21. Silas
21
SILAS
“ D on’t make me have to disown you at this hour. I’m practically on my deathbed.”
“Mom, God. I didn’t say we were getting back together. I just said he’s back in town.”
“I’m with Roz. If I have to walk across the bridge myself to keep you away from that man, I’ll do it—don’t think I won’t.”
My mom and Trixie are no fans of Ben. It might have to do with the fact that I spent two weeks here after he dumped me barely able to get out of bed, but that was how I learned the importance of resilience. In my defense, he blindsided me. I was not prepared to find myself wholly unloved. Forgive me if it took a couple weeks to bounce back. “He’s not the anti-christ. He’s just a guy who dumped me.”
“And now he feels bad about it and wants to date you again. Do you need me to remind you about your uncle David?”
I groan. “No.”
Uncle David married the same woman twice and she cheated on him twice leading him to divorce her twice. “A leopard can’t change his spots,” Trixie summarizes in lieu of the cautionary tale .
I tuck the recycled grocery bags into their spot in the pantry before closing the door and facing my parental figures. They’re both sitting at the kitchen table giving me the stink-eye. I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at them. “We went out one time. We’re not dating.”
“I hope he’s not the only thing you’re doing for fun,” my mother grumbles.
“Wow. If you wanna go there, let me assure you—he’s not.” Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that.
Her immediate interest makes her often dull eyes flash bright. “Do tell.”
“It’s top secret. He’s kinda famous.”
That really gets Mom going. “If I guess, will you tell me?”
Even if I don’t plan on disclosing a thing, seeing her excited makes me happy. I grin and take a seat with them. “Not a chance. And it’s not serious either, so don’t get any ideas. I’m just having fun—like you said.”
“And is he?” Trixie asks. “Fun?”
“He’s interesting.”
“Show us a picture.”
I laugh. “Nice try.”
“How do we know you’re not making him up?” my mom asks.
Trixie chimes in. “Have you kissed him on the lips?”
My face heats. Again, I shouldn’t have brought this up. It seemed easier than talking about Ben, but now I’m not so sure. “A little,” I say.
“Oh dear.” They say this together.
“It was just a kiss. I wasn’t at work. It was a legit hook up.”
“When do we get to meet him?” Mom asks.
“About two weeks after never,” I say. “It’s not a thing. Either of you seeing anyone new?”
“Oh! Tell him about Jason!” Trixie says reaching out to tap my mom’s hand.
“That’s right! ”
For the next twenty minutes I sit through a full description and comprehensive backstory of the new home health nurse—Jason—who saw a picture of me on the mantle and had questions.
He sounds like the kind of guy who should be exactly my type, but I tend to punch above my weight class. While I should probably be seeing cops or nurses or teamsters, I tend to go for architects, lawyers, and, apparently, senators. White collars are hot, what can I say?
My phone buzzes as my mom is encouraging me to agree to let her give the amazing Jason my number, and I check it to find a message from Katia. It’s simple like all texts from her are. A date, time frame, and location along with a question mark. If it were someone I’d met before, she’d also give me initials, but as there are none, it means whoever wants to hire me is a stranger.
I check my calendar, but I already know I’m likely free. Katia has my other work schedules. With a sigh, I thumbs up the message. It’s two grand worth of my time, and it’s not like I can say no to that. Rent here and in New York is due in two weeks, and Christmas is coming. It makes me uneasy not to know who it is, though, so I send a text asking for more information. She’ll give me a photo and a brief bio, but it might not come until later today.
Knowing that much will help me mentally prepare myself. Some of these guys take some serious mental prep. One thing I won’t know—the thing they don’t have to tell Katia is what they want from me. I have to figure all that out on my own in real time. There are rules, boundaries, hard limits they have to agree to, and Katia’s sphere of influence is large. In short, there’s not much danger of my being hurt unless the dude is a true psychopath and doesn’t give a fuck about the type of consequences Katia can rain down.
It’s one of my recurring nightmares, though. A Ted Bundy-type scenario. There aren’t many circumstances more vulnerable than letting a man own you for a space of time. My subconscious deals with the fear of the slim chance I’ll fall into the wrong hands one of these days. It’s a constant buzz of stress that surges every time my phone notifies me of a message.
It’s worth it, though. My mom looks good. She and Trixie are happy—content with a working furnace and full stomachs, free of financial burdens so they can take care of themselves and stay together for as long as my mom’s heart agrees to cooperate with the drugs and treatments. For as long as Trixie’s eyesight holds out. So I’ll keep the house standing, the meds coming, the Jasons visiting—whatever needs to happen to give the two of them nothing better to do than set me up with “such a nice boy.”
I leave Queens after a long lunch and take the subway back to my apartment. Jericho is in the kitchen when I arrive.
“Hey,” I say to her as she startles, a glass of water halfway to her mouth.
“Hi,” she breathes, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt, which is barely covering her silk panties. “You scared me.”
Drew, probably having heard us, emerges from one of the bedrooms in black boxer briefs, every one of his upper body tattoos on vivid display. His hair’s a wreck. “How’s it going?” he asks me.
“Good. Anyone else around?”
Drew grins. “Wouldn’t know.”
The other bedroom door is closed, so I assume someone else is here, and I have a decision to make. If Drew and Jericho want to go another round, which they should, I’ll likely be on the couch to hear it unless they have some other place they can go. Our living arrangements aren’t exactly conducive to my having a night off with no plans. I have a fleeting—obviously desperate—thought to text Ben and see what he’s up to, but I squash that fast. It’s depressing how fast those old reflexes come back.
Neither of us have contacted each other since I snuck out of his place last Tuesday morning so why is he where my mind went? I don’t want to examine that. I have a feeling the answer would send me into a spiral.
“You two staying in?” I ask, getting to the point.
Drew reads my situation and gives a single nod. “Nah,” he says. “We’re getting out of here for a while.”
Jericho looks surprised but skirts her way around the kitchen peninsula and back into the bedroom, mumbling something about how she needs to get dressed real quick.
Drew gives me a sheepish smile. “Vitamin D has been delivered.”
“Good. It makes you less of an asshole, you know?”
“Yeah. I guess. The stress is just…” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Anyway. I haven’t seen you much. How’d things go with Ben?”
“Don’t wanna talk about it.”
He gives me a look that’s somewhere between disappointment and resignation. “I’m not gonna judge you.”
Shrugging, I drop my backpack near the door and plop down on the couch to hunt for the remote. “You don’t have to. I’m judging myself plenty.”
Chris comes home while Drew and Jericho are getting dressed. I’m relieved to see him. There’s nothing on TV I’m interested in, and if he’s free tonight, maybe it won’t be a complete waste.
If there’s anyone I might be willing to talk about Ben with, it’s Christian. Drew is supportive and validating, but Chris is someone who listens and thinks things through. The more time that’s passed—and especially today while it’s been such a topic—the more I think I need to talk it out. “You busy tonight?” I ask him while he unpacks the groceries he brought in with him.
“I’m free,” he says. “Wanna do something?”
Drew clears out with Jericho, and Chris and I go to a bar down the block. Once we’ve got a table secured and our drinks, I ask him how things are going for him. It’s the right thing to do since I’m about to hurl him a load of my own bullshit.
Chris’s life is almost painfully small and contained. I can never tell whether he’s depressed or just prefers to keep things simple. He works, he writes, he sleeps. He goes wherever he’s invited, and he screws around some, but there’s never any drama. There’s never any ongoing issue or struggle he’s dealing with—at least, not one he’ll cop to.
He tells me about a woman he spent a few nights with but goes on to explain why he’s not interested in seeing her again. Party girl. Always on her phone. Too loud. Asked too many questions.
“What’s wrong with questions?” I ask.
“They were stupid questions,” he says simply. “So what’s up with you? Did you go to Queens today?”
“Yeah, yeah. Mom and Trix are good. If you don’t have plans for Thanksgiving, you’re invited.”
“Working,” he says.
“I’ll bring you leftovers.”
“You gonna tell me what happened with Ben?” he asks.
I sigh. “I fucked up.”
“What was he like?”
“Apologetic,” I say. “Handsy.”
“You slept with him?”
I scrub a hand over my face. “We didn’t have sex sex, but I might as well have. Then I bolted. It’s been radio silence since.”
“He hasn’t reached out?”
“No. I mean, what the fuck?”
“Define bolted.”
“I snuck out in the morning, hungover as hell.” Went to the park, fucked a senator.
“Huh.”
“I know, right? For someone who seemed all interested in being forgiven, it’s weird isn’t it? ”
“Maybe he’s licking his wounds?”
While I should like the sound of that—serves him right—the words are like a smothering blanket of guilt. “Do I owe him something? Like—do I owe him another chance?”
“No. Hell no. But at the same time, since he left, you haven’t exactly been pounding the pavement looking for his replacement.”
“Long term relationships lack some of the old appeal if you know what I’m saying.”
“I get that, but you’re also kind of a relationship guy,” Chris says, running a hand through his hair. It falls straight back into place, framing his forehead and pretty face. The black eyeliner he often wears when we go out makes his blue eyes vivid and intense.
“You only say that because you met me when I was in one.”
“You seemed to like it.”
“I liked him .”
“And you’re not sure you do anymore?” he accurately guesses.
“Being with him—like before I was so drunk I couldn’t feel anything—was literally like rubbing salt in a raw wound.”
“Still raw huh?” Christian asks with a grimace.
“I didn’t think it was, and then—yeah. I’m still so pissed, but then we were dancing and it all kind of…melted off.”
Chris’s lips purse before he takes a sip of his drink.
“I mean is it possible to be in love with someone when they’re standing in front of you and completely indifferent when they’re not?”
“Not sure,” he says.
“Meanwhile,” I say, deciding to go all in while I’m being honest. “I fucked someone else.”
“What? When?”
“After I left Ben’s.”
“Just some random?— ”
“No. One of my clients,” I say, and then quickly add, “From the gym. Not random.” Not a lie.
“On purpose?” Chris asks.
“Yeah, it was more or less on purpose. I mean, I didn’t put up a fight, you know?”
“But you were the one to reach out?”
For someone I keep so many secrets from, Chris knows me a little too well. “Yes.”
“I mean…” He leans back in his chair still holding his drink. “You know what I’m gonna say.”
That I was using Graham not to think about Ben. I hadn’t wanted to frame it that way, but it’s exactly what I was doing. There’s no denying it.
“Do you like the guy?” Chris asks.
“He’s married—it’s one of those never gonna happen things.”
“ Married ? Like to a?—”
“A woman. He’s a closet case.” Here’s where I wish I could tell him more, but then I’d have to explain that I’m an escort and sleep with married men all the time, and who the hell wants to admit something like that to someone who thinks you’re basically a good person? “None of that is really the point. He’s not—he’s no one. Just a reaction to a shitty situation like you said.”
“So what do you want me to say?” Chris asks. “You want me to tell you to stay the fuck away from Ben so you don’t go making stupid, self-destructive decisions, or do you want me to tell you to give it another chance, reach out to him and let him make it up to you if he wants. Or at get some decent closure.”
“I don’t know. The first one, I guess.”
“Stay. The fuck. Away from Ben.”
Ouch. I wasn’t expecting the firm, cold delivery, but I gather he really means it.
I gulp and nod, reaching for my drink. “Will do.”