5. Almost Perfect
5
ALMOST PERFECT
Jules
Things my dad taught me—be direct when you want something.
Things my mom taught me—lubricate a request with a gift.
I go with Mom’s guidance when it comes to asking Scarlett if I can fill in for her in another two weeks.
After I finish my Krav Maga class on Sunday afternoon, I pop into a candle shop in my Chelsea neighborhood to snag a gift, then I head home to take a quick shower. Under the stream, I rehearse what to say when I stop by Scarlett’s bar in a bit. I hate walking into situations unprepared.
What if I’m tempted to shout I sucked a guy’s cock in the library the other night and I want to do it again? What if I go on and blurt out every single personal detail about my encounter in front of all her customers? What if I reveal all my dirty dreams to…ugh…everyone?
My pulse skitters wildly as the awful images whirl. Suddenly, I’m picturing saying all those things. It feels so likely, as if I absolutely will do this, until I take a breath.
In for four—then out for a long count of eight. And again, as the hot water runs over me and I face the intrusive thoughts straight on. Labeling them for what they are. I can handle them. As the water patters against the tiles, I do my homework from my therapist.
These thoughts are not up to me.
They will just float through my mind and go away. I won’t act on them. I accept them instead of fighting them.
A few minutes of talk-back and I feel mostly better. I get out of the shower and dry off, then put on lotion, taking my time as I get more distance from the thoughts.
I’m calmer when I head to my favorite place—my closet.
I’ll be meeting my friends later tonight, so I pick something fun to wear, opting for a pair of black denim shorts I snagged from my favorite vintage shop, along with a lavender crop top. Since the weather’s not too hot yet, I grab a blazer that was once owned by some lady boss.
In the mirror, I strike a pose, assessing. If my sister were here, I’d ask her opinion.
I listen for Willa’s voice, but it’s grown faint through the years.
Just tug the blazer toward your shoulder. Don’t be afraid to show a little skin.
She was the real bold one. That was the problem. I’m the planner.
That was the problem too.
I’m almost ready to leave, but I need one more thing. I grab my anklet from the drawer of my jewelry box and fasten it on. It’s thin, with little silver stars dangling from it. Willa gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday seven years ago. When we learned all their possible meanings, we became obsessed with ankle bracelets, gifting them to each other constantly, trading them back and forth, then pretending they meant different things. Ridiculous things, all of them ultimately boiling down to anthem— fuck the patriarchy .
I flip the bird on her behalf, then grab my beige journal from my nightstand. A reminder of why I’m making this request of Scarlett will do me good.
Why I’m going to such lengths for another time with that man.
Opening the journal, I take out the card I keep in there, setting it down on the bed, before I flip through the pages. I re-read the details I logged in the journal about Friday night.
Leather, orchids, fire. A teacher, a phantom, an un-gentleman. A tailored jacket for your knees. A request to come again. Then, with the pen from the loop holder, I add a few more words, written as fragments, like a haiku out of order, so no one can decipher it. Make me be quiet. Sometimes, but not other times. Flapper dress and…nothing.
The memories make me shiver.
“Done,” I say, then pick up the card and tuck it safely back inside and lock up the journal. I grab the gift for Scarlett, dropping something I snagged for Camden into a bag too. On the way out of my pint-size apartment, I stop and sniff the gardenias I picked up at the farmers’ market. They’re fragrant, peachy. Flowers have always made me happy, so they’re my little luxury.
They also settle me before I head into unusual situations, so I take one more hit, then I walk the few blocks to Better Days, powered by determination.
After pushing open the door, I march to the counter where my friend is uncapping two Modelos and sliding them to a pair of women, both wearing ripped jeans. When they go to a table, Scarlett turns to me, her bright blue eyes sparkling.
“Hey, babe,” Scarlett says, stretching out her inked arms for a hug that doesn’t quite happen across the counter. “You’re my heroine!”
I lean in to receive the almost embrace. “That’s me. How was your shift?”
“Crazy,” she says with an eye roll. “But it’s all good. Everyone got their booze so the world kept turning.”
“What more can you ask for?”
“A better boss,” she mutters under her breath, then sweeps her gaze from side to side and launches into a litany of how strict her boss is about the schedule, and how now he wants her to work every Friday.
“That sucks,” I say, sympathetically.
“You’re lucky you like your job.”
“Definitely,” I say.
After a pause, she asks quietly, “So, how was it?”
“It was fantastic,” I say in my job interview voice, and I don’t at all say what I feared I would. I rarely do. That doesn’t stop the thoughts from coming though. But I understand them now. I’ve learned how to handle them so they don’t have as much power over me as they once did. I know, too, that I’m in control of my words and my deeds.
I dip into my canvas bag, grab the lavender candle and set it on the bar. “Just a little thanks.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, but her upbeat tone tells me she likes the gift. It’s her signature scent, and I picked it especially for her.
“It was fun.” I draw a quiet, fueling breath. Here goes nothing…and everything. “And hey, I heard there’s another one in two weeks.” I keep it breezy, easy, and in a lower volume I add, “Any chance I can fill in? Especially with the way things are around here.” I gesture subtly to the crowded bar.
Her head tilts. “Really? But why?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, when it’s all the deal . “It’s a Speakeasy theme. And you know me. I just really like looking at the costumes,” I say with a smile.
I’m not lying. I love dressing up.
Scarlett seems to consider it for a second. “Sure. I heard from the couple who runs it that you were really good on the piano.”
I was really good on my knees too.
“Thanks, babe,” I say, then leave, a smile blooming bright and wide once I’m out on the streets of Manhattan.
Too bad, Dad. Looks like Mom was right.
Another thing my dad says is there are no good reasons to be late, only excuses. So I’m early for poker night as I exit the subway twenty minutes after leaving Better Days then walk a block over to a sleek stretch of Madison Avenue lined with pricy boutiques and chichi cafés.
I spot Camden walking toward me. Like me, she’s carrying a canvas bag. She’s in charge of snacks tonight. I’m responsible for liquor, and my tote holds a boxed sauvignon because boxed wine is more fun. Also, wine openers suck.
I cross the street and stop to give her a hug. When I let go, I reach into my bag for anothe r bag—a purple one—then hand it to her.
She arches a brow in question but takes the bag with avid eyes. “What’s this?”
“Only the very thing you asked for,” I say with a grin.
Opening the purple sack, she gasps. “You didn’t.”
I shrug, pleased. “I did.”
She paws at the paint-it-on vegan leather pants, the faded black tee with the cut-up neckline, and the studded wristband—the rocker chick outfit she wanted for karaoke. “Seriously. You didn’t have to do that,” she says.
“I know. But it was so very you.” I don’t make a ton of money, but I like to spend my extra on my friends, and, well, on my OCD therapist, Shira.
“Then I will wear the fuck out of this,” Camden declares with a smoky purr, then squeezes my shoulder. “Now, gimme all the details,” she says as we continue to our mutual destination.
“I told you everything yesterday,” I remind her. We turn onto Harlow’s picturesque block, walking under a canopy of honey locust trees. “Or was it so good you want a repeat?”
I know I do.
She rolls her eyes. “Hello. Your request .”
“Oh, right,” I say, embarrassed. Maybe I’m a little overeager to repeat the juicy details of the hottest sexual encounter of my life. Not that there are many contenders, but still. “Scarlett said yes. I can fill in for her again in two weeks. Well, twelve days, but who’s counting?”
Camden’s eyes flash victory signs. “And now, Masquerade All The Way: The Sequel is officially greenlit,” she says, clearly amused as we pass a brick brownstone that looks like it belongs on the set of a rom-com flick. “It’s longer, dirtier, and full throttle.”
“You should write movie trailers.”
“And you should play chess with those moves you pulled off to make part two happen. I swear, you’re always thinking.”
More like overthinking. “Except chess is boring.”
“But your sex life isn’t,” she says.
“Potential sex life,” I correct.
She grabs my elbow, stopping me on the pristine sidewalk—pristine by New York standards—before we reach Harlow’s building. “Is he… the one ?”
Camden knows me better than anyone—she doesn’t mean the one in a love-story type of way. Still, the idea of the one is difficult for me to embrace. If there’s one person for you, then there’s one person who can hurt you the most. One person you can lose.
But the one for a first time in the bedroom? “Hell yes,” I say, feeling so damn certain.
Her eyes light up. “Are you going to tell him it’ll be your first time riding a D?”
Even though I’m twenty-five, I’m not precious about my virginity. I wanted to sleep with my college boyfriend, Brandon. Planned to, in fact. But he played the cruelest mind games in a sick ruse to get me into bed on his timetable, not mine. I didn’t let him win, but his twisted tricks shut me down. For a few years after college, I was wholly uninterested in having sex or participating in the games people play to get it.
But I did think about sex. Sometimes too much. To the point where I’d be in a work meeting, and out of nowhere, I’d imagine having sex with the people my boss and I were talking to. My thoughts were out of control and distressing because I didn’t want to be thinking about those people in a sexual way and I didn’t understand why I was. It was like an uncomfortable dream you fight to wake up from.
I tried counting to make them stop. I tried repeating innocuous words to distract my brain from them. I tried ignoring them harder.
Finally, I confessed them to Google. And the answer was one of those lightbulb-on moments.
You have OCD and it’s manifesting as intrusive thoughts.
I finally went to therapy, and it’s been for the best. Shira’s helped me with much better strategies and techniques, than my counting compulsion. She’s also helped me to see that my other fears—like balconies, rooftops, and subway platforms—come from the same place.
I used to think I was a freak for having these awful thoughts touch down in my brain. I used to think I was a freak, too, for craving a little domination in bed, a little playacting.
Shira’s helped me see that there’s nothing wrong with the desire to pretend I’m someone else during sex.
And that my intrusive sex thoughts aren’t the same as my true desires.
I’ve separated them now. I can tell the difference between uncomfortable thoughts and exciting fantasies.
And I’ve finally found a man whose fantasies seem to match mine.
But if I’m going to see my phantom again, I suppose it’s best to start with a base level of honesty—something Brandon never gave me.
Resolute, I nod to Camden, answering her question. “Yes, I’ll tell him, but not in a big-deal type of way.”
“A take-me-or-leave-me way,” she says, understanding completely. Before I can reply, the click of shoes grows louder behind us, and a familiar voice calls out, “You better have good snacks.”
I turn around. Layla walks toward us wearing a short-sleeve pin-up blouse that tells me she had a makeup event this afternoon.
“As if I’d bring anything less than the best,” Camden says as the keeper of the snacks.
I’ve known Layla for a couple of years and Camden for my whole life. I adore them both, but there are different levels of access.
So when Layla reaches us and asks brightly, “How was your weekend?” Camden takes the question, telling a story about a song request she got last night at the lounge where she’s bartending and moonlighting as a torch singer. She chats more about it while we head inside Harlow’s building. On the way up to her place, I try to decide how much I’ll say when the poker questions inevitably turn to everyone’s weekend.
Including mine.
Really though, how much is there to share anyway? I don’t even know that man’s name. But I want to.
“Oh my god, fuck you,” Layla says, slumping deeper onto Harlow’s orange couch as she points at me. “I can never beat you.”
Harlow nods sympathetically. “No one can, sweetie.”
“But you should keep trying,” I deadpan as I scoop up the chips from the table, thanks to a fantastic bluff on a pair of twos. Layla folded with a pair of kings. Bummer for her.
She shoots lasers at me with her bright blue eyes. “I’ve been trying for months. Since we started playing. And I swear I thought you had a full house or something. I was telling Nick and Finn just hours ago that you have the best poker face.”
Camden’s brow knits as she dips a hand into the bag of chocolate-covered orange slices. “Who’s Finn?”
“Nick’s brother. He was over at our place today. Well, they were swimming with Finn’s kid.”
The talk turns to the weekend again, coming back around to me with Harlow asking, “What did you do this weekend, J?”
Even though it was inevitable that the chitchat would return here, I’m never sure what to say when conversations get too personal with anyone other than my bestie. It’s so much easier to talk about other people than to talk about myself. I’d rather listen.
“Oh, you know,” I begin, trying to keep it light, but I feel like a little sneak, which I hate. It reminds me of terrible days long ago and of things said and unsaid that still pierce my heart.
“No, I don’t know,” Layla teases as she reaches for her glass of wine and takes a drink. “Did you make or break dreams all weekend, Jules?”
“Bridger says you’re his secret weapon,” Harlow adds affectionately.
I do love the secondhand praise from my boss, Harlow’s fiancé. Part of my job at Opening Number, the production company I work for, is to read scripts for Bridger and provide coverage on whether we should pass or not on those shows.
“Definitely, I broke some hearts,” I say, taking the easier answer, then I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, feeling fidgety.
I wish it weren’t so hard to tell them about the party—to tell them how I felt and what I want and then ask what they think. To analyze it together, turn it inside out, and then somehow feel better for having shared the experience with all my good friends.
But a nagging voice asks… what if?
That’s the problem. Telling someone one thing opens the door to them learning more things—things they could use against you.
Like plenty of people have done. Like, say, Brandon. And, hey, how about my parents too? Yeah, that was real fun.
“Lots of scripts,” I add. “Then, I did some planning for the final episodes of Happy Enough .”
“Spill,” Layla demands.
With a smile, I shake my head. “Can’t give up trade secrets,” I say. That’s one of our most popular shows, based on books by the romance author Laura Paigeley, and it’s heading toward the end of its successful second season.
“Fine, fine. So, basically a typical weekend for you,” Harlow says, bumping her shoulder against mine. It’s a move she does with Layla. A friendly move.
I miss big friend group moments fiercely, so the move inadvertently does the trick, opening me up more. “And I filled in for a friend of mine who plays piano.”
Whew. That wasn’t too hard to say.
“Oh cool. Where did you play?” Harlow asks.
“It was kind of like a private party,” I say.
In tandem, Layla and Harlow both sit up straight, instantly attentive. “What kind of private party and how do I get an invite?” Layla asks.
“Well, I can’t really say,” I answer as memories rush through my mind, heating my body all over again. My cheeks warm.
“Oh!” Layla’s lips part in a gasp.
“What?” I ask, a little alarmed.
“You’re blushing,” she whispers.
So much for my poker face.
“What did you do at the party?” Harlow asks, her tone dripping with curiosity too.
“Or should I say… who ?” Layla adds.
I don’t have to share all the details. But this conversational pawn? I can move it a square, and dammit, I want to move it a square. “There was this guy. He was…interesting,” I say.
They are literally on the edge of their seats, and it feels good to have an audience for a story again. It’s been a long time.
“How so?” Layla asks.
I smile, a little demurely. “He was…bold. Direct. The kind of man who knows what he wants. Know the type?”
Layla fans herself. “Um, yeah.”
“Right. You’re living with the type,” I add as Camden grabs the deck of cards. It’s her turn to deal. “And let’s just say…we slipped away during a break, and we had a very good time.”
There. That wasn’t so bad. Very ought to cover a lot of what happened in the library.
“And?” Harlow asks, staring pointedly with those big green eyes that would con a bone away from a dog.
“I’m supposed to see him again. So we’ll see how it goes.”
Camden shuffles more loudly this time, perhaps knowing I’ve reached my limit. It’s not the first time she’s saved me. “C’mon,” she says. “We have a card shark to take down, girls.”
They try, but I still win the game.
I’ve got my poker face back on. It’s safer that way with almost everyone.
One more day.
The next week, as I walk to my dad’s office on a Thursday evening, I remind myself I only have to make it through one more day till The Scene . Somehow I’ve managed to survive nearly two weeks of production coordination for Happy Enough . But I’ve also been working extra hours, reading the scripts Bridger gave me for our new dramedy, The Rendezvous, which is shooting now and slated to air on an upstart streaming service. That project came directly to him since he’s become known as a producer with a great sense for international shows. One of his first hits took place in Paris, and I wish I were working on this one too. The writing is sharp, and the inclusive cast of characters intrigues me—Black, white, queer, straight, and all shapes and sizes.
Bridger says there aren’t any open producer positions for me, but that hasn’t deterred me from staying up late and offering him tips for the upcoming location shoot in Paris, like where the heroine’s flat should be, and info on securing it for the time we need it.
I’ve spent later nights prepping for The Scene . I have my outfit picked out and my mask chosen. My tunes practiced, thanks to the keyboard at my apartment. Scarlett put me in touch directly with the organizers, who sent me the details, including arrival time and password. I had no chill when I saw their name pop up in my email. I squealed.
All I have to do is make it through dinner tonight with my dad and his wife, then a day of work tomorrow, then it’ll finally be time for my take-my-V-card-please date.
Will my date be gangster or Gatsby in his navy suspenders? That tease of a man only told me one piece of his costume. I picture him in a vintage suit, shedding his jacket, his suspenders, then asking me to ride his cock.
Yes, sir.
But best to bleach those images away for the next few hours as I enter my father’s office building. He’s a former cop who went to law school several years ago and is now a corporate attorney.
On the way up in the elevator, I mentally review the evening ahead with my dad. What I want to talk about over dinner. The things in my life I’ll share with him.
Hmm. That’d be work, work, and more work. So much better than talking about the day we all went to grief counseling after Willa’s death.
I shudder, then slam the door on those terrible memories.
When I reach his floor, I smile at the firm’s receptionist. “Hi, Anita.” She knows me since I see him for dinner regularly.
“Hello, Jules. Tate’s just finishing up with a friend, but he said you can go in anytime.”
“Sweet,” I say, then I run a hand down my twin-set sweater. It’s short-sleeved and mint green with an embroidered cherry on the front. Very mod and vintage—perfect for the TV biz with its artsy vibe. I paired it with a black pencil skirt, and I have my glasses on. I like to wear them at work and save my contacts for going out and for friends.
I head down the hall to my dad’s office, but when I near it, something stops me.
A voice.
And it’s not my dad’s.
A dart of worry pricks my chest as I listen to the next thing the man with my father says. “Saturday morning? I don’t think so, Tate,” he says in a deep, raspy tone that makes me shiver.
Which concerns me.
Because…I should not be shivering at my dad’s office.
Maybe I’m hearing things. Maybe this is a new symptom of my OCD. I walk cartoon-character slow, keyed in on the voice.
“Oh, c’mon. You’re going to slack off?” my father goads, but he’s clearly baiting the guy in a buddy sort of way.
“Yeah, I’m a slacker,” the man says dryly, and my shoulders tighten with worry.
“Better not be. We have that bet with the other triathlon team.”
“Well, I’d hate to lose,” he says.
“Perfect. Then I’ll see you this Saturday at the crack of dawn so we can kill it,” my father says in a lighter tone than he ever takes with me. I tiptoe closer now, a few feet from the open door. They can’t see me, and none of the paralegals or lawyers are walking down the hall. The office is half-empty at this time of the evening.
“Appreciate the hard sell, but not this Saturday,” his friend says, drawing a line in the sand.
My heart climbs up my throat uncomfortably. No, please, no . Just let them sound similar.
“I guess someone has a fun Friday night planned,” my dad says, a little too dude-bro for my tastes. I picture my dad lifting his eyebrows, asking what’s on tap for tomorrow night. Gross.
“We’ll see,” the man hedges, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
In it is the echo of other words. Words like… Open wide. Need to fuck that pretty mouth.
And… I want you to come again. On me.
I want to scream. This can’t be happening. My father’s running partner—the guy he does triathlons with— can’t be my phantom, my Gatsby, my Friday night secret date.
I draw a deep but quiet breath, then take one more step.
“You better show up Sunday morning, then,” my dad says.
“You do know when we win that bet, it’ll be because of me,” the man counters.
That voice.
“Fucking show-off,” my dad says with a friendly scoff.
“It’s not showing off if it’s true,” the man says.
I wish my OCD brain was playing the meanest trick on me with some new and awful intrusive thought. But I know it’s not. Still, I need to be sure if it’s really him. If I just peer carefully into the doorway, I can see most of Dad’s desk, but he won’t be able to see me.
Praying I’m mistaken, I peer carefully into the office. My father sits at his desk, cracking a rare smile as he chats with the man across from him.
In slow-mo, like I’m watching through horror-movie fingers, I turn.
I. Die.
I roll my lips together, sealing up all my screams. That jawline covered in scruff. That hair, thick and brown, with a few silver streaks. Those broad shoulders.
I’d know that half profile anywhere.
Even though I only saw him in the dark, that’s the man I kissed at the masquerade. The man who made me come hard by the books.
The man whose cock I sucked good and thorough…is my father’s best friend.
Finn Adams.
I swivel around, race-walk down the hall, then duck into the ladies’ room.
I guess I’ll risk being late this time.