What can the girl with unshared secrets galore say about that to her extremely understanding boyfriend? I have no choice but to accept it and try to learn to live with not sleeping until all can be revealed.
But the weekend is here, and he has nowhere to hide. I heard Gary saying today on his way out of Jude’s office (after yet another closed-door meeting), “Get some time away from here this weekend, rest, and think about it.”
“Think about what?” I wanted to shout at the V.P. from across the hall. “It’s not nice to make guys keep secrets from their girlfriends!”
But at least I know Jude won’t be “working” this weekend (unless it’s on his back; I’m feeling much better, and I’m sick of being ignored).
When he stops by my desk at the end of the day, like old times, pulling on his coat, gloves, and knit hat, and says, “Let’s get cracking,” I can’t resist giving him a hard time.
I turn to face him and point at my chest in a “Who me?” gesture. I look behind me, as if I think he may be talking to someone else, then I say, “Surely you’re not talking to me, are you?”
He holds my coat out for me. “No need to be cheeky.”
Going to him, I spin so I can slip my arms into my coat. “Thank you. I’m sorry. It’s just… I’m having a hard time remembering your name. I think it starts with a ‘J’…”
“Ah, clever,” he remarks resignedly, offering his arm for me to take.
“I don’t normally go home with strangers, but since you’re so cute, I guess I can make an exception. Just don’t tell my boyfriend. He’s been a little neglectful lately, but I know he still cares.” In response to his cheerless expression, I nudge him with my hip while we walk to the elevators. “I’m just kidding, by the way.”
He tries to smile. “I know. You’re very funny. But I’m knackered.”
I kiss his rough cheek as we get into the elevator with several other people. On the way down to the parking garage, we’re both silent, neither one of us caring to have the rest of the occupants listen in on our conversation.
Brandon and Heath exchange glances and smirk at one another. Brandon looks over his shoulder at us; Heath nudges him. “What?”
Heath mutters something I can’t hear, but it makes Brandon laugh and say, “Right?”
Jamie from Accounting and Bruce from the mailroom snicker at what’s being said at the front of the elevator.
Ours is the last stop, and we hang back to let three others out before us. As they walk in front of us a few feet, Jude mumbles, “Bunch of nosy parkers.”
I laugh. “I thought I was being paranoid; I’m glad it wasn’t just me.”
“No, they were saying something about us. Or me, more like.”
We’ve arrived at my car. It’s frigid down here. I scrunch my shoulders up around my ears to try to keep them warm with my scarf. “Who cares?” I ask, even though I’m wondering the same things they are. Squinting at him, I posit, “My place or yours?”
Once inside his warm apartment, in the blinking glow of the tiny Christmas tree down the hall in the living room, we start the arduous task of taking off our wrappings.
“I hate winter,” I grouse.
“Then you made a crap decision about where to work and live,” he points out, helping me unwind my scarf.
“Stop being so logical.”
He laughs, and I realize with a pang that it’s the first time I’ve heard that sound in days.
When we’re standing sock-footed in the kitchen, looking through his collection of take-out menus, I move a piece of his hair behind his ear and kiss his earlobe. “Your hair’s getting long,” I whisper, making him shiver.
He brings his shoulder up to his ear but keeps his eyes on the menus. “I know. I can’t faff around with haircuts lately. Barely have time to use the gents most days.”
“Poor baby,” I say semi-sincerely. If he wants me to be truly sympathetic, he’ll tell me exactly what’s going on. I don’t complain to him when my hip hurts. Or when I miss my parents. I know I don’t have that right until he knows everything.
Finally, he holds up a flyer for the sandwich shop around the corner. “Does this sound okay for your delicate constitution?”
Oh, food.
“Whatever.” I take the paper from his hand and give it a cursory scan. “I’ll take the number seven with no onions, add pickles, olives, and banana peppers.”
He gives me an amused glance. “That’s a lot of salty, sour garnish.”
“I like salty, sour stuff,” I say. “Oh, that reminds me: add mustard.”
After he puts in our order, I sit on the couch, gesturing for him to sit on the floor in front of me so I can rub his shoulders. While I’m rubbing and he’s moaning, I wonder how long I’m going to have to wait before he tells me what’s going on at work. Is this how he feels every day and week that passes that I don’t tell him my secret? If so, then I’ve been torturing him for months. He hasn’t seemed tortured, but he’s not the easiest person to read. Maybe it’s been killing him. Maybe that’s the reason for the dark circles under his eyes.
And maybe he’s going to take a job in a different city to get away from me, just like he did his ex-wife.
I stop rubbing. “Hey.”
“Huh?” He flops his head back and looks up at me. I can see the Christmas tree reflected in his eyes.
“I have to tell you something.”
The tone of my voice gets his attention right away. He twists so that he’s sitting perpendicular to me but still on the floor. “What is it?”
“I’ve
