegated as agony aunt. Tell Dimi all your problems.” He sounds way too cheerful, and if I were a violent person, he would likely be in some serious danger.
Lucky for Dimi, the only physical pain I’m capable of doling out is an earache from having to listen to me whine. Which I won’t do. My and Derek’s relationship woes are personal, between the two of us. It’s not anybody else’s business that he won’t talk to me. That he treats me like I’m just anyone else, not his boyfriend who loves him and wants to—
“What the hell is the matter with him?” I burst out.
Dimi sighs. “Oh. Relationship troubles. I was really hoping for career or family issues.”
I ignore that and carry on. It’s just occurred to me that I’m talking to the one person who spends almost as much time with Derek as I do, and neither of them sleep during any of that time. “Seriously, Dimi, you’ve worked for him for years. Why is he so closed off?”
“Before we get any further into this conversation,” he says slowly, as if he’s choosing his words, “are you sure you want to have it with me? We’re friends, Trav, but Derek’s been a brilliant boss and mentor to me for a long time. My first loyalty is to him.”
I think about that for a second. In a way, I think it’s actually a good thing—better than if I talked to Kev or Mark or my sister or any of my friends in New York who would be on my side and probably just say what I want to hear. I know I’m not completely in the right here, and this way I might get information or advice that can help me in dealing specifically with Derek.
“Dimi, Derek and I had a fight this morning because I’m worried about him,” I declare. “Since this whole publicity nightmare began, he’s become more and more withdrawn. I don’t think anybody else even notices, because he still has that big, fake, fucking awful smile”—I doubt Dimi misses the loathing in my voice—“and he’s still all friendly and helpful and… you know, all the rest of the crap that goes with his golden boy persona.” I turn my head to see if Dimi knows what I mean. He’s nodding thoughtfully. “But he doesn’t talk about anything. He doesn’t show stress. He’s gotta be stressed, right? His name is being dragged through the mud in the national—hell, international—media, his job is on the line, and he’s having to watch JU be affected because people think he did something horrible. It’s bullying on the worst scale, but he’s just internalizing everything! All I want to know is that he’s dealing with this, that he has a plan for what he’ll do if everything goes to complete crap, but he shut me down.” I take a deep breath. My tone is getting hysterical, and Dimi doesn’t need to see me break down.
I take another breath.
And another.
Then I look at Dimi again. There’s concern written on his face, but when he sees that I’ve calmed down, it clears.
“I have a theory,” he begins. “It’s literally just a theory, so I could be wrong, but maybe it will help.”
“Go on,” I say cautiously, hoping it’s not going to be one of those “make peace with the universe and accept that you can’t change it” useless pieces of crap advice.
“I’ve worked directly for Derek for three years,” Dimi tells me. “When the last AD of our district retired, so did his assistant. I was working in a pretty senior role in events at the time, and when Derek got promoted, he came to see me and told me I could name my price to be his assistant.”
I’m surprised for several reasons. First is because “name your price” is a really generous offer for an assistant job. Derek’s talked about how great Dimi is, but clearly I still underestimated him. The other reason is— “You left a ‘pretty senior role’ to be an assistant?” I asked. I always thought it went the other way.
“Hell yes.” Dimi is emphatic. “There was only so far I could go in events before I’d either have to transfer out to another department or leave JU and get a job elsewhere. I’d already started thinking about my options, and I didn’t like any of them. Pretty much any department would leave me in the same position. My best bet for a management job was in the parks or the resorts, but those roles are usually filled within the ranks, and I really didn’t feel like taking a demotion to work toward my promotion, if you know what I mean.”
I cast a thought back over that sentence, and I think I get it. “Right.” Maybe.
“Plus, you gotta understand—assistant to the AD is not about getting coffee and picking up dry cleaning. Even if it was, Derek would probably shoot himself before asking me to do that. In this job I— Wait, I’ve gone off topic.”
“My fault. I asked,” I admitted. A part of me, the part that is almost scared to hear what Dimi’s theory is—what if he thinks Derek needs space?—isn’t sorry about the tangent.
“If you’re really interested, we’ll talk about it over a beer one night,” he tells me with a grin. “But getting back to what I was saying, I’ve worked directly for Derek for three years. Before that, I worked with him occasionally for another two. I—”
“How old are you?” I interrupt. Again, only partly because I’m curious. I thought Dimi was a few years younger than me, but if he’s worked for JU for five years, that might not be the case.
The other part is still because I’m scared.
“Twenty-nine,” he says, raising an eyebrow and giving me a look that says he knows what I’m doing. Huh. He’s actually older than me.
“You look amazing. I pegged you for five years younger,” I confess, and he laughs.
“Good genes. New rule, by the way—save all questions until the end.” He winks, but it only does a little to mollify my indignation. I fold my arms and slump a little lower in the chair.
“So, known Derek a long time, worked closely for the last few years… right. In all that time, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Derek has talked about anything personal.”
I straighten. That’s… weird. I mean, I know Dimi works for Derek, that they see each other in a work environment, but they spend a shitload of time together. My colleagues and I spend most of our time together singing and dancing and pretending to be other people, but we still chitchat in snatched seconds here and there. We talk about our families, what we do for fun, relationships…. How can Derek have never talked about anything personal?
“Are you sure?” I venture, and immediately feel like an idiot. Stupid question, Trav!
“Yes,” Dimi declares. “I know his parents are still alive because last year while Derek was dealing with a crisis, he asked me to find a travel agent who could help him plan an anniversary vacation for them. I found one, gave him the details, and that’s it. I don’t know their names. It’s common knowledge here that he moved from New York to take his first JU job, but I don’t know if he was born there or just moved there at some stage. I don’t know where he went to college. I don’t know if he has siblings. I don’t know what his hobbies are. If you ask Derek what he did on the weekend, the answer usually either involves work of some kind, or he’ll say something about chilling out. He doesn’t talk about his vacations unless—”
“Okay, I get it,” I interrupt again. “Derek’s a private person. But, Dimi, I’m not a work colleague. Isn’t he supposed to share some of this stuff with his boyfriend?” Secretly, I’m actually feeling a bit chuffed. I know more about Derek than Dimi does—like where he went to school, that he’s an only child, his parents’ names and occupations, that he’s a native New Yorker, that he played lacrosse… actually, it’s kind of thin. Those are all pretty superficial details.
“I’m not finished,” Dimi says patiently. “I was just getting to the important bit.”
I wave a hand for him to continue.
“He doesn’t talk about his vacations unless you ask—and here’s the thing, Trav. Not many people ask.”
I blink. “What?”
Dimi nods. “Don’t get me wrong, when he gets back after a trip, people always ask him how it was, and he’ll say ‘great,’ and that’s it. He doesn’t volunteer any information and nobody ever pushes. Not even me,” he admits. “I did once, but he just… I don’t know. He told me he’d been to Aruba, it was great, and next thing I knew, we were talking about my last vacation. I figured he just didn’t like to get personal, but….” He shrugs. “I think what you said before sums it up perfectly.”
“Really? What did I say?” I cast my mind back. There was some ranting—okay, a lot of ranting—and then a few attempts to derail the conversation. What does any of that have to do with the fact that Derek apparently doesn’t like making friends at work?
Hold on.
“Does Derek have friends?” I blurt, and then wince. God, that sounds horrible. “I mean—”
“I don’t think so.” Dimi’s words hang between us. “Not the way you and I would think of friends. I consider him a friend—or he would be if he wasn’t always trying to avoid personal contact. The only other person I would say he’s friendly with at JU is Grant.”
“He’s mentioned him,” I murmur. “We haven’t met yet.” And thinking about it, that’s weird. Derek and I have been together for months. He’s been out for drinks with some of my friends—cast members from Day Dot and some of the people from the theater here, including Dimi—but he’s never suggested meeting up with his friends.
“Have you met any of his friends?” Dimi asks quietly.
“No.” A pang shoots through me. “Maybe he just doesn’t want me to because I’m not here permanently.” Or he doesn’t really think I’m special enough.
Not about you, Trav.
I hope.
The look Dimi gives me says more clearly than words ever could that I’m a moron. “Or maybe he doesn’t have any because he’s friendly with everyone but not that close to anyone. What you said before about him being the golden boy—he really is. People love Derek, but none of them know him beyond the big smiles, the helpfulness, the great boss and efficient administrator. I’ve never seen anyone really try to get to know him. My theory is that it’s always been that way for him—people see the surface, and don’t bother to get to know the man underneath, so he… I don’t know. The theory goes wonky there. I haven’t really thought it all the way through. Honestly, though, I think you need to tell him you want to know this shit because you care about him and you want to support him. Be persistent and be patient.”
I turn that over a few times in my mind. Derek does rely an awful lot on his fake smile. I’m just as guilty as everyone else of only seeing the surface—if he hadn’t had his ego bruised by my initial attitude toward him, we may never have gotten beyond the superficial relationship he has with everyone else. Now that I’ve seen his real smile, though, and gotten to know the real him—even if it isn’t as much as I’d like—he’s so much more amazing than golden boy Derek could ever be.
“Thanks, Dimi.” I really want to leave, go back to Derek’s place, and hammer—metaphorically—at his stubborn head until I crack it like a nut. But he’s probably gone to work, like he always does to hide from the world, and I made a commitment here that I’m not doing a great job of fulfilling. Plus, I need to stew on this a bit, work out the best approach. Make sure that when I talk to him, it’s about him and his problems and not me and my insecurities. “Did you say you need me?”
He smiles. “Yeah, we could do with your input. All good?”
I nod firmly. I got this.
I COULD have called in sick to work and gone back to Derek’s place to talk, but I was pretty sure—no, I was certain that he would have gone to work himself. If not to the office, then to the park or to one of the resorts. He would chat to the staff and guests, observe, and just generally make sure everything was going as smoothly as it should, keeping his eyes open for any improvements that could be made. I guess Derek is a workaholic, but the fact is that he loves his work. It’s not a chore for him. He really is a social person, and he loves seeing the joy people feel here at JU. That friendly, charismatic exterior isn’t something he just puts on. It’s genuinely a part of him—but it’s not all of him.
I’m not a huge fan of what I call his golden boy persona, but that’s mostly because initially it reminded me of the guys who used to bully me, and now it feels like a wall he’s hiding behind—hiding from me. Keeping himself from me. And I hate that he doesn’t feel he can share all of himself with me—or that he doesn’t want to. There’s still that insidious voice in my head telling me that Derek probably knows he can do better, and I hate that too.
So I don’t call in sick. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Derek doesn’t need to get up early for work. After tonight’s show, I’m going to go back to his place, and we’re going to have a calm and rational conversation. If neither of us gets upset—and by “neither of us,” I mean me, because Derek doesn’t get upset, he just shuts down—then nothing can go wrong. Everything will be resolved, and we’ll move forward in our relationship.
I keep telling myself that. While I’m getting ready, all through the matinee show—I nearly miss a cue because I’m so busy mentally chanting “It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine.” The break between shows is murder. I end up talking Kev and two others into joining me at the cinema in the village to watch some stupid movie I can’t even remember the name of while I’m sitting in there watching it.
By the time the final curtain comes down on the evening performance, I’m a wreck. The scared part of me, the part that is so desperate not to lose Derek that it would do anything to prevent that, is getting louder and louder.
Why are you trying to change him? He doesn’t want to share his feelings—he has the right not to.
It’s not wrong. Derek does have the right to bottle up his feelings and not tell me about them. But… I don’t think that’s healthy. I honestly believe that will ultimately lead to destructive behavior—bottled-up emotions don’t just go away, and over the years it takes more and more to dull them, push them down. I don’t think I could watch that happen to him. If he genuinely isn’t ever going to be able to be completely open with me, if we can’t have a relationship that’s based on give and take, then maybe we’re better off apart.
The thought rips me in half.
Are you crazy? You love him! How can you think you’d be better off without him?
How can I be in a relationship where my partner doesn’t want to share his burdens with me? Would that then lead to me feeling unable to share mine? What would we be sharing, other than sex and companionship? I want more than that from my boyfriend.
And honestly, I believe Derek wants more too. Now that I’ve spoken with Dimi, especially, I think him being closed-off is more about having been taught to be that way rather than a desire for it.
I clean off my stage makeup, change into street clothes, and grab my stuff. I’ll find out soon enough, won’t I?
I LET myself into Derek’s house. There’s a light on in the living room, and as I head in that direction, Derek appears in the doorway. He looks surprised.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” he says softly.
My stomach clenches so hard I think I might throw up. “Do you want me to go?” I ask, and then clear my throat, because my voice is all husky.
He shakes his head sharply. “No! I just… thought you might still be mad and want some space.” He takes a deep breath. “I always want you here.”
All of a sudden, the fear is gone. Derek loves me. We’re going to fight—it’s a rare couple that doesn’t—but there’s no reason we can’t work out our issues.
“Derek, do you know why I was mad?”
He opens his mouth to answer, and it hits me that we’re really having this conversation in the hallway. I hold up a hand. “Wait—let’s go sit down. This is important, and it might take a while.”
That makes him look a little nervous, but he turns and goes back into the living room. I follow, and while he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, I sit on the couch and pat the spot next to me. He sits, and I take his hand.
“I love you,” I start, and his head snaps up.
“But?” he interrupts, his whole body practically vibrating with tension.
I blink.
“What do you mean? There’s no but. I love you.”
The tension drops away, and he sags against the couch back. “Oh. I love you too. I thought that was the beginning of a breakup speech. ‘Derek, I love you, but we need to be apart.’”
I try to keep my face blank, because… I don’t want things to go in that direction, but who knows?
“Do you know why I was mad this morning?” Time to get things back on track.
“Because you wanted to talk about what’s happening at work, and I didn’t,” he replies promptly.
Huh. That’s kind of a simplistic take on it. “Yes and no.” Is he being evasive, or does he really not get what this is about? “I— We’ve talked a bit about my family.” I decide to take another tack. “But I don’t think I’ve told you that my parents were really big on just getting things out there. Nobody ever gave the silent treatment or sulked in our house. We did a lot of yelling, we told each other exactly what we thought and how we felt, and then we got over it. And if we had problems, we’d talk about those and come up with solutions. Or if there was no solution, at least by sharing, we weren’t dealing with it alone. My mom and dad tell each other everything—the only secrets they ever keep are what they’re buying each other for their birthdays. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I was raised to believe that couples are completely open with each other and share everything. When you keep your feelings and your troubles to yourself, it makes me wonder if maybe you’re not as committed to this relationship as I am.” I wince, because that last part sounds like an accusation, like he needs to change to prove his love, and that’s not what I want. “I don’t mean you need to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” I rush on. “I’m just telling you how I feel and why I got mad. Mostly it was because I’m scared. I also want you to know that if you ever want to share anything, I always want to hear it.” I stop there, because really, what else can I say? It’s his turn now. If he leaves things there, says “thank you” or “okay, let’s go to bed,” I’ll have to try again, but maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll give me a response we can work with.
You know how people sometimes say that silence is loud? I never really got that—it always seemed stupid to me. I mean, silence is silent, right?
This silence is screaming.
Finally Derek takes a deep breath, and it startles me so much that I jump. I’m so relieved he’s broken the silence that I almost burst into tears.
“That’s….” He pauses, clears his throat. “Uh, that’s different from how I was brought up. I, uh…. You know my parents are very cerebral.” I do. His dad’s an entrepreneur, and his mom is an academic. From what he’s told me, his upbringing was very much focused on achievement. I never got the impression that he was unhappy or neglected, though, so I’m a bit worried about what he’ll say next. “It’s not that I was ever told not to talk about my feelings… it’s just…. Damn it!” He leaps up from the couch and starts pacing. I watch him warily, not sure if he’s angry or just struggling to verbalize. “I don’t know how to say this!”
Well, that answers that. I keep silent. If I rush in to help now, he’ll never get the hang of expressing himself.
He stops pacing, swings around to glare at me. His sunny, friendly façade is gone now, replaced by a real man who’s hurting. My boyfriend.
“People don’t want to hear about my feelings, Trav. Nobody really gives a shit what’s going on inside anyone else. If you have a problem that’s solvable, yes. People like finding solutions. If it’s some existential crisis, then no. That’s just whining.” I feel the words like a punch to the gut, but he’s still talking, so I push the pain aside and listen. “It’s fine to say you’re mad or sad or whatever, but talking about it in detail doesn’t achieve anything. You say you’re mad, you do what you have to do to get over it, and you move on. People don’t want to hear it!”
He stands there, fists clenched, panting, still glaring at me, although his stare has lost a lot of its intensity and there’s something behind it now that tugs at my heartstrings.
I swallow hard. I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to fight,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m not asking this because I want to fight. I’m asking because I genuinely want to know.” I have to pause, to screw up my courage because I have never been more afraid in my life. “When we talked about—about the bullying, and how it made me feel… about how I was afraid to take a lead role… were you wishing I would just shut up and get over it?”
The genuine shock on his face is a balm to my wounded heart.
“Trav, no!” In two quick steps he crosses to the couch, sits beside me, and seizes my hands. “No, of course not. That was something really important to you. I hated hearing how they hurt you, but knowing you trusted me with it and that I could do even a little… bit….” He falters to a stop, a stunned expression taking over.
“I love you,” I tell him again. “It hurts me to know you’re hurting, and, Derek, I know how much you love your job, how much pride you take in it, so even without you telling me, I know you’re hurting. I want to help. I want to share your burden, and even if there is literally nothing we can do to solve this problem, maybe in sharing the load I can help just a little bit.”
Derek looks overloaded, like he can’t quite process what’s happening. His eyes are flicking rapidly from side to side. I keep tight hold on his hands, anchoring him to the moment—to me.
Finally, he takes another deep breath, and this time it doesn’t startle me. I find it reassuring. If he’s got enough presence of mind to know he needs that moment to settle himself, then he’s coming back from the shock.
“I never thought of it that way,” he admits. “I… It didn’t occur to me that… I mean….” He stumbles to a stop, but I know what he’s trying to say.
“Derek, you’re such a warm, charismatic person. People gravitate toward you, and they love to… to… I don’t know, to bask in your presence. You’re friendly, you’re fun, intelligent, good-looking. For a lot of people, you’re what they dream of being.” He starts to protest, but I shake my head. “No, let me finish. That’s not on you, what others see and expect. You’re being yourself, and that’s all you should ever have to be. But it doesn’t change that in today’s society, you’re an ideal—attractive, successful, personable. And people don’t like to see their idols as anything less than perfect, so while they were happy for you to listen to their problems, they never wanted you to share anything that would tarnish their image of you. I think.” I make a slight face. “I’m mostly guessing here, based on what I know of you and what I’ve seen and heard while I’ve been here.” I decide to keep my conversation with Dimi to myself for now, until Derek has had time to process. I think Dimi could be a really great friend for Derek, not just a colleague, but that’s something that needs time to develop.
He leans back against the couch, still holding my hands, and sighs. “I don’t know what to think,” he admits. “It’s—all just going around in my head.” He meets my gaze, and those normally cheerful blue eyes are a haze of confusion.
“That’s okay.” I feel much more in control now, much more confident in the situation. Derek loves me. He’s not shutting me out because he doesn’t want to share with me, because he doesn’t want me in his life forever. I knew that, of course, but that part of me that doubted just couldn’t be silenced. It’s okay, though. He just doesn’t know how to share, isn’t confident that people care.
So I need to show him I care. That I’ll care no matter what.
“It can be hard dealing with feelings,” I continue. “Sometimes it’s easier to ignore them, lock them away and pretend they don’t exist. But I can tell you from experience that they won’t go away, and I’m here, Derek. I love you. I always want to listen to you, I always want to take part in your life. I want to share the good things and the bad things, because anything I can do to make your life easier, or better, or anything is what I want.” I lean back against the couch, beside him, pressing the length of my body against his. He’s warm and solid, and just feeling him beside me is a comfort after the stress of the hellishly long day. “Why don’t we go to bed, cuddle, get a good night’s sleep? Tomorrow is a new day, and everything will seem different. You have a lot to think about and I think you need to give yourself some time to decompress.”
He slumps against my shoulder, turns his head, and kisses my neck, but otherwise doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Have I pushed too far? Should I prod him? Just sit here with him in silence, or get up and leave him to have some alone time?
I’m in an agony of doubt, wishing my old therapist were here to give me some advice, when Derek whispers, “I can’t lose this job.”
I close my eyes, swamped with relief but at the same time aching for him.
“I know,” I whisper back, but don’t turn. His face is still against my neck, and I figure it might be easier for him this way—an illusion of privacy.
“I love it here, Trav. Really love it. I love my park. I love my resorts. I could work in hospitality anywhere, for any company, but that’s not what I want. I want the dream come true. I want to see the little kids have a magical experience, and to see the pride their parents feel at being able to give it to them. I want to see the adults who always wanted to come here, who spent years planning and saving to give themselves this experience, and then get here and finally get to take part in the magic after wanting to all their lives. I love knowing that what I do makes all that possible. I love knowing that my staff are the most productive, that they have the highest satisfaction index, that my district is the most profitable and has the best customer feedback rating. I love knowing that I work damn hard”—his voice starts to rise—“but that it’s worth it because it makes people happy. And I hate that some stupid bitch who murdered her husband thinks she can shit all over that to distract a fucking jury, and worse is that it’s working and she’s fucking with people being happy, with me being happy, with my fucking life!” There’s anger in his voice now, and he’s almost shouting, but I can also feel the hot wetness of tears against my skin.
I turn then, not just my head, but my whole body, curling into him and wrapping my arms around him. A sob breaks from his throat as he presses harder against me. I hold him, kiss his hair, and hide my own tears from him. “Stupid bitch” is right, and I wish with all my might that Kylie Rutherford will be sent to prison for the rest of her life. I also make a mental note to talk to a lawyer. I want to sue her for what she’s putting Derek through; I want to strip away any last remaining iota of dignity she might have left after her criminal trial.
Derek and I stay cuddled together like that for a long time, so long that I begin to wonder if he’s fallen asleep, and feel a little drowsy myself. It’s been a long day, both in terms of hours and emotional wear and tear.
Eventually he shifts, lifting his head and sitting up. I inch back a tiny bit, a silent offer of space if he wants to take it, but he captures my hand and hangs on.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice a little rough. His eyes are slightly puffy and definitely red-rimmed, and he looks tired and worn-out, but there’s a sense of lightness to him that’s been missing the last few days. “I… never realized how good it could feel to….” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but this is one he doesn’t need to. I nod.
“I know. And you know I’m here, right? I’m right here.”
He sighs, squeezes my hand. “I know. I’m sorry I put you through this.” I open my mouth to protest, worried that maybe he didn’t get it quite as well as I thought he did, but he shakes his head. “Not that you listened to me, Trav. That you had to push so hard. That we had to fight. That you spent the whole day stressing over it—because you did, didn’t you?”
He knows me so well. “Yeah,” I admit. “But you didn’t do this on purpose, babe. This was something you had to learn to do, and I’m so glad I could help you do that—just as I’m glad to share any burden you carry.”
He smiles softly at me, and it feels like the sun’s just come out. Then he sighs again. “It feels better, knowing I’m not alone… but it doesn’t fix anything, does it?”
“No,” I concede. “But it’s not like you can fix a lot. The cops said there’s no question about the park or any employee being involved, right?” He nods. “And Kim heard from her friend of a friend of a cousin or whoever that the bitch’s lawyers dumped her after that statement, right, and she had to hire new ones?” Another nod. “So it looks really bad now, but this case is going to be in the media spotlight for a long time. Eventually she’s going to be convicted, and it will show her for the lying, conniving, murdering fiend she is—and people will realize that not only did she murder her husband, she then tried to throw the investigation off by dragging one of the most beloved vacation destinations in the world through the mud. Already there are rumblings in your favor. We just need to hold tight. It’s horrible, but not insurmountable. And I really don’t think you’ll lose your job because of unsubstantiated allegations.”
“That’s true,” he agrees, surprising me. “They won’t fire me because of her stupid lies. I’ve done nothing wrong. But, Trav, I’ve never in all my time at JU had to post figures as low as last week’s. People are canceling reservations because of this. If it continues, they’ll fire me because my district is underperforming.”
Fuck. I didn’t think of that.
“There’s nothing we can do about it tonight,” I finally say. “It’s been a really, really long day. Let’s go to bed, and we can look at this with fresh eyes tomorrow. And if nothing can be done,” I add, forestalling him, “then we’ll consider our options. I know this place is your dream come true, but I’ll bet it wasn’t always, right? You didn’t spend your whole childhood imagining yourself as a theme park administrator?”
“No,” he concedes reluctantly.
I stand and tug him up with me. “Exactly. So if we have to, we’ll find your next amazing dream. But we may not have to.”