Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
The awkwardness soon settles in for the rest of the week between Will and me, like heavy clouds in Vancouver caught against the mountains during November, with its promise of unrelenting rain.
We expertly navigate work through perfectly on-topic conversations.
We plan pickups, coordinate drop-offs, complete the requisite paperwork.
On Thursday night, I cancel my impromptu distraction hookup, then delete and reinstall Grindr twice.
I complain to Stephen over a video call before work, and after work to Russ over drinks.
Stephen happily tells me there’s still most of London’s population of gay men for me to work through.
Russ, by comparison, is more measured, and over his Guinness at the pub on Thursday night, he tells me he thinks it sounds more serious with Will than I’m making it out to be.
“But… it’s Will! Mr. McLaren! It’s not serious.” Even as I say it, it’s not believable to my ears either. “Shit.”
I clutch my now silvery-dyed hair with its white ends at our pub table, leaning on my elbows with my ale between them. It’s hard to say whether Stephen’s or Russ’s take is worse.
“What if…” Russ leans in. “What if you actually really like him?”
I make a sound that’s kind of like a squawk of betrayal. Or the sound of something feral. “No! That can’t be it. You’re wrong. No way, no chance. It was only one night of meaningless, frivolous sex. That’s it.”
“I saw you change three times before you went out on Saturday.” There’s a smile in Russ’s voice. “You wanted my opinion on what you were wearing, which you never do.”
“You,” I say, looking up at him at last, giving him an accusing look, “weren’t supposed to notice all that.”
“Sorry. Noticed.”
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” I moan, rubbing my face as I lean back in my chair, then start jiggling my foot. “C’mon. Seriously? No way. It’s not true. Besides, I’m leaving at the end of the summer.”
“Well, how about thinking of this another way. If you’re in such deep denial. What if it actually meant something to Will?”
I screw up my face. “Nah. He probably still secretly hates me.”
“I don’t think so. Quite the opposite. Hence the we need to talk talk.”
“Which our boss walked in on. God knows what she thinks is going on. By the way, only nerds say hence.”
“I embraced my inner—and outer—nerd a long time ago.”
“Humph.” I work on my drink, sighing. “So what am I supposed to do?”
“Go back to dating. Forget him. He doesn’t matter, right?”
I give him a dark look. “You’re in cahoots with Stephen. Probably you’re talking.”
“Only nerds say cahoots.”
“Arrgh.”
“Honestly, keep it professional at work. Time helps these things,” he says comfortingly.
“I’m being sooo professional, it hurts. Really quite a lot. Neither one of us has dared to go off script. It’s brutal.” I complain, shaking my head.
He pats my arm. “There, there.”
“Tell me about your boyfriend problems. Or your boyfriend’s boyfriend’s problems. I can’t keep up.” Someone else’s problems are way better than my own. Refreshing, even.
“Neither can I. It’s getting complicated.”
We shift the conversation to focus on Russell’s problems, which is a great distraction from my own. Or thinking about the way Will’s mouth curves or the heat of our bodies entwined in his bed. Or how his ass feels under my hands. Or the special smile he has for me when I make him laugh.
Russell definitely doesn’t have a point. Not even a little.
Friday is the third day of torture.
We have ten pickups left from Lily’s wish list, luckily not all at separate locations, but we need to navigate around London.
Will insists we take his Land Rover and his disability pass for parking in and around the city, which I’m fairly sure isn’t exactly what it’s meant for—facilitating museum work—but then again, he very legitimately is down a leg, and I’m definitely not the sort of asshole to make him take the tube again.
Neither of us wants to commandeer a car service all day.
The unfortunate part—well, there are several—is that being back in Will’s Rover is too much of a reminder of the other times we’ve spent in his car, like having fun together last weekend.
Or our drive north from London when we got stranded.
Who knew a car could be such a heavy weight?
I can see his perspective on the McLaren.
Another unfortunate part is watching him in a pale lavender shirt, sleeves rolled up, aviators on, stoically navigating London like the ninja he is.
Parking gods throw down in front of him with his pass.
And he only pulls a couple of illegal moves, parking half on the sidewalk.
Which he insists is totally normal for London.
I’m not convinced, but he’s the local. When he says he’ll show them his leg if anyone complains, I tell him it’s no one’s business but his own and to point out the parking pass. He shrugs.
“Appearances matter,” Will informs me. “People assume.”
“Screw ’em.”
We’ve got five of seven pickups done, and it’s already 3:30 p.m. We’re usually done by 5:00, and we’re on the far end of London.
And we need to get out to outside the M25 and back again on a Friday.
Naturally, there’re accidents, construction, and delays every which way.
He mutters under his breath again and punches in a new route on the GPS. Then we’re off.
“We’re going to be late getting back.” Will frowns. “Shit.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “Lily will understand. I don’t think she’ll wait on us. We’ll message her. Unless this fucks with your Friday night hot date, that is.”
He gives me a sidelong glance behind the aviators, so I can see the corner of his eye and elegant profile. Will’s lips twist. “Speak for yourself.”
“Color me surprised.”
“Dylan, don’t be facetious. It’s unbecoming.”
At that, I start giggling uncontrollably in the tension till I dissolve into whoops of laughter, doubled over in the passenger seat as he pulls us onto the motorway. “You didn’t… actually… just call me unbecoming… I… I can’t.”
Startled, he peeks at me fleetingly before focusing on the road again. “What did I say that’s so funny?”
“You—you called me facetious—without irony! Oh God!” I fall into tears of laughter.
And then, despite Will trying to school his features into solemn, aloof disapproval, his vague expression of the week, there’s a certain familiar glimmer in his eye.
And then his mouth betrays him with a smile.
“Well, I can’t help it if you’re facetious at times.
I’m simply an observer reporting the news. ”
“And thanks for asking, by the way. I don’t have a Friday night date either.
Even if I’m a stellar date, as rumor has it.
So, we work till this is done. I’ve got all the procedures down.
How about I’ll call Lily while you drive to let her know we’re caught up in traffic.
She can tell security to expect us late. Drive on, Jeeves.”
“Fine. Also—rude.” But the smile lingers.
“You love it.”
And then I make the call, and as I imagined, Lily won’t wait for us, trusting we’ve got this, and she makes plans to meet with us on Monday to debrief.
So we carry on and drive outside of London to a leafy village to stop at an artist’s house to pick up a set of crated paintings from the ’60s, before we drive another hour to a picturesque village to pick up some iconic Vivienne Westwood pieces from a private collector, which has me squealing with glee along with the owner, while Will smiles, hands in his pockets.
They’re a set of gorgeous corsets, subversive and stunning, key pieces for the exhibition and also for standout Vivienne Westwood designs.
The owner and I are euphoric over the corsets, which she shows us before we pack them up together with care.
In the end, we make it into London before 6:00 p.m. to pick up a set of silk-screened posters from the Museum of London.
By the time we make it back to the museum, it’s nearly 7:00 p.m. We stopped long enough to grab a couple of burgers from Five Guys, which we devoured.
While I hop out at the side entry, Will backs into the loading zone over the bumpy heritage cobbles to get as close to the door as he can—totally aesthetic, and totally a nightmare to work with.
It’s probably also an equal nightmare for him to walk over.
With the heritage protection, the museum can’t cover up the cobbles.
Which means there’s no chance to put valuable exhibits on wheels or pallet jacks to roll crates in, which means everything has to be hand carried inside.
Which we do once I’m inside, and we decant everything out of the full Land Rover to the loading area before we roll the door shut on a heavy chain, a heavy beast that moves more easily with our combined effort. No hydraulics here.
We move everything on trolleys once inside, since the museum has sensibly smooth concrete floors, to the ancient lift.
Then we take everything down to the prep room off the collections area beneath the ground floor gallery in shifts, till it’s all in.
I go about finishing the paperwork, and we take photos for condition reports to note any damages as we check everything over and log each item before putting it into our temporary storage area for quarantine.
Finally, I sag back against the counter, holding the edge, while Will leans back against the worktable, opposite me.
“Whew.” I glance at my phone, and it’s gone past 8:00 p.m. It’s warm and stuffy down here, too old of a building to have proper climate control with the hot day outside. I reach for my water bottle and take a swig, then hop up to sit on the counter to rest my feet for a minute.
“Whew,” Will agrees, gazing at me as he runs a hand through his dark hair, unreadable. He falls quiet.
I consider him. Absolutely delicious, for the record.
“Do you hate me?” I ask at last, tentative.