“Cute, so, Mr. Shepherd and your…feelings,” he said, and I knew he wasn’t being tactful, but deliberately drawing thesentence out to get under my skin. That it was working was just as irritating as the topic he insisted on talking about. If there was even a shred of doubt in my mind that that’s what he was doing, it was immediately ruined by the smirk he gave me as he took a dainty sip from his glass.
“Are genuinely none of your concern; they’re notanyone’sconcern,” I added for good measure, hoping he would take the hint.
He did not. “But you’re not denying them. The feelings, that is.”
“I’m denying nothing and agreeing to nothing,” I told him. “Because there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Oh come, you got to put me on blast for Rowan, and even tell me you’re putting me on probation,” he grunted. “The least you could do is spill a little. I didn’t tell anyone when I figured it out, and confronted you the first time. I’m not going to start blabbing it to everyone if you add a few more details to assuage my hurt feelings.”
I didn’t know if admitting his feelings were hurt was a tactic to convince me to talk, but if it was, it was an annoyingly effective one. “I would have to be blind and comatose not to see that he’s attractive, is that what you want to hear?”
“I mean, there’s quite a difference between finding someone attractive,” he said, bobbing his head back and forth gently, “and knowing they’re attractive. There’s plenty of women that I can see are attractive, but that doesn’t mean I’m attractedto them.”
It was pointless but fine; I’d play along. “Yes, I’m physically attracted to him. Is that what you want to hear?”
It was, of course, downplaying my feelings noticeably. I wasn’t just physically attracted to Marc; I was actively and persistently attracted to him. Over time, I had found a way to keep those feelings as beneath the surface as I could. In a place where they could murmur and whisper, and occasionally find away to the surface before I shoved them back down. It was the only way I could get through being around him all the time. My feelings obviously weren’t changing, but I couldn’t let them get in the way either, so I had to give them space in my head without letting them take over.
And if I did my best to avoid seeing him in compromising situations or positions? Well, there was no need to risk making things worse just because I wanted to be overconfident and believe that walking in on him changing wouldn’t send that small flame of desire spiraling upwards until it was a bonfire.
Luka snorted. “I guess I just don’t get it. Have you, like…told him?”
“Now why would I do that?” I said with a frown. “If I’m not willing to talk about it to other people, what makes you think I’d talk about it with him?”
“It’s not like I talked to anyone about how I felt about Rowan,” he said with a shrug. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t aware I was into him at some point…and then every point after that.”
The desire to know more was right there, tickling the tip of my tongue as the questions danced around. I swallowed them, refusing to poke for more information. As his boss and one of two administrators at Arete, I couldn’t give in to my desire for gossip and juicy details. Especially about something I was already borderline uneasy about having happened under my nose. I was doing my best to give Luka grace and space to prove that the thing with Rowan was a one-off; I didn’t need to know about the first time he got turned on or made out with the guy to risk that.
“No,” I answered instead. “I have not, and do not plan oneverdiscussing it with Marc.”
“I mean, you’ve known him for years.”
“I have.”
“How many?”
“I’m not going to start counting, but ten, fifteen? Somewhere in that range. He was my late husband’s closest friend when I met Malcolm, so inevitably, I met Marc.”
“I…didn’t know you were married.”
“Or a widower,” I said with a smirk at his discomfort. “Oh, get that look off your face. Malcolm passed years ago. I’m not going to get weepy on you, even if I have one too many drinks tonight.”
Okay, well, that last bit wasn’t guaranteed. It had been years since Malcolm’s passing, that was true, and the grief at his death wasn’t the strangling miasma it had been. Even six months after his passing, I had still been trapped in that thick fog which refused to let me go, refused to let me navigate life as a functioning person. It had been Marc who had finally done what no one else had been willing to do, practically busting down my apartment door and forcing me to take a shower, eat something, and let him clean up the disaster area my once shared apartment had become.
Even then, it had been an uphill battle, one that Marc couldn’t stick around for because he had his work to deal with, but he never left me alone either. He let me grieve, let me be heartbroken and even fall, but he never let me stay there, wallowing, ever again. I probably would have gotten myself together, but I wasn’t so proud and independent as to believe Ishoulddo it on my own. Deep down, I thought maybe it was Marc’s way of dealing with his grief at losing his best friend. That by helping me, he could work through his feelings of loss and sorrow.
So no, I wasn’t that mess anymore, but that didn’t mean the grief was gone. I learned that grief wasn’t some respectful thing that eventually realized it had overstayed its welcome. It wouldn’t one day tip its hat, bid me a good life, walk out the front door, never to be seen again. No, grief was like a ghost; itlingered in your halls; it kept a place for itself in your home…in your heart. Its hauntings grew quieter, less frequent, and after years, the days when the weight of the loss was hard to bear were outweighed by the days where I was myself, unburdened by the weight of that loss.
I had loved Malcolm, and he had loved me, and now I would gladly bear the cost in sorrow to remember that fact.
Luka wrinkled his nose. “Showing you sympathy like I would anyone else would feel weird as hell. But I’m not going to be a dick about it. So…sorry about your late husband, really, but, uh?—”
“Oh God,” I said, seeing the hesitancy on his face. “If you’re thinking before speaking, whatever you’re going to say must be a doozy.”
“I just…your late husband’s best friend? That’s who you have a crush on?”
I was tempted to make sure he never touched alcohol again, as my face warmed. “I donothave a crush on…anyone. Thank you. A mild, manageable attraction toward someone who is objectively attractive is not a crush.”
“Oh, right, of course,” Luka said with a sage nod. “Because when you see him, all you feel is a little arousal. There’s no fluttering in your chest, no squirming in your gut, no desire to?—”
