I've Got This Read online

  How long do you think it took the gutter press to make a big deal of that? I didn’t leave the office until after nine, but my neighbor called me at six to tell me there were reporters on my front lawn. I called the cops on them. I was just glad that Trav had already left for work.

  He came by the office as soon as he heard, but I was in meetings all afternoon, trying to hammer out a concrete plan of action. Within hours of the press release, park attendance dropped. People just left. And the word from the resorts is that a lot of people are checking out early, and others have asked whether they would be refunded the remainder of their stay if they had to leave.

  It’s a nightmare.

  It’s a disaster. And not just for JU and Joy Inc.—the town of Joyville is mostly populated by JU employees. If this goes on too long and we have to start laying people off, there aren’t enough local jobs to employ them all. People will start moving away, and that’s going to cause the town economy to collapse.

  I know what you’re thinking. Don’t borrow trouble, Derek. Right? After all, this is only day one, and we haven’t actually done the heinous thing we’ve been accused of—and we have strong evidence to support that.

  It doesn’t stop me from worrying.

  I drag myself out of my car and into the house. It’s empty, of course—Trav sent a text that he’d stay home from work if I wanted him to, but since I was going to be working late, I told him not to. And anyway, what could he have done? I’m planning to mope in the dark for a while, and it’s not like I could do that with him home. He doesn’t need to see me all droopy. After all, who wants a sad sack boyfriend?

  Flopping down on the couch, I vaguely realize I’m hungry. Ken’s assistant ordered in food for us a few hours ago, but I couldn’t eat much. I was too depressed by how very unproductive our meetings were. I mean, sure, the statement got released, followed shortly after by one from the police confirming that there was no evidence to show JU employees had been involved in any way, but the rest of the time we were just trying to work out how to stop the crash. Discount vouchers to encourage people to stay were the big win of the night.

  I haven’t closed the living room curtains, and the glow from the street filters in, dimly lighting the room. I stare into the gloom, my stomach a tight, hard knot of anger and frustration, and turn the problem over and over in my head. How can I make this better?

  The light snaps on, and I blink. What the…?

  “Derek?” It’s Trav, crossing the room with a worried look on his face. “What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

  I shake my head. “I was just thinking.” I dredge up a smile. It’s completely fake, but hopefully doesn’t look it. “You’re home early.”

  The worry ramps up a notch. “No, actually. How long have you been sitting here?”

  I look at my watch. Yeah, he’s not early. I’ve been lost in my head for about an hour and a half. I shrug. “Not that long. How was the show tonight?”

  The worry morphs to… caution? “Okay,” he says slowly. “The theater wasn’t as full as usual, but that might be because the run is coming to an end.” That’s an outright lie, and we both know it. “How were things at work tonight?”

  I get up. “Not great, but what can you do? I think I’m gonna hit the sack. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

  “Wait, Derek.” He grabs my arm as I start to walk past. “Are you okay? I heard the news reports. What she said about…. I heard.”

  I take a deep breath, because he doesn’t need to see me melt down. “I’m not thrilled about it,” I say honestly. “It’s pretty crap, actually. But it’s not like I can do anything.”

  That doesn’t seem to satisfy him, really, but he lets go of my arm, and I dredge up another smile. “Are you coming to bed, or are you too revved tonight?”

  “I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, and his smile looks just as fake as mine feels.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trav

  I’M TOTALLY freaked out. Since the shit hit the fan at JU on Wednesday, things have just been getting worse and worse. I don’t mean there were more “revelations,” although on Thursday some conspiracy blogger showed Bitchface Kylie Rutherford a photo of Derek, said “Kylie, this is Derek Bryer, an assistant director at Joy Universe,” and she exclaimed with what were very obviously crocodile tears, “He’s the one! He was there, the one in charge.” My only knowledge of the court system comes from books and TV, but I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t stand up. Still, it was another blow, with editorializing nut jobs protesting against JU, and Derek in particular. Honestly, after the fifth diatribe I read/heard, I gave up in disgust. It’s pretty clear that these people have no idea, that they’re just jumping on a bandwagon, gleeful that they have the chance to drag someone down. I worked once with a dancer from Australia who called it tall poppy syndrome.

  It could be worse—it’s hard to see past the negatives right now, especially with Derek being directly affected, but it really could be worse. Most of the negative publicity is coming from the trashier news outlets. The more reputable ones covered the initial statement, but their follow-up reports keep stating that there’s no evidence to indicate JU was involved. A few of the talk show hosts are openly saying that Kylie Rutherford is just trying to distract the public. But… people love to think the worst, right? Derek’s not talking about it much, but from what I can gather, this is hitting really hard at JU’s bottom line, even though it’s only been a few days.

  What worries me the most is that Derek’s not talking about it. At a time like this, shouldn’t he be pissed? Ranting? Unloading all his frustrations? Instead he says, in that nothing tone, that he’s angry, but hey, can’t do anything, and do I want to add anything to the grocery list/go to bed/watch whatever-the-fuck on TV?

  That’s not normal, right? He’s repressing his feelings, and Derek is such an open, outgoing personality that it strikes me as intrinsically wrong for him to repress anything.

  Or maybe it’s just me he doesn’t want to talk to?

  I know he loves me, but maybe it’s not the same love I feel for him. Maybe his love for me is more of a “friends who fuck and have a great time together but aren’t meant to last forever” love. That would break my heart, because I’m in this for the long haul. I thought he knew that. Day Dot is due to close at the village in just a few weeks, but I’ve already told my agent to push back any auditions until September, and to turn down any that would need me to start work before January. Derek knows that. We also talked about going somewhere at Christmastime, and when we were looking at flights, they were all departing from here. I hadn’t exactly decided to move here, but I was thinking of taking some time off work to sort things out between us, work out what the best path is for the future. There’s no work for me here except in the parks, and that would be a huge step back for my career.

  I thought Derek and I were on the same page, that we were both intent on working out a way for our relationship to move successfully forward, but… was I wrong? If he won’t talk to me about something that’s creating such huge upheaval in his life, maybe he’s not as invested in us as I am.

  Or maybe I’m just making this all about me because of my insecurities, and I shouldn’t be. Maybe him not wanting to talk has nothing to do with me at all.

  And I’ve come full circle. Whatever reason he has for bottling everything up, it’s not healthy and will just lead to worse problems later.

  I let it go on Wednesday night. After all, it had just happened. Maybe he needed time to process. I let it go Thursday, too, because there were some new shocks and… well, I was still waiting for him to lean on me. Yesterday, I stewed about it all day, and finally decided I needed to force the issue… but after a good night’s sleep.

  Which brings us to now. Bright and early Saturday morning. I’m due at the community theater in an hour, which doesn’t give us much time to talk, but Derek’s sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake him any earlier. Breakfast will be ready in ab
out five minutes, and I’ll wake him them and we can talk over food.

  “Hey.”

  I turn from the stove, Derek’s raspy morning voice surprising but welcome. He’s standing in the doorway in his boxers, his hair every which way, eyes sleepy. I like seeing his morning muss. He’s so perfect the rest of the time that this feels like a real intimacy.

  “Good morning,” I say, trying to sound casual but supportive and coming off as… constipated? Who knows.

  He doesn’t seem to notice, just comes over to give me a kiss. It’s nice, if a little… perfunctory? Is he losing interest, or preoccupied?

  I’m driving myself nuts.

  “What’s this?” He looks at the pancake in the frypan. It’s the last one; the others are already in the warming oven.

  “Breakfast.” I bend to take out the plate of pancakes and then adding the last one. I turn off the stove and lead him to the table, already set and ready to go. “Do you want coffee?”

  He turns back to the counter. “I’ll get it. Can I top you up?”

  I hand him my mug, and we go through the calming, comfortable process of settling in and dishing up food. I’ve just taken my first bite when he says, “I thought you had the community theater this morning.”

  A perfect opening. Guess that means I can’t put it off anymore.

  I finish chewing, swallow, and put down my cutlery.

  “I do, but you’ve had a rough week, so I wanted to do something nice for you.” I watch him carefully as I speak, but he doesn’t react at all. “I also wanted some time with you—I haven’t seen you much in the last few days.”

  He flashes a smile, that smile, the one I hate, and it makes my heart ache. He hasn’t used his megawatt smile on me for months, not since right after we met. Why is he suddenly hiding his real self from me?

  “I’ve missed you.” It’s the first thing he’s said in three days that feels completely truthful. “I know you’re busy today, but maybe tomorrow morning we can go out somewhere together?”

  Hm. Time to push more. “Wouldn’t you rather just stay here and relax? Things have been pretty full-on. If you want to talk about everything, I’m here.” That’s pretty blunt, right? Talk to me. Let me share your burden.

  He shrugs, and any hope I had slips away. “Nothing to talk about. It is what it is.” He shovels in a large forkful of food, an obvious excuse not to talk, and I suck in a deep breath.

  “Derek, just because it is what it is doesn’t mean there’s nothing to talk about. I know you have to be angry. This is a big deal. Why don’t you share that with me?”

  He swallows his mouthful. “There’s not really anything to share. It’s… well, it’s all bullshit, but that’s life.”

  My patience snaps. I shove back my chair and stand up. “That’s not fucking life, Derek. Life is when you talk to your partner about the things that are bothering you!” I grab my keys—damn it, his keys, to his house and his car—and storm out, slamming the door.

  There’s a sick feeling in my stomach, but it takes second place to my anger. What the fuck have the last few months been about? Have I just been a convenient live-in booty call? Why did he bother helping me with my emotional crisis last month if that’s all I mean to him? I mean, honestly, if a guy spends time and effort pulling you out of a mental trap, you’re allowed to assume he’s committed! But people in committed relationships go to their partners for emotional support when things go to crap, and so clearly Derek doesn’t consider me his partner in any way. Couldn’t he have mentioned that before I started rearranging my life?

  I slam into the car and hit the garage door opener. In just a few weeks, I’ll be out of work, and not only do I not have anything lined up, I actually put things off because I was planning to stay here with Derek for a bit. I was planning a future with him—and he knew that. We talked about it. Wouldn’t that have been a good time for him to mention that he’s not that invested?

  And oh fuck, I’ve made it about me again.

  AN HOUR later, I’ve taken ownership of one of the seats in the front row of the community theater, and I’m hunkered down nursing my rage—at both Derek and myself. I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that I’m in a shitty mood, because they steer clear. I haven’t snapped at anyone, I swear—although that might be because they haven’t given me the opportunity. I would probably have tried not to take my mood out on them, though. After all, they haven’t done anything wrong. It’s not their fault my boyfriend is a closed-off, emotionless moron who’s incapable of having a decent relationship, and that I’m so self-centered that I’ve interpreted his desire not to share as a diss on our relationship.

  I really don’t know what pisses me off more.

  Someone drops into the seat beside me. “Having a bad day?” a sympathetic voice asks. I grunt at Dimi.

  “What makes you think that?” Hmm, maybe I should dial down the sarcasm. Repeat after me, Trav: not his fault.

  “Maybe it’s the way you’re glaring at the set like you wish it would spontaneously combust,” he says drily. “Or it could be because you’re using that same glare on anyone who gets within four feet of you. We took a vote, and while we’d really like to just let you stew for a while, we need some advice, so I’ve been delegated as agony aunt. Tell Dimi all your problems.” He sounds way too cheerful, and if I were a violent person, he would likely be in some serious danger.

  Lucky for Dimi, the only physical pain I’m capable of doling out is an earache from having to listen to me whine. Which I won’t do. My and Derek’s relationship woes are personal, between the two of us. It’s not anybody else’s business that he won’t talk to me. That he treats me like I’m just anyone else, not his boyfriend who loves him and wants to—

  “What the hell is the matter with him?” I burst out.

  Dimi sighs. “Oh. Relationship troubles. I was really hoping for career or family issues.”

  I ignore that and carry on. It’s just occurred to me that I’m talking to the one person who spends almost as much time with Derek as I do, and neither of them sleep during any of that time. “Seriously, Dimi, you’ve worked for him for years. Why is he so closed off?”

  “Before we get any further into this conversation,” he says slowly, as if he’s choosing his words, “are you sure you want to have it with me? We’re friends, Trav, but Derek’s been a brilliant boss and mentor to me for a long time. My first loyalty is to him.”

  I think about that for a second. In a way, I think it’s actually a good thing—better than if I talked to Kev or Mark or my sister or any of my friends in New York who would be on my side and probably just say what I want to hear. I know I’m not completely in the right here, and this way I might get information or advice that can help me in dealing specifically with Derek.

  “Dimi, Derek and I had a fight this morning because I’m worried about him,” I declare. “Since this whole publicity nightmare began, he’s become more and more withdrawn. I don’t think anybody else even notices, because he still has that big, fake, fucking awful smile”—I doubt Dimi misses the loathing in my voice—“and he’s still all friendly and helpful and… you know, all the rest of the crap that goes with his golden boy persona.” I turn my head to see if Dimi knows what I mean. He’s nodding thoughtfully. “But he doesn’t talk about anything. He doesn’t show stress. He’s gotta be stressed, right? His name is being dragged through the mud in the national—hell, international—media, his job is on the line, and he’s having to watch JU be affected because people think he did something horrible. It’s bullying on the worst scale, but he’s just internalizing everything! All I want to know is that he’s dealing with this, that he has a plan for what he’ll do if everything goes to complete crap, but he shut me down.” I take a deep breath. My tone is getting hysterical, and Dimi doesn’t need to see me break down.

  I take another breath.

  And another.

  Then I look at Dimi again. There’s concern written on his face, but when he sees t
hat I’ve calmed down, it clears.

  “I have a theory,” he begins. “It’s literally just a theory, so I could be wrong, but maybe it will help.”

  “Go on,” I say cautiously, hoping it’s not going to be one of those “make peace with the universe and accept that you can’t change it” useless pieces of crap advice.

  “I’ve worked directly for Derek for three years,” Dimi tells me. “When the last AD of our district retired, so did his assistant. I was working in a pretty senior role in events at the time, and when Derek got promoted, he came to see me and told me I could name my price to be his assistant.”

  I’m surprised for several reasons. First is because “name your price” is a really generous offer for an assistant job. Derek’s talked about how great Dimi is, but clearly I still underestimated him. The other reason is— “You left a ‘pretty senior role’ to be an assistant?” I asked. I always thought it went the other way.

  “Hell yes.” Dimi is emphatic. “There was only so far I could go in events before I’d either have to transfer out to another department or leave JU and get a job elsewhere. I’d already started thinking about my options, and I didn’t like any of them. Pretty much any department would leave me in the same position. My best bet for a management job was in the parks or the resorts, but those roles are usually filled within the ranks, and I really didn’t feel like taking a demotion to work toward my promotion, if you know what I mean.”