(~(~)~)
You had a secret. You heard it rumored in the eighth grade locker room, whispered by cruel, beautiful boys and your own traitorous body. You told yourself it wasn't true. Already, you made the others uncomfortable; the too-quiet boy with grief-dark eyes, a child made outcast by tragedy and dead parents. You didn't need this, too.
So you buried it, refused to think of it, and in time, like the best secrets, it became unknown even to the person it's about.
Until Martin walked through the door. Your instantaneous reaction was to hate him. He was so cocksure and swaggering, this newcomer who believed that a history of nabbing embezzlers and inside traders had readied him to hunt down run-aways, kidnapped children, and murder victims. Very badly, you wanted to see him smacked into his place.
But look at him. Look at his dark hair, falling across his forehead. Look at the way his eyes sparkle so brightly they almost blind. Look at the way he walks: purpose personified, not a single wasted motion. And he's turning out to be good at his job. Better than you, some days, but he's so dedicated to the cases, so invested in the team, so concerned about you, in particular, that you can't even hate him for showing you up. You're having trouble hating him at all, and it really irks you.
"Danny?" You're standing at Vivian's desk. "Danny, are you listening to me?" The tone of her voice suggests that this isn't the first time she's asked.
"Yeah, Viv, I'm here," you lie. You're watching Martin, standing at Sam's desk with his head way too close to hers. Not that it bothers you at all. Not that it's any concern of yours. Only then, as though he senses his eyes on you (which you concede that he just might), he looks up and smiles at you across the office. He's never smiled that way at Sam. That smile is like long-distance flirting. You feel the flirting in the smile you give him in response, and you've never smiled that way at anyone.
There was a rumor about you once.
Later that afternoon, on your way to the apartment that was the last known whereabouts of a mousy, mild-mannered secretary who may, superhero-like, have been leading a secret double life as a go-go dancer at a lesbian club, Martin's shoulder brushes yours, and his sparkling eyes laugh at you as he passes you on the stairs. "I know your secret," those eyes say.
"But I don't have any secrets," you protest.
Then you feel the way your stomach flips and your spine starts to tingle, like someone's tracing a feather down it, and you remember that there was this thing you heard whispered in a junior high locker room.
Every now and then you like to hear the latest gossip, but the juiciest secrets always turn out to be the ones you're keeping from yourself.
You laugh and follow Martin up the stairs.
END