Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
The gossip explodes at the museum.
Word’s out that Will’s been let go. I can’t even think the word fired in good conscience. Because this disaster is equally our fault. Except he’s taking the brunt of the blame. It could have been my name as easily on the receipt rather than Will’s tidy signature.
Walking past the tearoom, I overhear snippets. “Obviously, it’s Will. He could sell the collection no problem on the black market.”
“I never trusted Will. He might be hot, but too quiet,” Carine says.
“There’s definitely something shifty there,” Nancy says in agreement.
And then:
“Good thing Dylan didn’t go down too.”
God, I’d love to go down, but that’s another unhelpful, poorly timed thought best kept to after-hours jerking off. None of this makes me feel any better. In fact, the last thing they say makes me feel even worse.
Guilty. Like the whole thing should be my fault.
And I don’t know how to keep from obsessing over Will or wondering where the hell the exhibits actually went.
Convinced they’re still in the building, I spend my lunch times and breaks alternately prowling around downstairs in my endless search for anything Vivienne Westwood or messaging Will to an unending, crushing silence.
Despite feeling like I’ve failed everything, the work on the exhibition continues. A sternly worded email goes out to all staff to not talk about the lost—or stolen—items off-site. And to stop with all the gossip and speculation, which keeps escalating.
Now, Will runs an art theft ring. The collection was sold to fund his drug habit.
The collection was stolen to make me look bad, I overhear in the gallery between a couple of the techs. Except Will got caught, and it blew up in his face.
Glum, I check my phone for the millionth time for messages, but it’s been three days of silence, and I’m in deep despair.
Because I only have a week left in my job, and we finish the install in theory on Friday for Saturday night’s opening.
Ordinarily, I’m all in on parties, but at this rate, I’m planning to give it a miss if I can.
And I really wish I could talk to my mom because she was always good at listening.
Back when I hit my teen years, I told her about my early dating experiences, my crushes, the heartaches.
And about being jerked around by my first serious boyfriend, who was a couple of years older than me and turned out to be a total ass.
Except Will’s not a jerk. Far from it.
If anything, I’m the jerk in this scenario.
The black-and-white gossip at the museum just underlines it.
And not only that, but being alone in the evenings gives me an awful lot of time to reflect on our weeks together.
If I’m honest with myself, which is admittedly a struggle I need to work on when it comes to Will and relationships, I started falling for him on that trip up north.
When we stayed overnight in the hotel. Since then, I’ve been seeing the real Will.
Getting to know him. And if I’ve learned anything, Will has integrity and takes his work very seriously, even more than me because he especially had something to prove.
And not knowing anything about museums other than what I’ve told him or he’s read, he hardly screams out master criminal. But anyway, that’s a whole lot of thinking that’s a distraction from the bigger problem in my heart.
Which is the heavy silence that radiates from my phone.
Every night after work this week, I take public transport to Will’s, hoping to see his SUV on the street or the lights on in his flat.
But there are no lights, no truck. No response.
My Sherlock detective skills lead me to conclude he’s not there, and not only avoiding me.
Maybe he’s at his brother’s place, though I’m not sure exactly where Gray lives. And I have no way to find out. Fuck me.
Stephen tells me to let Will go, since it’s no good to chase someone who doesn’t return calls.
Except I know Will’s hurting, and I could take rejection a lot easier if he hadn’t looked so terrible the last time I saw him and then found out he was fired. Maybe it’s selfish, but I’d rather have him tell me to go away to my face.
Which brings me to Friday morning. On Thursday night, I email Lily and the director, to find myself now in the boardroom with them at 9:00 a.m.
The boardroom is bright and airy this morning, the white walls reflecting the light.
It’s empty of Will’s familiar laptop. I find the pile of museums books I loaned him moved to the spot where I usually leave my laptop overnight.
Lily’s in a navy floral wrap dress. The director’s in a charcoal suit, looking premium.
I sit perfectly tall in my chair, wearing my best professional outfit: white short-sleeve shirt with a cotton sport coat, dove-gray trousers, shiny black shoes.
I’m groomed and pressed and even did an extra effort on my skincare routine in the morning.
I did everything I could to feel ready for today.
I didn’t compulsively text Will, which is my new morning routine. Call it personal growth.
“Good morning, Dylan,” Miguel says as he comes in and sits to the side of me.
Call it ballsy or stupid, but I’ve kept my usual seat at the head of the table.
He’s backlit by the bright day behind him, with the view over the Thames.
On the river, small boats go back and forth under Tower Bridge, which streams with commuter traffic.
Then, I remember the Cam and punting with Will not so long ago.
Lily sets down her tea on a coaster, taking a seat closer to the door and the glass wall of windows from the corridor.
I swallow hard when I look from one to the other.
This was a lot easier when I practiced this meeting in my head for hours last night when I couldn’t sleep.
In my rehearsal, like any performance, I visualized myself talking to them with confidence, no hint of awkward, like it was a regular conversation.
Except now, everything’s on the line.
“Thanks for meeting with me this morning.” My voice feels unnaturally loud in the dead silence of the room. “I know you’re both very busy.”
They wait.
I die.
Clearing my throat, I wish I had some papers to shuffle or that I could get away with drumming my fingers on the edge of the table like it’s an acceptable thing to do in the middle of a meeting.
“I want to talk about what happened with Will.”
“I understand this is difficult to process,” Miguel acknowledges. “It’s difficult for us as well.”
They don’t even know the half of it. The feel of Will in my arms, his breath against my skin. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m sleeping.
“You can’t only blame Will for this. No matter what he might’ve said or done. Because—” I gulp. “Because this is equally my fault too.”
“Dylan…” Lily tries in a very reasonable tone of voice.
But I’m beyond reason. Call it the lack of sleep for a few nights in a row or the emotion coursing through me all week. I’m raw, exposed, and frankly, lost.
“Please,” I try, doing my best to channel my inner Will, who would act totally convincing as a museum professional, as if he has the degree.
“I’ve been trying to understand, but I can’t.
We did all the right procedures. We signed in the exhibits.
The scan of the receipt is even on the system.
It’s a mistake in the location field, which we never filled out.
It’s an innocent mistake. Either one of us could have made it. ”
Miguel listens attentively.
Lily begins to shake her head. She tries again. “Dylan…”
“I’ve been looking for the collection, too, all week.
I haven’t stopped. Because the collection has to be in the museum.
It can’t have walked out. I mean, Will doesn’t have it in him to steal.
I’d never imagine it in a million years.
And I know for a fact we brought the Vivienne Westwood collection inside. ”
“We don’t believe Will has stolen anything, contrary to the rumors running rampant around the museum,” Miguel says wryly, peering at me through his glasses like I’m a curious exhibit myself for someone’s cabinet of curiosities from their nineteenth-century Grand Tour of Europe.
My shoulders ease slightly. I reach for my water and take a big swallow, unable to keep from swallowing too much at once. I cough and splutter till my eyes water. Apparently, inhaling water is a bad idea. “Sorry, that went down… the wrong way.”
They wait till I regain my composure.
“Please. You’ll need to rehire him, you see. He’s worked so hard, and he’s made a huge effort to learn the job. He really is the perfect intern.”
They glance at each other with some kind of leadership telepathy, which I don’t share. Miguel turns slightly towards me. His expression softens slightly. “I understand you must have become friends through your close working relationship—”
It’s everything I can do to keep from turning fuchsia on the spot. How much does he actually know? Nobody can actually know about Will and me. In all the rumors I’ve heard, there’s no hint that anyone thinks we’re more than coworkers in all the spicy gossip running wild around the museum.
“—and that you’re loyal to him—”
“Please,” I say urgently. “You don’t understand. There’s only one logical solution. If you fire him, you have to fire me too. There’s no way I’ve done anything different. I’m as responsible for losing the collection as Will. You can’t—”
The words are running out of my mouth now in a wild stream. Wide-eyed, I wish I could slow down, keep the words from tumbling over one another, but I can’t, and I can’t unsay what I did.
Miguel raises his hand.
I at last stop talking.
They do the managerial mind meld again while I watch them. It’s uncanny. Except even they look like they’re at a loss for words. Lily’s eyebrows have shot up as she leans back abruptly in her chair.
For his part, Miguel’s unflappable, which is probably why he’s a director. Calm is his superpower.
“You’ve done excellent work throughout your time here, Dylan.
Lily and I have been very pleased with how you’ve taken leadership in your role and have also instructed Will in museum practices, despite that not being in your job description.
Your flexibility is commendable as you’ve shown Will the curatorial ropes.
We have been very happy with your performance. ”
I slump in my seat, quiet.
“That’s why this doesn’t make sense,” I insist. My heart’s somewhere where my stomach should be.
“We’ve worked together on everything. There’s no difference in our work, not really.
And on that day, we did everything together.
And we were together the whole time with the exhibits from Vivienne Westwood till we left that day.
There’s the transfer receipt, sure, but there’re also the condition reports.
Which we’ve both signed. There’s proof we brought the exhibits here. ”
“We believe the exhibits arrived on-site, yes.” Miguel adjusts his shirt collar. “There’re no signs that the collection didn’t arrive safely at the museum. It’s everything after that is of concern. We even have the security camera footage of you both bringing in the collections from that day.”
Holy shit. I didn’t even think of cameras within the museum. Fuck. Do they have one in the prep room? If they saw Will and me from that one Friday night—
We’d both have been fired right away.
I cough slightly, my voice wavering ever so slightly. “Is there a camera in the prep room, where we receive exhibits and do our condition reporting?”
“There are no cameras in the prep room,” Miguel confirms. “That’s part of the issue.”
I keep from crying out in relief.
Thank God. One small mercy.
“I see.” I keep my composure, do my best to refocus. And not think of how I made Will come in my arms as he arched his back into me, my arms wrapped tight around his body—
I redden ever so slightly. Yet I continue, if nothing but determined to see this meeting through. I’ll keep my spicy thoughts to myself for the minute.
“Which brings me back to the current situation.” I hold my ground, looking evenly from one to the other.
I fidget with the cuffs of my jacket, then force my hands to rest on my thighs.
I draw in a deep, calming breath. “You see, it’s the only logical solution: if you fire Will, you have to fire me too.
We’re like a package deal. You can’t separate his work from mine. I’m as responsible as he is.”
“Dylan, you have your whole future in front of you.” Miguel gazes at me. Almost like he sees through me, which is unsettling.
They’re quiet for a long moment. They look at each other. They look at me.
Lily looks pained. Even Miguel looks hesitant.
“This has been a lot to process this week. And I know you’ve worked very long days.
” Miguel adjusts his glasses. “You must be exhausted. How about this: If Lily is in agreement, you can have today off to recover. As I understand, the show is installed with the last of the panels and Perspex covers going on exhibits as needed and finishing touches. You can take a break and rest. We have the private view on Saturday. And, if I’m not correct, next week is your final week. ”
“If I take tomorrow off, would you consider letting me go too?” I insist.
“We will consider,” Miguel says gravely.
“Okay.” At last, I relent and sit back in my chair.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted.
“We’ll connect on Monday after the private view about next steps. I do expect to see you there on Saturday night. You’ve earned that celebration and recognition,” he says, and then they leave the room a moment later.
I sit with the familiar view of the river, the sunlight through the skylights.
The only thing missing from this scene is Will as I stare down the long table.
There’s not even a pen to prove he was ever there.
For all I know today, and his lack of response, he’s someone I simply imagined up out of some kind of loneliness.
And I gather up my things, including my laptop and the books I loaned Will, putting everything in my bag. At a loss, I walk out into the sunny late August day.
Now, almost successfully fired too, I’ve got to find Will.