She knows that others in his position have turned to other coping mechanisms that aren't healthy. She worries that perhaps there's an anger there she hasn't seen yet. She worries there's more in his past than he is willing to speak about. That somedays he takes one too many an hour of overtime. Secretly, she thinks he might even be ashamed about not living up to expectations, that it makes him uneasy about his position. 

But the truth is, he isn't angry anymore in the least. He lives by a simple philosophy, you can only ever be responsible for your own actions not others.

Neglect clicks like a key into his past, turns and opens a storm that consumes his every waking thought.  So it is kept hidden, repressed. He had numbed himself, anticipating their attack. Always predicting loss, planning on instability. 

4 months.

Had he really known Melanie for only 4 months?

There had been no more words, none that were said at least on the subject of his intellect. But sometimes he found it in a glance, saw her eyes looking at him, trying to figure the secret rivers that ran deep within his soul. Unwritable betrayal in the form of guesswork. She searched out an oasis of answers in a desert of shallow camaraderie and touches of humor.

The sunlight shafts in, long rectangular beams that makes the parking lot grit look like valleys and mountains. How happy he'd be, walking some forgotten road, one with nature, left to think and sort everything in his mind to some sort of understanding only he could attain. His supervisors prattle on about extension chords, about football and the new outlet mall.

He could do better. He could fix that.

Still, he travels on, toward the dimly lit office with lights that buzz like swarming gnats. The dry air is biting at his tired eyes, teasing him to think there might be chances, dreams that he could take and mold with two steady hands. He hates the term gifted, it doesn't much feel like a gift, it's a inescapable burden he carries everyday. Only Mel makes it a gift. Lately it feels like there is a fire behind his eyes, a stinging pain that doesn't dissipate.

He starts working on some papers when the hollow knock comes from a man rapping his knuckles on the doorway.

He is tall, eyes dark green, almost glowing. Eyes of a dragon. His nostril snarls and lip curls upward unnaturally, in a twisted maze of disgust. He is short in stature, broad in the shoulders and wearing a neatly tailored black suit with a badge entitled 'Steele Industries' on it.

Josh's eyes fluttered upward, the vein that runs to his heart pulsing heavily, visible in a long string of bulging purple on his skin.

He knows this kind. The kind that doesn't know what it's like to skip meals and hide in bathrooms stalls, their knees grasped tightly to their chest as they sob in silence.The kind of man that has never passed out in gym class from not eating breakfast, who has never had anyone betray them.

"You are Josh Taylor aren't you?" The stranger asked.

"Yes sir, I'm Josh," he smiled friendly, "How are you?"

The man's face remains stone cold and Josh squirms in his seat. He hadn't thought they'd find out about his investigation. He was trying to help, he wanted to see what exactly was happening that the press wasn't covering. Mel had talked about break ins recently and he thought he'd do his hero a favor. In hindsight....it hadn't been his smartest plan.

"We have some things to discuss."

-------

"Homeland Security?" Jack laughs in disbelief taking a rather large bite of a corndog, "What do they want with someone like you?"

"It's not the homeland it's just ...private security. Steele. Keep your voice down," Josh mumbles hurriedly, looking around the mall food court nervously, "It's about those fraud attacks I've been looking into, the ones on the news, you know?"

"The credit card ones?" Jack picked at his food, "If I wasn't your brother I'd swear-"

"Foster brother," Josh corrected in his thoughts a bit resentfully.

Jack stared blankly and raised an eyebrow, "Was it you?"

"What?"

"Did you do it?"

Josh threw up his hands in frustration looking at Jack in betrayed astonishment, "Of course not! They want me to track down the guy who did okay? I- I proved I could by um...I may have glanced over some of their information. I'm vindicated though! Sort of....don't freak out."

"Josh you haven't done anything like this in years, not since high school," Jack sighed, putting two hands to his neck as he looked down, "Do you really think you can-"

"Look, every time this guy hacks into an ATM terminal, some government census, or bank account there's a family, some kid or some person whose life gets ruined. And then what? What happens when they decide to take it up a notch? I can't just stand here and let that happen knowing I could have done something about it."

Jack sighed and took a large swig of his soda, swallowing slowly as he thought Josh's situation over.

"What does Mel think?"

"Why should I care what she thinks?" Josh spluttered looking to his food.

"Because," Jack shrugged, "She cares about you. She knows the company too."

"That doesn't mean anything," Josh replied picking up his bag and coat and giving Jack a sharp glance, "We're not anything. It's none of her business."

"It's been an eternity Josh," Jack professed rising to his feet and offering a sigh as a peace treaty, "Can't you just give all this up? Make something of yourself or ask her out to coffee?"

Josh bit his lip and inhaled deeply, "Not yet."

"Josh."

Josh stopped and pushed in his chair, reaching out to throw his tray away, "What?"

"Look, if you keep putting this off, you might lose your chance okay? That's all I'm saying. Be careful, catch this guy- but there's more important things in life than work."

------------

"Josh!" Mel shrieked trying to grab ahold of his arm, "Give it back! let it go!"

"Not yet!" he laughed hysterically jumping onto the couch and holding the phone as far above his head as he could.

"Dear Dad," Josh teased pretending to scroll through her messages, "Josh is the most amazing friend anyone could ever have. He's annoying but hey! He fixes my phone five times a day when I get viruses from all my sketchy pdf book downloads."

"Stop!" Mel beamed breathing heavily, she had been chasing him for nearly five minutes straight. "Josh come on, give me it back!"

Josh flopped down onto the small couch and held Mel back with his Mario Kart socked foot.

"And who is the infamous Matthew Collins you're going on and on about in your camera roll?" He laughed flipping through her photos.

Mel turned her eyes away from his smug smile and groaned, pushing his leg forcefully out of her way. "I found him on Soundcloud, you should listen to his stuff. It's great."

"If by great you mean happy optimistic sunshine and summer," Josh chided, "I think I'll pass."

He tossed the phone to her and sprang to his feet, raiding the mini-fridge on the other side of the room.

"What is it with you and hating everything happy?" Mel laughed but she watched him curiously.

"When good things happen to me," Josh said pointing his finger in her direction, "When my dreams don't get shattered, then I'll believe all their happy go lucky brainwashing messages. But for now, me and my potato chips will enjoy the darkness of the internet for solace thanks."

"But-"

"The world doesn't want me to be loved Mel," he laughed sarcastically.

But in his eyes, she saw that these words were truths he held dear. That he believed them. They were a part of his list of regulations to follow. 

She still feels uneasy, like somethings hidden away and kept a secret. Only last week did she find out about Jack not being his biological family. Now it seemed like at any point any fact could shift and like a decimal point change the value so insurmountably she would be left in the lurch. But then there were moments like these, when his honesty and empathy flooded all other reserves and reasonings.

'There are as many different types of hearts as there is different types of people' she reasoned to herself, 'There are optimistic hearts, pessimistic hearts. But they are all hearts, and all of them feel. No matter what excuses they have or how much they insist otherwise.'

Some are deserted, or rather sometimes abandoned by the constant looming responsibility of counting for beats to a waltz of life. When they break they are carelessly patched back together.

"Josh," she said after a moment's silence between them.

He looks up with a blank expression, cracking open a can of Dr. Pepper, "What?"

"You're wrong."