Page 59 of Center of Gravity

I stood, tipping my coffee mug in his direction. “Going to get back to work now, earn my keep.” He winked at me as I shut the door.

I approached Sean after lunch, rapping on his door before pushing it open. . Three inches of paperwork surrounded a steaming mega-mug of coffee like ramparts. I’d never understood how he could work like that. Dark strands of hair were disheveled by the capricious way he tended to rake his fingers through it and, even after so many months, it was still such a familiar picture that I felt a twinging ache. I used to be the one to bring him that mega-mug of coffee. I’d deliver it to his desk and he’d run his hands over my thighs just out of sight of anyone who might be passing by. It had been a small but enjoyable thrill. I was glad when the twinge faded to nothing.

He glanced up briefly then doubled back for a second, longer look.

“I heard you were back.”

“I am.” I nodded, shifting my weight. “I saw you got everything sorted.”

He gave me a wan smile then issued a long exhale. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

We hovered in awkward silence for a few moments, then I sat down across from him.

“Richard told me about the baby. Why didn’t you tell me? At the least I could have taken over the accounts.”

“I—the last time we talked, it didn’t go well. I couldn’t figure out where to fit it in amid everything else, I suppose.” His fingers drummed a stack of papers as he rerouted his gaze to the closed door over my shoulder.

“I’m sorry I came down hard on you. About work,” I clarified. I’d damn well meant everything else.

He studied his hands again, his keyboard, finally my face. “Everything I said about missing you was true. I wanted to tell you, talk to you, but it’s…that transition is hard to make, you know?”

I nodded. I understood, and a big part of me was relieved he hadn’t wanted to spill his sorrows to me. I would have wanted to comfort him, distract him, no matter what our status. He still had a small hold, at least on my sympathies.

“So are we good? As good as we can be, considering?” He gave me a thin smile that I matched with my own.

“As good as we can be, considering.”

“I hear Richard put your name up for promotion. Congrats. You deserve it, Rob. You really do.”

And he was right. I knew I deserved it. The bigger question now? Whether I really wanted it.

* * *

With runningout of the question, I took Winslow on a walk through the neighborhood. For once, he was dragging me along as I hobbled down the broken sidewalks. Sidewalks notwithstanding, I lived in a beautiful part of Savannah that I’d never had much time to appreciate, given my work hours. I thought about something Summer had said to me once during tax season. She’d called and I was rushed and short with her while we’d discussed Mom’s prognosis. I felt terrible about it now.

“You know, plenty of people make it to their goal whether they’re sprinting or walking. The difference is whether the view passes in a blur that you can hardly recall later or not. Me? I like to watch the leaves change,”she’d said.

Winslow and I turned down a tree-lined avenue and made slow progress beneath dappled light that spilled through a thick canopy of green leaves and ropy Spanish moss. It had rained earlier and the air was damp and loamy and rich. Winslow sniffed every single root, every mailbox, every curiosity we passed, and by the time we made it back to my apartment complex, windows glowed and the streetlights twinkled to life one by one.

I’d stopped by my mailbox and shuffled aside to make room when I heard someone come up behind me. Winslow yipped and wagged his tail. A slim hand fit a key into the mailbox next to me and I turned to see who it belonged to. The guy was a bit older than me, someone I vaguely recognized in passing. He gave me a smile.

“32-B. I was convinced you were a ghost.”

“I suppose I qualify.” I smiled. “I’m an accountant.”

“Ah, well, that explains a lot.” He grinned back at me. His dark hair was streaked with wisps of gray, but his eyes were keen and sharp, his skin tan, and his suit fit him well.Verywell.

“34-C. Scott Whitmore.”

I took the hand he extended in my direction and gave it a shake, introducing myself.

“New dog?” he asked, eyeing Winslow.

“New to me. It’s a long story. He was my parents’.”

His smile dimmed sympathetically. “Ah, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, but it’s fine. He’s adjusting pretty well. Still hasn’t figured out yet that he’s not six-feet-four and two hundred pounds.”