The Virgin Society Collection

15. Freedom to Blurt

15

FREEDOM TO BLURT

Jules

“There. And it’s opened.” My father seems pleased over his end of the Zoom session. Retirement planning isn’t my idea of a relaxing Sunday night, but now it’s done.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, closing out the window on the mutual fund page.

He sighs, looking relieved. “I just want you to be…prepared.”

That word sounds loaded. But no one could really have been prepared for what happened to Willa. Somehow, though, being prepared for my future, being practical, and being responsible is how he honors her.

At least, I think so . I don’t know. We don’t talk about it.

“It’s never too early to start. I wish I’d started saving earlier,” he admits.

“Sure, I get that,” I say. My mutual fund has a paltry five hundred dollars in it, but I suppose it’s something. It can’t hurt to think ahead, even though the future I’m most interested in is this week and the agenda Bridger said he has slated for me. My boss returns from a Los Angeles trip in a few days, and wants me to join him at some of his Webflix meetings to discuss another season of Happy Enough , and to talk more about The Rendezvous .

I don’t let myself drift too long on the hope of working more on The Rendezvous , and instead focus on my dad and his financial advice. “I won’t start too late,” I say.

“Good. It’s one of my biggest regrets,” he adds.

One of. But it’s not his biggest. We all know his biggest regret—that he wasn’t home the night Willa drowned. That she sneaked out. But we don’t talk about that night either.

“Well, thanks for helping me,” I say.

“Anytime, sweetheart.” That’s rare too—the affection underlying in his tone. Then he adds, “I love you.”

I feel awful. How would he feel about me if he knew I’d slept with his best friend?

But I say the words back anyway. “Love you too.”

He clears his throat. “I’ll, um, see you this week.”

“We will?” He must mean Thursday night dinner. “Sure, on Thursday.”

“Right, right,” he says, then looks at his watch. “I have to go.”

We end the Zoom, and I don’t want to think about why he acted weird just now. I have my own reasons to act weird. Best we don’t talk about those either.

Story of my life—I’m almost always afraid I’ll say something I shouldn’t say in public. But I never do.

That’s how my particular brand of OCD works. The fear is enough to fuck me up. But the great thing about seeing a shrink for that fear is… I can say whatever I want.

With that freedom to share spurring me on, I walk into Shira Bergman’s office for an early Monday meeting, and the second the door closes, I announce: “I slept with my father’s best friend on Friday night.”

She blinks at me, bug-eyed.

I sit down, grinning, a little devilishly delighted that I succeeded in stunning her. “I shocked you,” I say, stating the obvious.

“You did. Do you want to talk about it?”

“I do,” I say, crossing my legs and meeting her eyes. Her dark, curly hair frames her wise face, and she waits, patiently.

But she doesn’t have to. I’m raring to go. I’ve got tea to spill. I’m not asking her for reassurance. I don’t need her to tell me I’m okay. I want to tell her what’s going on in my secret life.

I don’t hold back the details. I tell her about the costumes, the sex, the orgasms, the panty gift, and the fact that I can’t ever see him again, and when I’m done, she pins me with a thoughtful stare, one that says her brain is working through my Monday morning bombshell.

“Do you think this is related to what happened when you went to family therapy?”

What? My head spins. How did we go from talking about me finally having sex and enjoying it to her thinking this has to do with the time we went to family therapy ?

“What do you mean?”

“You said it didn’t go well when you went with everyone.”

That’s true. Mom, Dad, Liz, and I went to grief therapy together a few times to deal with all the hurt and the blame. At first, the sessions were helpful—cathartic even. But where it went horribly wrong was at Willa’s grave the day after one of those sessions. I’ve never told Shira the things my father said to me when he broke down at my sister’s tombstone. I’ve never told anyone. I can’t tell anyone. The words hurt too much. All I’ve said to Shira is we didn’t deal well with our grief. Lately, she’s been urging me more to talk through the loss, and sometimes I do talk about my sister, but I don’t want to today.

“You think I’m trying to get back at him?” I ask, fixating on that.

“That’s not what I said. Is that what you heard me say?”

Pretty much. “I didn’t know who Finn was that first night I met him. I didn’t say yes to seeing him again because of my dad. I wanted to see him,” I say, annoyed. My pulse spikes.

“Jules, that’s not what I meant,” she says, keeping calm as I spiral.

“What did you mean?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“I just wonder if you chose someone for your first time knowing that you couldn’t have a relationship with him. Knowing that you wouldn’t—your words—see him again.” She leans forward. “I wonder if that has anything to do with your past. Maybe we can talk about what happened when you went to therapy with your family.”

Nope.

Not going to. Don’t want to revisit that terrible time. And she knows it.

“I’d rather not,” I say, cooling a bit. “I have some meetings this week. My boss said he wanted to talk about The Rendezvous , and I’m hoping he’ll assign me that show. I’d rather review our strategies for that. I really don’t want to think sex thoughts during a business meeting.”

Shira nods crisply, then says, “Fair enough.”

We focus on mindfulness techniques and cognitive behavior skills for the rest of our session. The future is fixable. With her help, I can move forward.

I don’t know why she wants me to face the past though. No amount of writing can change what happened to my sister late one summer night.

Or what I told her before she left the house.

Or what my father said to me months later.

On Wednesday, Bridger raps on my door and I look up from my laptop to greet him, adjusting my black glasses. “How were your meetings in Los Angeles?”

“Terrific,” he says offhand like he’d rather discuss something else. “Do you have a second?”

Nerves fly down my spine.

He’s firing me.

He’s reprimanding me.

“Of course,” I say, masking my worries with a smile.

“I was hoping you could join me this afternoon when I meet with some new execs at Streamer.”

Oh, thank god.

I handle production coordination for a couple of our shows, but none are carried on Streamer. “Sure. But I’m curious why?”

And I’m hopeful. He’s dropped breadcrumbs. But I’ve tried not to eat them or let them fill me up. I don’t want to hope and then lose out.

“Because I’d like to add a show to your list. It’ll come with a small pay raise. Would you want to handle production coordination for The Rendezvous ?”

“I would very much like that,” I say, and I don’t try to contain my glee. I can’t. This is the it show. I’ve been dying to work on it but figured I’m too junior.

“Fantastic,” he says, then gives a sheepish smile. “That’s why I had you read the scripts. I was hoping to make the move, but I just needed to be sure there was an open producer assignment and there is.”

“I’ve been researching Paris and the neighborhoods where the show takes place. I feel like I could lead a tour through Montmartre,” I say, touting myself. My dad would be proud.

“Great. I knew you’d be ready to hit the ground running. Or the cobblestones, I should say.” He tugs up the cuff of his ruby-red shirt. “We’ll meet the execs for lunch at noon.”

“I’m there,” I say.

We take a Lyft to McCoy’s, a popular deal-making steakhouse in midtown. Along the way, we chat about the show, the shoot, and the fast-paced schedule, then Bridger segues to lunch. “Oh, and about McCoy’s. Just wanted to reassure you they have more than steaks,” Bridger says when we reach the restaurant with the emerald-green awning. “Harlow says the pasta and salads are amazing.”

It’s kind of him to think about the way I eat. It’s one of the things I appreciate about my boss. But I don’t want him to worry about me. “Sides are the best,” I say as we slide out of the car.

“Harlow says the same.” On the way to the door, his phone buzzes. “One second,” he tells me, stopping to slide a thumb across the screen. Then glances at me. “I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it or not, but your father is here.”

That’s odd. “He works with Streamer?” I ask, but then again, his client list is one of the many things my dad doesn’t share with me.

“He does some work for one of the execs,” Bridger explains as we head into the oak-paneled eatery. The lights are low, and he scans the booths before the hostess can say hello.

“There they are.” Bridger points to a far corner where he must have spotted the Streamer execs. He’s very focused, always on alert and fast on the draw.

We make our way across the restaurant. My work with Shira has helped me deal with anxietyabout the unexpected, but no amount of therapy could prepare me for when my gaze lands on the people we’re meeting.

My father and Finn.