14. Chapter 14 Theo
Chapter 14 Theo
“ M other, you m-may not come in. I t-told you, I have a m-meeting in the next ten mi-minutes, and I’d prefer you not be here when they arrive.”
Is it possible I wrote atrocious poetry in my former life, and this is my punishment? Mother. She struts past me with an air of superiority, examining the books on my shelf and dragging her well-manicured hand over the surfaces in my office. This place belongs to her, but it’s mine to inherit, pending the completion of my college education per my grandfather’s will. It would be easy for people to assume that because my mother, Elizabeth P. Sullivan, is well-to-do, I am too.
Has my mother offered me money to enhance my life? Yes.
But I refuse to accept a single penny. I have enough to live between the TA gig and the money from my growing audio side job.
Did I use up most of my savings to book numerous cuddle sessions with Staley? Also yes.
Elizabeth turns her nose at my pens and notebooks, picks up one of my cheeky mugs, reads the side, and scoffs. I’m convinced she invented the act of mockery.
“Theodore, I don’t understand your penchant for poor, lowbrow humor, darling. What happened to the china set left behind in the cupboards by your grandfather’s third wife?”
I packed it up and sent it to Gwendolyn, the third wife. Mother ensured the poor woman got little else, but Gwendolyn was kind to me and encouraged my writing efforts, coaxing me out of my shell by asking me to read her my writing aloud.
“I like what I like. We’ve b-been over this, and I’m sure the china is in storage.”
She places the mug on my desk, disgusted for having to lay her hands on it, and proceeds to flip through the pages of my book where I scribble my musings, some with a literary quality to them and others with more X-rated qualities. I move to stop her because if I were to speak right now, I would stutter horribly and shout unkind words.
I snatch the floppy, leatherbound book away. “Mother, l-leave my th-things alone. You don’t even l-like poetry.”
She pulls her hand back, burned by my directness.
“Must you speak so harshly to me? I prefer the finer things in life, but that does not mean I know nothing of the written word. Honestly, darling.”
The inside of my cheeks are cottony from not having a decent response to her argument.
“Oh, close your mouth, darling; it’s unbecoming. I’m here to discuss the charity event. You haven’t returned my calls, and frankly, I need to know you’re trying to secure a date. Have you spoken with Maeve? Perhaps she can go with you.”
Poor Maeve. She’s been the girl on my arm for as long as I can remember. She’s never once complained about being a stand-in female acquaintance. If I ask Maeve, we’ll enjoy poking fun at all of the pretentious people throwing their money around at folks to feel better about themselves.
I grit my teeth.
“Mother. No, I said I’d handle it.” There’s a biting tone to my statement. I’ve gotten stronger from recording more dominant tracks. Telling the listener what to do, and not until I say they can—nary a stutter.
Staley is supposed to be here in five minutes. My only option now is to herd my mother to the front door. With arms wide, I corral her through the hallway toward the front door, where she bumps into pieces of art on the wall and pauses to straighten them out.
“Leave it,” I bark, this time with more insistence.
“Theodore. You’re running out of time, darling. It’s a black-tie event. If you aren’t bringing Maeve, does another suitor have an appropriate dress for the dinner?”
She is a relentless dentist drilling until she hits the root nerve, pretending she administered plenty of novocaine. Three more steps get her nearer to the exit as my cool begins to flicker.
“Why are you s-so obsessed with wh-what people wear?”
“It’s charity. Two hundred dollars a plate. We must help the illiterate.”
As I open the door to release her back into the wild, we’re met with Staley, hand hovering mid-air, seconds away from knocking.
There are no words I can write now sufficient to describe her beauty. She is a landscape upon which I’d be happy to rest my body—a gentle knoll where the radiant sun can shine on my face.
Mother looks at me and then scans Staley from the ground up, stopping at her warm brown eyes, and I know she sees what I see. I’m in over my head. Under no circumstances do I want Staley to end up as a pawn in my need for practice. The whole thing feels weird, but there’s no way I will use Staley.
Staley, perhaps sensing my state of mental frozenness, offers a look at my mother, capable of leveling her. If Staley is fazed by the objectification of her body by another woman, she doesn’t show it, although she looks right through my mother. Every auburn hair on Staley’s head and each dot on her flawless skin is being run through my mother’s filter, but Staley’s ochre eyes shield me from judgment, knocking it all away. The checkboxes are being marked off and crossed out as my mother works through a quantifiable list of what makes a woman presentable in her mind.
Manicure. Designer clothes. Straight teeth.
Staley forgoes mincing words and gets straight to the point. “Theo, do you make it a habit to have women say goodbye to you at the exact time I arrive for our appointments?”
I’m as confused by Staley’s comment as my mother is.
Fiery and displeased are not characteristics I think about when it comes to turn-ons, but before I can muster up the courage to challenge Staley’s accusation, my mother cuts me off.
“Theodore. You’ve had women over? For appointments? You’re a bit young to be a doctor of any kind.” The last part is directed at Staley.
Staley glares at me with her arms crossed over her chest. I might be wrong, but she wants some clarification too. A line of preschoolers, linked hand in hand, march the length of sidewalk, singing about street safety to their yellow-vested leader, distracting the three of us from the world’s most awkward confrontation. The cuteness and off-key loudness of the children erase any opportunity for me to clarify what Staley means.
“What was her name again? Maeve? And no, I’m not a doctor.” She bites through tight lips.
Staley’s voice carries a touch of brattiness sprinkled with venom, and any other time, I’d make note of such an observation for work inspiration. Her arms manage to hug the front of her body tighter in a fit of frustration, perhaps. This only amplifies her breasts, pressing them in and up.
How does she know Maeve?
Elizabeth chimes in.
“Oh! You’ve met Maeve, have you? Lovely girl, she and Theo are inseparable.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
“I’m sorry, it appears the cat has got Theo’s tongue—nothing new—forgive his rudeness. What did you say your name was, dear?”
Staley hefts her bag back up onto her shoulder and centers herself. If I could hazard a guess, she is a tundra, cold and unforgiving, waiting for my mother to step foot on the thinnest part of her ice, only to drown her.
“I didn’t. It’s Staley.” Her arms remain at her chest, and there are no signs of shaking the dangling hand my mother extends.
Mortified, I remember my manners and introduce the two of them.
“My m-mother, Elizabeth.”
Pride swallows my mother’s face whole as she tosses her head back in a rich-lady laugh, which is only a suppressed chuckle, the kind lacking any potential for laugh lines.
Staley’s disposition thaws a little, and the hardness from her tight-lipped mouth softens.
“Pleasure.” Is it, though?
Again, we’re wasting precious touching opportunities. A hand on my mother’s elbow is as gentle of a signal as I can manage without launching her out the front door.
“You w-were l-leaving, weren’t you, M-mother?”
As they do in high-suspense hostage negotiation–type movies, I nudge her out the front door, slip my hand into Staley’s, and swap their places, shocking the both of us. Dizzy from the exchange, my mother plants herself on the brick steps.
Staley sways, bewildered from the trade-off, and at the sight of our linked hands, she hesitates before pulling away, tucking her hands into her pockets this time. A charged connection you get from scuffling feet across carpet passes between us. It’s surprising and sharp. I imprint the image of reciprocity we share by shutting my eyes to hold it within me. There is no mystery in the feeling of the here and now between the two opposites of her and me. It’s fitting, whatever this is.
Mother straightens out her blazer as if I’ve manhandled her.
“Theodore, I was serious about a date for the charity dinner. Don’t wait on getting me your plus-one, please.”
Mother storms in with her finely pressed tops and pencil skirts, wreaking havoc while tearing me down, and then ends her visit by walking out without a wrinkle in her silk blouse as if it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood. It’s maddening, and when I dare try, it’s verbally exhausting.
The gentle rhythm of my heart swells while eagerness and anxiety square dance over every nerve ending of my body. We could get to cuddling if my mother could get to leaving already.
Ignoring all social cues for her to exit, she chimes in one last time.
“Staley, what size dress do you wear?”
“Dress size?” Staley looks at me with confusion.
My nostrils flare at her obtuse forwardness.
“Goodbye, Mother.”
Aside from shutting the door in her face, there’s nothing left to do. Staley’s vacant look says precisely what I’m thinking and feeling right now; to put it most poetically, what the fuck?
“I’m sorry—”
Staley says this as if she has something to apologize for right as I spit out, “I didn’t know she was coming here.”
We laugh at the chaos and gesture for the other to go first. Her eyes turn up at me momentarily, and I think this is when she’ll make the whole connection between Luca and me. It would be easier for her to discover this now, maybe a tad embarrassing, but it would be a point in my favor. Until now, I’ve only managed a blubbering exchange of words, but mainly in a much quieter tone, not my performance voice.
“Don’t b-be sorry. My m-mother, she’s—”
“Blunt and unaware?”
I nod while laughing at her ability to call a duck a duck.
“One way to p-put it.”
Her auburn locks cover her ears, showing me how many versions of her I have yet to witness. Up and messy is a sight for her, but this style is new and easygoing. Or maybe it’s because we’re two feet apart, tucked into the narrow foyer, unwilling to move on, cuddling with one another.
“Should we head back?” Staley nudges her head in the direction of our prior cuddle.
We head to my office, where Staley drops her bag on the top of my desk, void of my writing and microphone, now intentionally tucked away.
What would she say or ask if it were left out?
To prepare for today, I studied the cuddle options and weighed the benefits and limitations of each position. I practiced things I might say to her, so speaking might feel easier because as much as these cuddle sessions are about helping me relax and feel more at ease, I am wound tight with words and metaphors about her. The real goal—don’t mess anything up for forty-five minutes.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Her nose turns up, and her mouth barely opens when she asks, “What are you thanking me for?”
“For ...” I pause, wrenching my hand through my wild hair. “C-coming back.”
“I’m grateful for the work, don’t get me wrong, but I think we need to sort out a few things before we move forward.”
“I know wh-what this looks like. This is about who I am.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I understand it will take more than me apologizing and writing her endless sonnets to convince her to commit to countless cuddling sessions.
“Oh, and what do you think I’m seeing here? Because I’m all ears. But before you answer, can you tell me one thing? Does your girlfriend know you hired a cuddler?”
Staley is a big rig with high beams glaring, with one mission: flatten me to the asphalt.
“What? N-no! Girlfriend?”
“Listen. I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I need this job, and I hope I’m not being used or manipulated simply because I need to be in your class, and throwing money at me isn’t fair.”
The way she says she needs this job implies she and I are not the same person, and to her, I am guilty of flippantly throwing money around to cop a feel.
“It’s not l-like that.”
But I have questions about this supposed girlfriend of mine.
If we were in the fifth grade, I could write it all out, explain myself, fold it into an origami heart, and pass it over as a demonstration of my affection for her.
“If you’re anything like the guys who called me a good girl in class the other day to mock me, I can tell you one thing—you wouldn’t have the guts to call me that behind closed doors. Or the clients who cuddle as a loophole to try to cheat on their partners—I’ll go hungry before I let you or anyone else use me.”
A hundred glow sticks snap inside me and light up every part of my body. This is unlike me because I am gutless but have called plenty of women a good girl ... For the briefest moment, I drift out of my body because someone else has invaded my senses and moves to operate my vessel. From above, I take us both in and love what I see. It’s carnal, whatever this is, and I take full advantage of the sudden adrenaline coursing through me and close the gap between us.
It’s time to clear things up.
“Staley. I didn’t ask you back here to take advantage of you.” Saying this feels good and sounds confident because I am sure of one thing, and it’s her.
She attempts to cut me off at the pass, but I stop her.
“My mother has money, but it is hers, n-not mine. This house won’t belong to me until I graduate. It was my grandfather’s. I’m not r-rich, I w-work.” She doesn’t need to know all the details about my work, at least not yet.
She thinks I’m a rich kid living off his family’s money, a guy used to getting whatever he wants if he waves money around, but she could not be more wrong. I know my privilege is having a home, but I’d never flaunt it in someone’s face.
Her earlier anger is warranted. In her eyes, I’m in a position of power and can manipulate her.
“Okay. So you have your own money. It still doesn’t explain why you are practicing with me when you had a perfect ten on your doorstep the other day.”
Perfect ten? Oh. Ohhh.
“Maeve isn’t my g-girlfriend,” I groan out because this is not the first time someone has mistaken us as an item.
“Ex-girlfriend? Fuck buddy? Y’all are cozy from the looks of things.”
“N-none of the above. We’ve been best friends since we were kids. N-nothing more, n-nothing less. If she were here, she’d m-make a gagging noise at your accusation.”
A curious thought hits the back of my mind yet again. How does she even know who Maeve is? What am I missing?
“How do you know her n-name?”
All color drains from her face, and her eyes search the room to avoid looking at me.
“S-staley? You’re quiet for someone with bottomless c-comebacks.”
I’m much taller than she is, and I lean into her eyeline, hoping she’ll focus on me and fess up because bravery is present and ready for duty.
Staley’s pupils enlarge, and her breath catches at my approach. She groans, exasperated with me for forcing a confession out of her.
“I might have overheard her leaving a message on your machine the other day when I was here. She was talking about her lacy underwear, and could you please hang them up to dry? She said she loved you.”
“M-message?”
She pauses and wrings her hands together.
“Um, I kinda, sorta accidentallydeletedit. ”
The last three words of her confession collide with one another. From her standpoint, I’m with someone else.
I nod because laughing at this kerfuffle, this comedy of errors, will not serve me wisely.
“I’m sorry. I realize I violated your privacy, and then I showed up here with all kinds of fight in my system. My week has been nuts.”
Air leaves her body in a weighted exhale. All this back and forth is wearing on her, and it all teeters on this secret she’s been keeping. She delivers her apology as if I care about her deleting the message. I’m not an idiot and know how to hang up Maeve’s delicates. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t know her clothes-drying preferences?
Staley is spinning, and I want nothing more than for her to take another breath and slow down.
On autopilot, I move toward her again and in spite of my lack of in-person experience, I’ve got a lot of in-ear expertise in guiding people through things. She takes a small step back because I’m about to call out all of her mouthy bluffs and passionate speeches. My toes meet hers as the back of her legs meets the seat of my writing chair.
“Sit down, Staley.”
I grit out with a slight rumble. I’ve practiced so many short-lined commands for work that they’ve become easier to deliver without the need to repeat or re-record. A squeak slips past her pink lips as she submits. She’s worried power is being lorded over her, but it’s not in the classroom where her concern should lie, and I admit I want to be in charge here, not at the expense of her discomfort, though. There’s no requirement for her to participate because I’m her TA, and she needs money. I want her to want this too, and I’ll make sure we clear all those worries up soon.
Her thumb dons a turquoise ring, and her nails are painted a swirl of red and blue, making the most beautiful purple-looking tie-dye color. I want to kiss and suck every one of them simply because they are connected to her.
“Now, ask me again.” My tone borderlines on bossy. Direct. I’m baiting her a little now, daring her to connect the voice she listened to on the first day of class with the one gracing her right now.
Tell me you know this voice—the one you’ve had in your ears many times.
Her mouth, flustered, searches for clues to what I’m speaking about. Before she answers, her tongue wets her bottom lip as her face blooms into a rich cherry color, filling all the spaces between her freckles. Every word spoken from here on out will cost me. I’m intentional with my time and locution.
“Ask you what?”
“What I’m afraid of.”
I press my hands into the arms of the chair, making us closer and giving her no chance of running away again. Staley leans back from the pressure of my broad hands as they weigh down the arms of the chair. From a distance, I appear to have caged her in, standing above her in charge of all of her senses. But it’s Staley who is in control of my senses here. Sunshine radiates from her skin, and I want to bathe in the safety it elicits.
The swell of her throat glides from top to bottom with one audible gulp. The line of her neck is damn near biteable, but this isn’t the time for tasting, and there’s no way for me to know if I can pull off such a feat anyway. I want her full consent first. Talking about doing a thing and doing a thing are entirely different wheelhouses.
“What are you afraid of, Theo?”
Our faces are dangerously close to one another as a rightness floods my gut in a jolt, traveling straight to my groin, urging me to quit all of this senseless back and forth and just kiss her. Less telling, more showing.
I search her eyes for any sign she wants me to back off. I pause and take in the enormity of her vast beauty as I consider naming every one of her freckles after a celestial being—supernovas of chestnut-colored melanin.
Leaning in, I place one hand on the curve of her hip bone, my fingers gripping the softness of her skin.
My mouth grazes her ear when I whisper in a deeper voice, “If I cuddle you, there will be no going b-back.” My voice slips. “The thought of feeling you under my touch all while maintaining control, I f-fear I won’t know how.”
Familiarity sends a shiver through her body as her neck erupts with goose bumps.