I've Got This

by Louisa Masters

  I cast a thought back over that sentence, and I think I get it. “Right.” Maybe.

  “Plus, you gotta understand—assistant to the AD is not about getting coffee and picking up dry cleaning. Even if it was, Derek would probably shoot himself before asking me to do that. In this job I— Wait, I’ve gone off topic.”

  “My fault. I asked,” I admitted. A part of me, the part that is almost scared to hear what Dimi’s theory is—what if he thinks Derek needs space?—isn’t sorry about the tangent.

  “If you’re really interested, we’ll talk about it over a beer one night,” he tells me with a grin. “But getting back to what I was saying, I’ve worked directly for Derek for three years. Before that, I worked with him occasionally for another two. I—”

  “How old are you?” I interrupt. Again, only partly because I’m curious. I thought Dimi was a few years younger than me, but if he’s worked for JU for five years, that might not be the case.

  The other part is still because I’m scared.

  “Twenty-nine,” he says, raising an eyebrow and giving me a look that says he knows what I’m doing. Huh. He’s actually older than me.

  “You look amazing. I pegged you for five years younger,” I confess, and he laughs.

  “Good genes. New rule, by the way—save all questions until the end.” He winks, but it only does a little to mollify my indignation. I fold my arms and slump a little lower in the chair.

  “So, known Derek a long time, worked closely for the last few years… right. In all that time, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times Derek has talked about anything personal.”

  I straighten. That’s… weird. I mean, I know Dimi works for Derek, that they see each other in a work environment, but they spend a shitload of time together. My colleagues and I spend most of our time together singing and dancing and pretending to be other people, but we still chitchat in snatched seconds here and there. We talk about our families, what we do for fun, relationships…. How can Derek have never talked about anything personal?

  “Are you sure?” I venture, and immediately feel like an idiot. Stupid question, Trav!

  “Yes,” Dimi declares. “I know his parents are still alive because last year while Derek was dealing with a crisis, he asked me to find a travel agent who could help him plan an anniversary vacation for them. I found one, gave him the details, and that’s it. I don’t know their names. It’s common knowledge here that he moved from New York to take his first JU job, but I don’t know if he was born there or just moved there at some stage. I don’t know where he went to college. I don’t know if he has siblings. I don’t know what his hobbies are. If you ask Derek what he did on the weekend, the answer usually either involves work of some kind, or he’ll say something about chilling out. He doesn’t talk about his vacations unless—”

  “Okay, I get it,” I interrupt again. “Derek’s a private person. But, Dimi, I’m not a work colleague. Isn’t he supposed to share some of this stuff with his boyfriend?” Secretly, I’m actually feeling a bit chuffed. I know more about Derek than Dimi does—like where he went to school, that he’s an only child, his parents’ names and occupations, that he’s a native New Yorker, that he played lacrosse… actually, it’s kind of thin. Those are all pretty superficial details.

  “I’m not finished,” Dimi says patiently. “I was just getting to the important bit.”

  I wave a hand for him to continue.

  “He doesn’t talk about his vacations unless you ask—and here’s the thing, Trav. Not many people ask.”

  I blink. “What?”

  Dimi nods. “Don’t get me wrong, when he gets back after a trip, people always ask him how it was, and he’ll say ‘great,’ and that’s it. He doesn’t volunteer any information and nobody ever pushes. Not even me,” he admits. “I did once, but he just… I don’t know. He told me he’d been to Aruba, it was great, and next thing I knew, we were talking about my last vacation. I figured he just didn’t like to get personal, but….” He shrugs. “I think what you said before sums it up perfectly.”

  “Really? What did I say?” I cast my mind back. There was some ranting—okay, a lot of ranting—and then a few attempts to derail the conversation. What does any of that have to do with the fact that Derek apparently doesn’t like making friends at work?

  Hold on.

  “Does Derek have friends?” I blurt, and then wince. God, that sounds horrible. “I mean—”

  “I don’t think so.” Dimi’s words hang between us. “Not the way you and I would think of friends. I consider him a friend—or he would be if he wasn’t always trying to avoid personal contact. The only other person I would say he’s friendly with at JU is Grant.”

  “He’s mentioned him,” I murmur. “We haven’t met yet.” And thinking about it, that’s weird. Derek and I have been together for months. He’s been out for drinks with some of my friends—cast members from Day Dot and some of the people from the theater here, including Dimi—but he’s never suggested meeting up with his friends.

  “Have you met any of his friends?” Dimi asks quietly.

  “No.” A pang shoots through me. “Maybe he just doesn’t want me to because I’m not here permanently.” Or he doesn’t really think I’m special enough.

  Not about you, Trav.

  I hope.

  The look Dimi gives me says more clearly than words ever could that I’m a moron. “Or maybe he doesn’t have any because he’s friendly with everyone but not that close to anyone. What you said before about him being the golden boy—he really is. People love Derek, but none of them know him beyond the big smiles, the helpfulness, the great boss and efficient administrator. I’ve never seen anyone really try to get to know him. My theory is that it’s always been that way for him—people see the surface, and don’t bother to get to know the man underneath, so he… I don’t know. The theory goes wonky there. I haven’t really thought it all the way through. Honestly, though, I think you need to tell him you want to know this shit because you care about him and you want to support him. Be persistent and be patient.”

  I turn that over a few times in my mind. Derek does rely an awful lot on his fake smile. I’m just as guilty as everyone else of only seeing the surface—if he hadn’t had his ego bruised by my initial attitude toward him, we may never have gotten beyond the superficial relationship he has with everyone else. Now that I’ve seen his real smile, though, and gotten to know the real him—even if it isn’t as much as I’d like—he’s so much more amazing than golden boy Derek could ever be.

  “Thanks, Dimi.” I really want to leave, go back to Derek’s place, and hammer—metaphorically—at his stubborn head until I crack it like a nut. But he’s probably gone to work, like he always does to hide from the world, and I made a commitment here that I’m not doing a great job of fulfilling. Plus, I need to stew on this a bit, work out the best approach. Make sure that when I talk to him, it’s about him and his problems and not me and my insecurities. “Did you say you need me?”

  He smiles. “Yeah, we could do with your input. All good?”

  I nod firmly. I got this.

  I COULD have called in sick to work and gone back to Derek’s place to talk, but I was pretty sure—no, I was certain that he would have gone to work himself. If not to the office, then to the park or to one of the resorts. He would chat to the staff and guests, observe, and just generally make sure everything was going as smoothly as it should, keeping his eyes open for any improvements that could be made. I guess Derek is a workaholic, but the fact is that he loves his work. It’s not a chore for him. He really is a social person, and he loves seeing the joy people feel here at JU. That friendly, charismatic exterior isn’t something he just puts on. It’s genuinely a part of him—but it’s not all of him.

  I’m not a huge fan of what I call his golden boy persona, but that’s mostly because initially it reminded me of the guys who used to bully me, and now it feels like a wall he’s hiding behind—hiding
from me. Keeping himself from me. And I hate that he doesn’t feel he can share all of himself with me—or that he doesn’t want to. There’s still that insidious voice in my head telling me that Derek probably knows he can do better, and I hate that too.

  So I don’t call in sick. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Derek doesn’t need to get up early for work. After tonight’s show, I’m going to go back to his place, and we’re going to have a calm and rational conversation. If neither of us gets upset—and by “neither of us,” I mean me, because Derek doesn’t get upset, he just shuts down—then nothing can go wrong. Everything will be resolved, and we’ll move forward in our relationship.

  I keep telling myself that. While I’m getting ready, all through the matinee show—I nearly miss a cue because I’m so busy mentally chanting “It’ll be fine, it’ll be fine.” The break between shows is murder. I end up talking Kev and two others into joining me at the cinema in the village to watch some stupid movie I can’t even remember the name of while I’m sitting in there watching it.

  By the time the final curtain comes down on the evening performance, I’m a wreck. The scared part of me, the part that is so desperate not to lose Derek that it would do anything to prevent that, is getting louder and louder.

  Why are you trying to change him? He doesn’t want to share his feelings—he has the right not to.

  It’s not wrong. Derek does have the right to bottle up his feelings and not tell me about them. But… I don’t think that’s healthy. I honestly believe that will ultimately lead to destructive behavior—bottled-up emotions don’t just go away, and over the years it takes more and more to dull them, push them down. I don’t think I could watch that happen to him. If he genuinely isn’t ever going to be able to be completely open with me, if we can’t have a relationship that’s based on give and take, then maybe we’re better off apart.

  The thought rips me in half.

  Are you crazy? You love him! How can you think you’d be better off without him?

  How can I be in a relationship where my partner doesn’t want to share his burdens with me? Would that then lead to me feeling unable to share mine? What would we be sharing, other than sex and companionship? I want more than that from my boyfriend.

  And honestly, I believe Derek wants more too. Now that I’ve spoken with Dimi, especially, I think him being closed-off is more about having been taught to be that way rather than a desire for it.

  I clean off my stage makeup, change into street clothes, and grab my stuff. I’ll find out soon enough, won’t I?

  I LET myself into Derek’s house. There’s a light on in the living room, and as I head in that direction, Derek appears in the doorway. He looks surprised.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” he says softly.

  My stomach clenches so hard I think I might throw up. “Do you want me to go?” I ask, and then clear my throat, because my voice is all husky.

  He shakes his head sharply. “No! I just… thought you might still be mad and want some space.” He takes a deep breath. “I always want you here.”

  All of a sudden, the fear is gone. Derek loves me. We’re going to fight—it’s a rare couple that doesn’t—but there’s no reason we can’t work out our issues.

  “Derek, do you know why I was mad?”

  He opens his mouth to answer, and it hits me that we’re really having this conversation in the hallway. I hold up a hand. “Wait—let’s go sit down. This is important, and it might take a while.”

  That makes him look a little nervous, but he turns and goes back into the living room. I follow, and while he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, I sit on the couch and pat the spot next to me. He sits, and I take his hand.

  “I love you,” I start, and his head snaps up.

  “But?” he interrupts, his whole body practically vibrating with tension.

  I blink.

  “What do you mean? There’s no but. I love you.”

  The tension drops away, and he sags against the couch back. “Oh. I love you too. I thought that was the beginning of a breakup speech. ‘Derek, I love you, but we need to be apart.’”

  I try to keep my face blank, because… I don’t want things to go in that direction, but who knows?

  “Do you know why I was mad this morning?” Time to get things back on track.

  “Because you wanted to talk about what’s happening at work, and I didn’t,” he replies promptly.

  Huh. That’s kind of a simplistic take on it. “Yes and no.” Is he being evasive, or does he really not get what this is about? “I— We’ve talked a bit about my family.” I decide to take another tack. “But I don’t think I’ve told you that my parents were really big on just getting things out there. Nobody ever gave the silent treatment or sulked in our house. We did a lot of yelling, we told each other exactly what we thought and how we felt, and then we got over it. And if we had problems, we’d talk about those and come up with solutions. Or if there was no solution, at least by sharing, we weren’t dealing with it alone. My mom and dad tell each other everything—the only secrets they ever keep are what they’re buying each other for their birthdays. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I was raised to believe that couples are completely open with each other and share everything. When you keep your feelings and your troubles to yourself, it makes me wonder if maybe you’re not as committed to this relationship as I am.” I wince, because that last part sounds like an accusation, like he needs to change to prove his love, and that’s not what I want. “I don’t mean you need to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” I rush on. “I’m just telling you how I feel and why I got mad. Mostly it was because I’m scared. I also want you to know that if you ever want to share anything, I always want to hear it.” I stop there, because really, what else can I say? It’s his turn now. If he leaves things there, says “thank you” or “okay, let’s go to bed,” I’ll have to try again, but maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll give me a response we can work with.

  You know how people sometimes say that silence is loud? I never really got that—it always seemed stupid to me. I mean, silence is silent, right?

  This silence is screaming.

  Finally Derek takes a deep breath, and it startles me so much that I jump. I’m so relieved he’s broken the silence that I almost burst into tears.

  “That’s….” He pauses, clears his throat. “Uh, that’s different from how I was brought up. I, uh…. You know my parents are very cerebral.” I do. His dad’s an entrepreneur, and his mom is an academic. From what he’s told me, his upbringing was very much focused on achievement. I never got the impression that he was unhappy or neglected, though, so I’m a bit worried about what he’ll say next. “It’s not that I was ever told not to talk about my feelings… it’s just…. Damn it!” He leaps up from the couch and starts pacing. I watch him warily, not sure if he’s angry or just struggling to verbalize. “I don’t know how to say this!”

  Well, that answers that. I keep silent. If I rush in to help now, he’ll never get the hang of expressing himself.

  He stops pacing, swings around to glare at me. His sunny, friendly façade is gone now, replaced by a real man who’s hurting. My boyfriend.

  “People don’t want to hear about my feelings, Trav. Nobody really gives a shit what’s going on inside anyone else. If you have a problem that’s solvable, yes. People like finding solutions. If it’s some existential crisis, then no. That’s just whining.” I feel the words like a punch to the gut, but he’s still talking, so I push the pain aside and listen. “It’s fine to say you’re mad or sad or whatever, but talking about it in detail doesn’t achieve anything. You say you’re mad, you do what you have to do to get over it, and you move on. People don’t want to hear it!”

  He stands there, fists clenched, panting, still glaring at me, although his stare has lost a lot of its intensity and there’s something behind it now that tugs at my heartstrings.

  I swallow hard. I take a deep breath. “
I don’t want to fight,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m not asking this because I want to fight. I’m asking because I genuinely want to know.” I have to pause, to screw up my courage because I have never been more afraid in my life. “When we talked about—about the bullying, and how it made me feel… about how I was afraid to take a lead role… were you wishing I would just shut up and get over it?”

  The genuine shock on his face is a balm to my wounded heart.

  “Trav, no!” In two quick steps he crosses to the couch, sits beside me, and seizes my hands. “No, of course not. That was something really important to you. I hated hearing how they hurt you, but knowing you trusted me with it and that I could do even a little… bit….” He falters to a stop, a stunned expression taking over.

  “I love you,” I tell him again. “It hurts me to know you’re hurting, and, Derek, I know how much you love your job, how much pride you take in it, so even without you telling me, I know you’re hurting. I want to help. I want to share your burden, and even if there is literally nothing we can do to solve this problem, maybe in sharing the load I can help just a little bit.”

  Derek looks overloaded, like he can’t quite process what’s happening. His eyes are flicking rapidly from side to side. I keep tight hold on his hands, anchoring him to the moment—to me.

  Finally, he takes another deep breath, and this time it doesn’t startle me. I find it reassuring. If he’s got enough presence of mind to know he needs that moment to settle himself, then he’s coming back from the shock.

  “I never thought of it that way,” he admits. “I… It didn’t occur to me that… I mean….” He stumbles to a stop, but I know what he’s trying to say.

  “Derek, you’re such a warm, charismatic person. People gravitate toward you, and they love to… to… I don’t know, to bask in your presence. You’re friendly, you’re fun, intelligent, good-looking. For a lot of people, you’re what they dream of being.” He starts to protest, but I shake my head. “No, let me finish. That’s not on you, what others see and expect. You’re being yourself, and that’s all you should ever have to be. But it doesn’t change that in today’s society, you’re an ideal—attractive, successful, personable. And people don’t like to see their idols as anything less than perfect, so while they were happy for you to listen to their problems, they never wanted you to share anything that would tarnish their image of you. I think.” I make a slight face. “I’m mostly guessing here, based on what I know of you and what I’ve seen and heard while I’ve been here.” I decide to keep my conversation with Dimi to myself for now, until Derek has had time to process. I think Dimi could be a really great friend for Derek, not just a colleague, but that’s something that needs time to develop.