The exhilaration of work had disguised the faultlines in the marriage for years. They'd had such fun professionally, were such truly loving and supportive friends, that she'd just accepted a very low-key sex life as the price for their compatibility elsewhere. She'd always assumed that this trade-off was mutual. So she'd been indescribably shocked, in couples counseling, when he said that their physical relationship was flawless - that he still caught his breath every time he saw her, that no other woman had ever affected him as she did, compelled him as she did, attracted him as she did. Their only problem, he said, was over-work. They were always too tired to make love, too busy for vacations, too focused on the office. If they could just cut back, make space for one another, for romance, then all would be well. She'd stared at him, jaw ajar, too stunned to argue. Work, to her, was the only thing that struck any sparks. Work was the basis of their relationship; it always had been. The thought of two weeks at some tropical resort - nothing to do, a king-sized bed looming ominously - made her guts plummet to her shoes. She'd suddenly realized with absolute clarity that it wasn't a question of if she had an affair, but when. And she'd known, in that same second, that it was over. It had to be. She loved him far too much for anything else.
The research projects they'd worked on together had been gloriously challenging, truly cutting-edge; they'd stretched her to her intellectual limits and beyond. But it didn't pay anything like as well as the commercial sector. She'd taken the job at Metacortex so Ghost could know she could cope financially, that her standard of living wouldn't drop unacceptably if she kept refusing a settlement from him. She had to admit, she'd been less than keen on the move. Metacortex hired only the best, and they paid very handsomely indeed, but under all the clever marketing, the slick, commercialized sheen, the place was just a code factory. Not somewhere she'd ever imagined herself, back when she'd had the luxury of following her interests and not her paychecks. But things had changed. Her priorities had changed. And suddenly, it was the option that made the most sense. A boring, well-paid job wasn't that big a sacrifice, not for the person you loved most in the world. It had felt like the one thing she could do for him, to repay his unstinting love, his patient understanding, even when she left.
A heart isn't a lock, Mackenzie. You can't force it. Just say what you need from me - it'll always be yours. No questions, no arguments. Just yours.
He'd always protected her from pain, from risk, from hurt. But in some ways, he'd also protected her from living. He was a cautious, considered, patient man, and she loved him for it, despite being so very different herself. But she'd grown more different from him as the years passed, not less. More reckless, more instinctive. Now, she wanted to try everything, and to hell with the consequences. Leap into the unknown without looking first. Love with a grand passion, not a gentle glow. It was childish. Unrealistic. Even downright ridiculous. But she felt it, nonetheless. It was part of what ate at her, part of what drove her, what led her to search for answers to the question that haunted her constantly. Something, she knew, was terribly wrong with the world. But then again, perhaps it was just that something was terribly wrong with her.
She'd been so sensible, so grown-up, marrying for loving friendship, not passion. It was only lately that she'd come to understand that the lack of passion would, given time, have killed the friendship, never mind the love. And that friendship - Ghost's friendship - was the bedrock of her life. Without it, she'd be in freefall.
She loved him profoundly. The trouble was, she loved him platonically.
The sensible choice had been insanity, after all.
When she'd woken in that hospital bed, learned what had happened, all she could feel for days was immense relief that she was likely to get full cognitive function back. As time went by, she was also relieved to find that her health insurance from the new job had kicked in, covering most of her bills. Because she still had the new job. They'd waited for her, despite her injuries, despite the contract she'd signed having been effectively frustrated. They really hadn't had to. There was no legal or moral obligation, and they couldn't even be sure she'd be any good once the rehab was done with. But they'd waited, just the same. They'd believed in her.
Her low-level resentment of Metacortex waned, and then turned to gratitude when she learned the lengths they'd gone to accommodate her. The bullshit about their being a corporate family turned out to be truer than she'd imagined. Her salary remained the same, but a new, interim role was found for her, just until her functioning could be assessed - more than reasonable, she knew. And they'd selected a shrewd, dignified, charismatic programmer to watch over her, whom she'd liked and respected from the first meeting. She soon discovered that almost everyone did.
She'd not known programmers could be that charismatic. Ghost was too, in a quiet way, but it was all purely cerebral; a brilliant academic with a wry, deadpan wit. A recognizable type. This guy was different - he wasn't like any geek she'd ever encountered. Tall, commanding, almost frighteningly handsome, he was so comfortable in his own skin it was like he bent the laws of physics as he moved. She was physically poised herself, the legacy of a childhood ballet habit, and she'd never met anyone else in her line of work who'd matched that simple grace. But Tom Anderson easily surpassed it, to the point she'd sometimes feel a little gauche in his presence. He rarely smiled, never gossiped, was extraordinarily self-composed, but he also exuded decency. He was someone you could trust. And he was exceedingly smart, too. Even smarter than Ghost, she suspected, and he was the only programmer she'd deferred to in years.
He always listened to her with courtesy and interest; never patronized her, never ordered her around, never thought her gender might impact on her intelligence and skill. He'd just assumed she was his professional equal, from the moment they met. He was, very obviously, not the kind of man to find stupidity an asset in a woman. In short, he made her feel at home. Spending time with him recreated a little of the atmosphere Ghost had always generated for his teams, where nothing mattered but integrity and talent. And to create that environment, she knew, you had to possess those qualities yourself.
She'd never been egotistical about male attention. She'd always been far too much of an acquired taste for that to be possible; men either found her well-nigh irresistible, or totally unappealing. But she was aware, very early on, that Tom definitely fit into the first category. Controlled though he was, he looked at her in a way she couldn't miss. She'd sometimes catch him gazing at her, the expression in his eyes unmistakable. Not creepy. Not like Caleb. Just appreciative - and, oddly, almost yearning. She knew he was interested, just as she was. She'd have had to be a fool not to know it. And, she thought, even more of a fool not to act on it.
She'd made herself a promise in that hospital. If she made a full recovery, she'd loosen up. Grab this second chance at life; make leaving Ghost and surviving the carnage of that pileup count for something. She'd take chances, follow her instincts, have affairs based on visceral desire rather than logic, and make up for a decade of suspended animation. And this man had a powerfully visceral effect on her. He affected her every time he spoke to her, or looked at her, even just when he moved. She found his sheer physical dexterity mesmerizing. He'd been known to catch things for people mid-fall as he passed their desks, returning the item without fuss or comment, barely even breaking stride. His reflexes were quite supernaturally swift, and objects just seemed to flow into the configurations he needed whenever he moved. It was said that he used to be very different. Used to stumble, bump into things; had been awkward, almost oblivious of the physical world. She was frankly skeptical. It was simply unimaginable, Tom ever being clumsy. His large, deft, elegant hands made sense of his physical environment in a way that she found almost poetic.
She began to dream about him, three weeks or so in. Those hands, moving on her body. His brown eyes intent on hers. Making love in some strange, cave-like place, surrounded by flickering candles. They were the most erotic dreams she'd ever had, vivid and detailed, but she didn't take them seriously - she knew they just indicated the thaw, the re-emergence of all she'd kept buried for so long. But the dreams did also help clarify it for her: she wanted an affair with this man. She was under no illusion that it could live up to the dreams - sexual perfection like that didn't exist in real life - but she knew, too, that it would be pretty damn good. The chemistry was palpable now, whenever they met. She wanted him, and he wanted her. It should have been so very simple. And yet he was as impermeable as a lump of granite - she could get no purchase at all. He blocked her every attempt to strike up a friendship - he didn't want to go for coffee, he was too busy for a beer, he'd prefer a sandwich at his desk for lunch, he had plans in town when she offered a ride home. She was nonplussed by it. If he didn't dislike her - and he made his liking plain - why did he act for all the world as though he did? It was especially disconcerting that he didn't react to any of the other women as he did her. He didn't react to them, period. Yet he didn't actively deflect them, either. He stubbornly avoided spending any time with her that wasn't scheduled work. He was, it seemed, determined to ensure that the sexual tension remained unresolved.
It had taken a month before the pieces slotted into place.
She'd been in the cafe at work, the other women sighing over his unattainability, his remoteness, his obvious disinterest, as she'd sipped her coffee and wondered to herself.
Caleb had scoffed. They were wasting their time, the guy was clearly gay.
"Hardly," Zach said. He inspected his muffin doubtfully, then glanced up, face expressionless. "His girlfriend's seriously hot."
Despite her shock, her disappointment, she'd almost laughed at the whiplash effect. All faces turning sharply towards Zach. Avid, agog, willing him to keep going. Everyone knew he was friends with Tom - that if anyone knew about Tom's love life, Zach would. And everyone also knew that Zach just didn't talk much at all, and never about other people's business. It was an opportunity not to be missed. But Zach said nothing more.
"Do they live together?" Anya asked, after a rapt silence had lengthened into a disappointed one.
"That's not for me to say."
"Which totally means yes." She sighed. "Crap. So that's why. We're just human wallpaper."
"Is it serious?" One of the receptionists. Pretty, blonde, couldn't even be twenty. "Like, really serious? Marriage potential serious? "
Zach reflected for a while. "He likes her a lot," he said eventually. "That's all I know for sure."
"Well, what's her name? Where does she work?"
He sighed. "I really can't tell you. If you want to know, you should ask him yourself."
"Oh, get out of here!" She rolled her eyes. "He'd never tell me."
"Um, yeah. That's why I can't either." He stood up then. "Kenz? You ready? Wanna go back up?"
"Sure," she said, grateful for the escape.
She was shocked at how upset she was - how strangely hurt. After all, he owed her nothing. He'd been quietly rejecting her for weeks; putting as much distance between them as he courteously could. He was attracted to her, sure, but he also had a girlfriend he had immediately prioritized, just as he should. He'd done everything right. She'd been the idiot - for some reason, the idea he might be involved elsewhere had never even entered her head. Even now, it seemed somehow wrong. Incongruous. She couldn't take it in. And stupidly, and quite insanely, she felt betrayed.
Get a grip, Mackenzie. Have some respect for the woman he lives with - hell, have some respect for yourself. He wasn't ever yours to lose.
She'd pulled it together in the elevator.
"That was a nice thing you did."
"Huh?" said Zach.
"Tom. It was a nice thing to do."
"Oh, that." He fidgeted a little. "Look, I wouldn't want you to think I was, like, homophobic or anything. It's just that Caleb's..." his voice trailed off.
"An asshole?" she said simply.
He sighed. "You know, Caleb is much maligned."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"Yeah, definitely," Zach said. "Just not anything like enough."