He was doing the right thing.
The only thing about which Oliver O'Toole could be ever certain of was his conviction to always do the right thing.
The problem with that was, on occasion, the right thing was also the very difficult thing.
Ms. McInerny had become one of those things.
The sudden elopement of his dance partner had placed him in a rather inconvenient situation. Matters were only made more uncomfortable when his co-workers became aware of the matter and what could only be described as Rita's demonstration of her very, very beginner ballroom dancing skills.
And before he had even realized what he'd done, he recruited the only other person he knew to ask-Shane. It seemed harmless enough. They had, in fact, danced together before, and she was not entirely without grace. It would have helped if he could have kept this bit of admiration to himself, but when Shane offered him the out, his eagerness to retain her partnership got ahead of him, and the words tumbled out and were received before he even had a chance to recall them back.
It was a good fit-they were a good fit. He was confident that they would be ready for the approaching showcase on the 24th.
The 24th. His anniversary.
He realized, perhaps too late, that he'd been subtly falling apart, perhaps even right in front of Shane's eyes.
As the 24th approached, each check of the Paris box became more painful. Each dance lesson, each practice, another reminder that the person with whom he should be sharing those moments in close contact was half a world away. What's more, he had no better indication of his wife's intentions each succeeding day as he had the day before.
It was a struggle that played out unintentionally in the days leading up to that very difficult thing Oliver had had to do. Instead of celebrating or planning something wonderful for his spouse he was forced ceaselessly into the past-into his mistakes, into his contributions to his own misery that only weighed heavier by the day.
His work had done much to distract him. But in those quiet moments, the ones where his mind had just enough time to wander towards his troubles, that things started to slip. One of those slips occurred when Oliver inadvertently revealed to Shane that one potential cause of the deterioration of his marriage was his preoccupation with his own hopes and dreams.
But perhaps his greatest slip was on the eve of his anniversary, the night Shane made her final plea for the song they would dance to at the showcase the following day.
Shane had been completely correct: same tempo, same steps, just a different song.
Oliver hadn't been sure at first, but he was willing to try. It was that willingness to try, and Ms. McInerny's gentle reassurance, that encouraged him. He outstretched his hand, as he had done so many times over the past two weeks, and he and Shane began to dance.
Perhaps he had been so desperate to bury his last check of the Paris box as far in the recesses of his mind as possible that allowed it to happen. The minute Shane slipped her hand into his, Oliver began to forget-forget everything that had only recently occupied every available space in his mind, heart and spirit.
And for the first time he began to focus on something else-Shane.
Or, perhaps, the moment he was in with Shane, the little smiles he could feel creeping across his face every time their eyes met, how easy everything with her seemed to be as they danced amidst the letters of undelivered news, unrequited feelings and unknown futures of the individuals whose hands had penned them.
It was fun.
But underneath that fun lurked something else Oliver became distinctly ambivalent towards. It was a feeling toward Ms. McInerny for which he had no words, but somehow as he drew Shane back in towards him, out of that carefully crafted dip, their eyes locked for a second turned into eternity, overtook him in the best and worst way possible.
It so immediately overwhelmed him that Oliver had released his hold on Ms. McInerny and ended the music before he even thought about what his next move would be. He mumbled something about being tired and swiftly retreated.
He spent a lot of time in prayer and reflection that night. His anniversary at hand, his spouse halfway around the world, carrying his undying hope in her return so dearly that he prepared for it by faithfully taking those dance classes, was now inexplicably drawn to Shane, her smile, her undying curiosity and her commitment to dragging him squarely into the current century.
Oliver had to stop it.
He was a gentleman. He was married and faithfully awaiting his wife's return in every way he knew how. If people had seen he and Shane that night they would have had reason to believe otherwise.
Not to mention he had no right to lead Shane on, and even if he had wanted something more, he was scared.
With his emotions scattered in so many directions it behooved him to do something that, while extremely difficult, was the right thing to do.
So Oliver waited until their most recent letter had been successfully delivered, and endeavored to tell Shane the truth behind his motivation to take those dance lessons, perhaps to ease both their pain at ending them.
He had not anticipated just how affected he would be by her response. She accepted it gracefully, but he couldn't help but tell her how wonderful a partner she was. And he meant that, and it applied to more than just her dancing. It felt like an admission and an apology all at once.
But just as he turned to leave, to turn back towards the more comfortable of both uncomfortable things, Oliver heard Shane call to him.
"We were good together, weren't we?"
They were, and a guarded smile crept across his face as he reflected on it. Why did she have to make it harder to the point it was almost unbearable?
He turned away once more, determined to make it to the solace and solitude of the Dead Letter Office before anymore feelings could overtake him. He was successful, at least for a moment.
As he sat down at his desk, practically engulfed in reminders of all the things that caused him turmoil in the first place, his eyes were drawn to the desk calendar on which he had written "Our Anniversary" so joyfully in days long gone, now the final blow.
So Oliver reached for the slip of paper that once seemed so sacred and full of hope and allowed it to crumble in his hands, and himself to crumble with it. And though he had managed to let so much about his current state slip from his tongue the past few days, the truth of his first anniversary without his wife was the one thing left about which he was the only one to know.