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The moment I sat down at my desk that Tuesday, I saw a sticky note on my desktop screen. It was from Dean: Meet me in my office when you get in. My stomach twisted in knots as scenes from Friday flashed in my head. The pub. The rain. Drunken Dean. His confession. Kyle watching us. I had been so busy dealing with Kyle Paxton that weekend, I had no energy left for Dean. What a crazy weekend. My love life was nuttier than the Insane Clown Posse band going to Burning Man in a real clown car.
Crumpling the note, I threw it in the garbage. I walked to Dean’s office, wondering why he had to go and ruin our easy-breezy professional relationship. I had not given him any hints that I was interested in him in any role other than mentor.
This begged the question: can’t men and women ever be just friends?
I hesitated outside office, staring at the brushed metal nameplate on the door. DR. DEAN DILLON, IRON AGE CURATOR. Since Dr. Scotty had died, Dean had taken over his lead curator position in the entire Iron Department. I felt the nameplate inside my skull. This is where I wanted to be.
This was the higher ground I wanted.
It was also what I could sabotage. With a deep breath, I tapped on the door, hoping he was not in. No such luck. The instant Dean heard the knock, he told me to enter. I opened the door and he waved me in. He sat at his desk, an ear on his office phone. Signaling me to sit, he turned back to his call.
With a polite nod, I sat down across from him. I was surprised to see Dean in a casual t-shirt and old jeans. Usually he rocked indie musician chic, effortlessly mixing tweed coats with leather pants, oversized scarves with crisp shirts, and boots with suits. Today he was unkempt and tired. The bones of his face were more angular, his skin paler and his mouth more pinched than usual.
He was talking in Irish Gaelic and I picked up parts of his conversation about the loan of a brooch from Balloch Hill on Kintyre for an exhibition at the Dublin Museum. I soon became aware that while he talked, his gaze was fixed on my face. An admiring look swept my taupe lace dress, but soon guilt marked his face and he dropped his gaze.
To avoid his scrutiny, I looked down and noticed my chair’s legs were carved into wolf paws. I observed the pair of walnut chairs had horseshoe backs supported by carved splats in the form of serpents. I guessed the chairs to be late Victorian. In America, they’d be in a museum.
I looked around the room which was aesthetic, thoughtful, and intelligent, like Dean. Built-in shelves filled with old books lined the walls and framed vintage posters hung in the gaps. One bright poster featured Daleks from Dr. Who with the caption, “Victory through Extermination,” and—gulp—I had that very poster. My eyes lingered on a glass box with a Celtic torc Dean had made himself for a BBC show to demonstrate how the Celts made torcs. I recalled that video well, having seen it a million times in college when I was a dewy-eyed fan of this very museum.
We like the same things.
Dean was a cosmic joke played on me by a drunken cupid.
Here was the perfect man, crafted by the universe for me, who existed in the same timeframe on earth as me, who also liked me— yet, here I was, fixated on a man who was as opposite to me as humanly possible.
“I’m sorry about the call,” Dean said, hanging up with an apologetic look.
“No worries.”
“I am pleased you came to see me, Juniper.”
“I came because I got your note.”
“I did not want to email you through work.”
“Was there something important?” I shifted anxiously in my chair, wondering what he was thinking.
“You are important.”
To my dismay, even before we had really begun a conversation, a hot flush bloomed across my cheeks. I had not blushed for months and this was a wrong time to start again. What had happened Friday night entered the room and imprinted on the air. We needed to get rid of this weird energy between us. I was desperate to get our work rapport back.
“What is going on?”
He fished for something in a drawer and handed me a card. “For you.”
“Johanna Graves, Office of Human Resources,” I read the card out loud.
“Johanna is lovely. You can tell her anything. You can go ahead and complain about me.”
“Excuse me? Complain why?”
“I’m happy to meet the consequences of my behavior. Ready for whatever reprimand they give me.”
“Dean, stop. What are you talking about?”
He shoved his chair back, got up, and circled the small office. He stopped and leaned against the bookshelf, looking flustered. Coming to stand a foot away from me, Dean put his hands together in a pleading gesture. “I have no words to apologize for what happened...Friday night. I am mortified. Humiliated. I think it over in my head and I am lost for words and reason.”
“There is no need.” With a long sigh, I got up and set the card on his desk. “We don’t even have to talk about it.”
“This is a low point in my career. Believe me, Juniper, I’ve never behaved—” Head hanging to his chest, Dean went around his desk, putting distance between us. “If you need to be assigned to another mentor—"
With a hand up, I interrupted him. “Look, it’s fine. I get it. You were drunk. I know you didn’t mean it.”
“But that’s just it...I did mean it,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow and at my reaction Dean sat down, his chair skidding on the polished wooden floors. Dull as rusty coins, his copper eyes blinked and fixed into mine.
“I am sorry, Juniper. I planned the whole thing. That is why you must go to HR.”
“What do you mean you planned it?”
“I selected the pub for a meeting. I invited Glenda, so you would come. I suggested Henry and Loretta leave early to spend time with you. I deliberately got drunk. Just so I could tell you how I feel. I had no idea you were still with Kyle. You’ve never talked about it and I just assumed it was over.” His voice trailed off and his head dropped to his chest. “Sorry.”
“Look, if it was something I couldn’t handle, I would report it. I certainly would. But I know you would never hurt me, drunk or not.”
“Please forgive me for my being an arse.”
“It’s forgotten.” I held up a hand when he started to speak and said, “Please don’t even. Can we just go back to the way we were?”
“I hope so,” he said, face still distorted in remorse.
“I really respect you, Dr. Dillon. I value our professional relationship and want it back.”
“Certainly, expect nothing else.” He gulped and got up and shook my hand lightly.
That was easier than I had expected. Feeling light as a dry leaf, I floated back to my office.
