14. Denise
Chapter fourteen
Denise
"N o, I haven't reached out again," I reply. I try not to squirm under Dr. Jamison's assessing eyes, but I can't help fidgeting with the seam of my jeans.
What's so weird about wanting to end a booty call arrangement that got too personal? Sex is supposed to be the whole point, isn't it? Not bearing our souls to each other. And Doc's far from a prude; sex therapy is another one of her specialties. She's like the Dr. Ruth of Harlem.
"Do you think I overreacted?" I worry. I feel like a child whenever I break under her stare.
"Do you think you overreacted?" she challenges.
I resist the urge to throw my phone at her. Why do all shrinks do that? If you have something to say, just say it already! Why do I have to spend a whole session getting there when you already know where we're going?
She senses my frustration and relents with a sigh.
"As a doctor, I would never tell a patient they overreacted. They react however they react and we work through whether or not it was appropriate and why."
I relax back onto the couch until she adds,
"But if you were my friend , just asking me over Friday night cocktails, I might ask you why you gave up dick you claimed was incredible just because he accidentally asked about a hot button issue."
I giggle, and Dr. Jamison primly takes a sip of water from a tall glass on her ottoman. That is why I love her. Of course she's trained, but she also knows when to keep it real.
"The dick was superb. Like…" I think back wistfully, "the kinda dick worth giving up your freedom."
I laugh to myself, but look up to see Dr. Jamison writing on her notepad. Damnit. I can just imagine what it says.
Patient displays alarming fear of commitment stemming from parental abandonment issues.
It's the truth and I know it.
"You and I both know you're not ready for a session addressing your dating behavior," she says with a stern look. I shake my head. No, thank you.
"Then how about we just play devil's advocate? On one hand, he hit upon a sensitive issue, and you shouldn't have to share anything personal in a purely sexual relationship."
"Exactly!" I yell, glad she finally gets it.
"On the other hand, the two of you have sexual chemistry that's hard to come by. And, since he married your best friend, you're bound to run into him. Maybe you need to clear the air. He may be fine avoiding sensitive topics if he knows beforehand."
I pout at how reasonable she makes her argument sound.
"When you put it like that, it seems like you're saying I should text him," I whine. She smiles.
"I'm merely showing you other ways to look at the issue, so that when you make a choice, it's after weighing several options."
I slouch towards my knees, deep in thought.
"I see where you're coming from. And I appreciate it, considering I know you don't think my sexual practices are the most healthy." She raises an eyebrow at that. "So I may call him."
I take a drink from my own water glass.
"Or maybe I'll just stick with my existing roster."
She jots down notes before looking up…to my intense displeasure. There's no winning with this woman.
"Thanks so much for agreeing to this, D!" Tiffany says as she wraps me in a hug.
She's been downright annoyingly thankful since I told her I'd be happy to teach a course on fashion design. Apparently, several of the junior high girls at the community center Tiff runs started pestering her about it when she mentioned she knew a real-life designer.
"It's no problem at all," I answer, giving her a light pat on her back to release me. To my relief, she does.
"Well, let's hope you're still saying that in three hours. All thirty spots of your class are booked and the students are in there waiting."
My eyes widen.
"Thirty? I thought I agreed to a cap of twenty!"
Tiff has the decency to look contrite.
"I knoooow," she wails dramatically, drawing the word out. There must be an apology in there somewhere, but before I can protest further, she takes my arm, practically dragging me toward the classroom.
"Think of it this way," she pleads with puppy dog eyes. "It's because they're so excited to take your class! They won't give you any trouble."
I roll my eyes.
"'It seems pretty farfetched that thirty junior high kids," I use air quotes, "'won't give me any trouble'."
"You think I'd send you in there alone?" Tiff's pasted a too-big smile on her face. She probably senses I'm not super thrilled to have to wrangle more students than a trained teacher. What the hell am I going to do with thirty teenagers?
"Maya's teaching today too, and she brought in a new volunteer. He's already in the room with your students. I figured you could use the help, especially on your first day."
Tiffany's still pushing me steadily towards the classroom, and after a few more steps, I stop fighting her. Thirty kids is a lot , but that means thirty kids wanted to take my class. Thirty kids that could potentially wind up fashion designers that I influenced. The ego boost is substantial.
When we round the corner, Tiff opens the door to the first room in the hallway. I immediately shut it.
"Why didn't you tell me Cory would be here?" I demand. If I'd known I was going to walk out of Dr. Jamison's office right into an ambush, I would've bought a way bigger post-therapy cookie.
Tiffany looks at me curiously.
"I told you Maya brought in a volunteer."
"But you didn't tell me it was Cory," I hiss.
Tiff's eyebrows race up her forehead.
"Is there a problem with him helping you?"
There shouldn't be, should there, Denise?! To everyone else, Cory is just your best friend's husband's brother that you met weeks ago at a wedding.
I need to get it together. If I keep freaking out like this, I'll blow our cover, if I haven't already. I clear my throat and force a smile.
"No, not at all," I lie. "It's just the last time I saw him," that you know of , "I remember we all agreed he was bad news. And you say he came in with Maya? I thought they hated each other."
"You and me, both," Tiffany replies. "But they're family now, right? Maybe he's turning over a new leaf. Either way, I'm not gonna turn down an extra volunteer on a Saturday. It's the busiest day of the week!"
One look around the bustling hallway confirms her words. It's obvious Tiffany shouldn't have to worry about Cory and me on top of everything else.
"It'll be fine," I reassure her. "And thank you for letting me use the volunteer. I'm sure the other teachers wouldn't have minded the help."
She's still looking at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle, but odds are low she'd guess Cory was my sneaky link. More than likely, she thinks I just have a problem with Adam's asshole brother. Technically, I should .
"Uh. OK…right. Have a great first class then, and text me if there's an emergency."
With one final dubious look, she gives me a nod and then walks back to the front office.
Less than a minute in the classroom, and I'm already overstimulated. There are kids— thirty of them—gossiping, listening to music without headphones, tossing a Nerf ball back and forth between desks, and generally being as loud as possible.
On the other side of the room, Cory has resumed the statue mode from our first morning together, probably just as shocked to see me here as I was to see him. I send him an awkward wave.
" You're the instructor for this class?" Cory asks once I make my way through the chaos. Shock and dismay are written all over his face.
I give him as harsh a glare as I can while students might be watching.
"Yes. And, like you , I had no idea you would be here today. Even so, I could really use your help, since I told Tiffany I couldn't handle more than twenty kids, and she let thirty kids sign up."
I keep my demeanor as professional as possible, despite my internal turmoil. I really don't need personal messiness making this already overwhelming situation worse.
Cory stands straighter, his own professional mask slipping into place.
"Of course. What do you need from me?"
"Do you have any experience working with kids?" I do my best to keep my voice low.
Cory smirks.
"Not a fan of kids?"
I glare again.
"In small doses, yes. I've never done anything like this, though, and it was hard enough to psych myself up for twenty kids."
His face softens.
"I see. Well, a course on fashion design will be a first for me, but I sometimes help my brother, Damon, with the basketball clinics he runs at a rec center in Brooklyn. Those kids can get pretty rowdy."
I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"Thank God. OK, I'll just need you to pass out supplies," I gesture to my rolling bag full of sketchbooks and colored pencils, "and step in if anyone gets too loud or unruly."
I list the agenda on my fingers for myself just as much as for Cory.
"We'll do introductions, the class overview, and then I'll share details on the fashion show we're putting on at the end of the term. Then we'll have free drawing time to get started on designs."
Cory nods.
"Totally doable." He waves a hand toward the class. "Take it away, boss."
I take one calming breath, then step to the center of the classroom.
"Good afternoon, everyone." I pause as the students quiet down. "My name is Denise Jeffries, but you may call me Ms. Denise or Ms. D. I'm a fashion designer with experience working with Tory Burch, DKNY, and currently Bailey Maxwell.
"Today is the first day of a sixteen-week workshop on fashion design. In this workshop, each student will pick their inspiration, sketch a design that speaks to them, and finally, sew a piece of clothing that will be modeled at a real fashion show here at the community center!"
Everyone is rapt with attention, excited eyes greeting mine. Here we go…
"Holy shit! I can't believe I did that!" I shout when Cory and I are out of earshot of any stragglers.
Even with the extra students, Cory was the biggest surprise today. Not only did he help pass out materials and keep the students on task, but he gave me time checks so the class wouldn't run over, and then stayed to help me pack up.
He grins broadly as he walks next to me until we reach the entrance to the center.
"Of course you did that. You are clearly amazing at what you do and those kids ate it up. I was impressed."
Reason #8602 to love having dark skin: It hides my ridiculous blushing.
"Thank you," I murmur.
"So, where to next?" he asks, and I laugh.
"Next?! Home! That wore me out! I'm going to collapse on my couch and maybe order some celebratory Middle Eastern food."
I hoist my purse up on my shoulder to get a better grip on my rolling bag, only to find him looking at me. He turns towards the traffic passing on the street.
"Care for some company?"
I can hear the hesitation in his voice. I put that there, because no one can dare ask me a personal question. Maybe Dr. Jamison was right.
"Sure," I answer with a shrug. "I only live a few blocks from here."
I start walking, and he immediately falls into step beside me. After I stop to adjust my grip on the rolling bag a third time, he steps in.
"Here, let me."
"I can do it," I argue, turning so he can't take the bag. But he persists, unwrapping my hand from the handle one finger at a time. This close, I can smell his cologne—something with sandalwood, my favorite scent—and I will myself not to inhale.
Just to piss me off, he picks up the bag and carries it like a briefcase. Like it isn't weighed down with forty notebooks and forty boxes of colored pencils. Thank God I brought extras.
"Thank you," I huff, and he coughs to cover his chuckle.
After walking a block in silence, he's the first to speak.
"So…How exactly does one get into fashion design?"
I give him a sardonic look.
"Why? Are you thinking of switching careers?"
He barks a laugh that echoes against the surrounding brick buildings.
"Yeah," he snorts. "I can just imagine what my parents would say about that after putting me through business school."
My steps falter, but I recover before he notices. I sometimes forget most parents support their kids by default. His put him through grad school, meanwhile mine haven't come to a show in years.
"To answer your question, I don't really know how one becomes a fashion designer, but I did it by going to college for fashion design. Growing up, fashion for women with bigger bodies was a joke. It was all frumpy florals, animal prints, flowy fabrics to hide in, and a lot of black. It was especially awesome when my 7th grade Latin teacher and I showed up in the same outfit."
My words drip with sarcasm, and I hear him snicker beside me.
"Yeah, it's funny now, but back then, it was rough. People called me Mrs. Harverstick for the rest of the year. I had to take matters into my own hands."
"What did you do?" he asks, switching my bag to his other arm so we can walk closer together.
"I taught myself to sew. If my mom brought home a muumuu monstrosity, I would thrift pieces from Goodwill and the Salvation Army, tear it apart, and remake it into something a kid might actually wear. I got pretty good at it too, to the point where my friends started asking me to remix their wardrobes.
"In high school, the art teacher heard about my clothes and recommended I take her class so I could learn to sketch my own designs. The rest, as they say, is history."
We reach the front door of my building. When I have to shove hard while turning my key in the lock, I don't miss his frown. My apartment is definitely a step down from his place.
"You should have the landlord fix that," he says as he follows me upstairs. I smirk over my shoulder.
"My landlord has a very 'hands off' policy when it comes to his building or his tenants. But the rent is fairly cheap for this area, and my neighbors don't mind the noise from my sewing machine."
Cory's frown fades slightly as I open the third deadbolt on my front door.
"At least you have those, but a broken front door really isn't safe."
I quirk my lips at him. Is he seriously worried about me?
"Don't worry, Wall Street. I'm a big girl."
He moves further into my apartment, inspecting my living room and kitchen. My drafting table is covered in sketches and charcoals, fabric scraps are strewn across most of my couch and the armchair, and a half-eaten bowl of cereal sits on the counter.
"Sorry it's a little messy," I explain, rushing past him to clear away first the dirty dish, then the fabric from all over the living room. "I wasn't expecting guests."
"It's nice," he says absently, then nearly trips as Madame Purrington comes from the other room to wind around his ankles.
"Well, hello," he coos at her as she weaves yet another figure eight between his legs. He reaches down to scratch behind her ears, and the hussy flops onto her back for the full belly rub treatment. Huh. She doesn't usually warm up this quickly to strangers.
"That ball of fluff is Madame Clawdette Purrington. She's yet another reason I can't keep this place clean."
Cory smiles faintly as he pets her, then abruptly straightens to face me. Clawdette's still purring on the floor, likely displeased her petting session was cut short.
"Alright. No one rocking limited edition green Jordan's doesn't have a killer sneaker collection. I showed you mine." He lifts a mischievous eyebrow. "Will you show me yours?"
I giggle at his innuendo and guide him down the hall.
"FYI, it's messier in here than in the living room," I warn as we push the door to my bedroom open. He nods, taking in my unmade bed, my sewing machine, my dress form, which I modified for the thicker woman, and bolts of fabric leaning against my dresser.
I continue into my walk-in closet. Mine is normal-sized and wasn't done by Marie Kondo, but I do have enough space for twenty pairs of sneakers along with my other shoes.
"I love the Southbank Tag sneaker," he says, reaching past me to pull it from the shelf. I bite back a proud smile.
"Thanks. That's one of my favorites, too. I also love my Retro 'Metallic Gold' Jordans, but I can't wear them too often because of the light color. As you can see," I extend my foot towards him, highlighting my shoe, "black Air Force 1's are better for everyday wear."
It's hard not to feel silly showing off my collection when his closet looks like a YankeeKicks store. Still, he's looking at each pair, like he's actually interested. Suddenly, the air feels tight, and I realize we're standing shoulder to shoulder…in my bedroom .
I clear my throat and gesture towards my door.
"C'mon. I owe you a Middle Eastern feast for helping me today."
He follows when I walk back to the living room.
"It was no big deal."
"It was a huge deal," I counter. "I was seconds from having a panic attack until Tiff told me I'd have a helper."
I pull two beers from the fridge and grab my binder of takeout menus before settling next to him on the couch. He thumbs through the pages of the binder in my lap.
"You know, there are these nifty new apps available to order food that take up way less space on your counter," he snarks.
I roll my eyes.
"Yes, but those apps can really screw the restaurant with all the extra fees. Plus, a lot of the best spots around here left the order apps years ago." I flip to the Middle Eastern section. "What's your usual order?"