10. Chapter 10 Theo
Chapter 10 Theo
M aeve spends the next two days preparing me for my morning appointment with Staley. She begs me to go out to eat, but I win the battle and we get takeout instead. Ordering food in restaurants and speaking to people in customer service requires me to have conversations with strangers and no, thank you .
I was up most of the night, a ball of nerves, feeling sick at the notion Staley might not show up today, we might not ever cuddle. I hope she does so that I can apologize. When I finally slipped into slumber, visions of her wrapped in my arms filled me with warmth and airiness. My desire to be held could have nothing to do with her and everything to do with the loneliness I’ve been feeling lately. I’d love nothing more than to have a companion, someone safe to fold myself into.
Maeve shouts at the ringing house phone, pulling me from my lucid state.
“Jesus, Theo. Do you know what century this is? A home phone. What are you, eighty-five years old? I’ll put some stewed prunes in your steel-cut oats this morning and gather the newspaper for you to read next time I stay over.”
The phone clicks over to the answering machine as I hear Maeve sigh in relief, and I know as soon as she hears my mother’s voice, she’ll be groaning in annoyance again.
“Theodore, for the literacy fundraiser, I’ve marked you down as a speaker. We can work on your speech later, but I cannot stress enough that YOU MUST brING A DATE. People like signing checks, and having someone on your arm will appeal to their sense of gratuity. Talk soon.”
Hysterical laughter echoes through the house. I fold myself over the counter in a head-down position.
“Do my biological relations bring you j-joy?”
Maeve emerges from the guest room, wrapped in an oversized blanket, her hair juts out in a spherical halo. Her grin is full of mischief, and I should tell her to quit laughing at my pain, but she’s been a godsend these past few days. She’s talked me through every possible scenario for Staley’s cuddle session today, down to the position I should choose. We’ve created an entire script, so I have as much control and as little stress as possible while I’m with her. Maeve is a shrouded monk moving through the kitchen to my office, lamenting about how terrible my mother is.
Over the last few days, I have recorded hours of content, letting my nerves out while practicing my control and delivery. I recited poems with complicated verse patterns and simple words and recorded a new erotic episode. Writing is cathartic and easy. Recording requires a lot more of my time. There was a lot of starting, stopping, and splicing audio together to deliver the lines in a cohesive format.
A cure is not part of my existence. My stutter is as much a part of me as the bones holding me upright. It’s not the only part of me, though.
But, in my perfect world, I’m accepted for every part of me.
“If there’s anything I can count on in this world—”
“Death and t-taxes?”
“Yes, to both of those, but, your mother is the world’s biggest blockcocker. Good gravy, was she this bad when we were kids?”
Maeve’s comparative mind fascinates me, as does her intentional use of dyslexia by turning cockblocker into blockcocker. The more I think about it, my mother might as well be a sheepherding dog because she has mastered nipping at me any chance she gets.
“She’s always been this b-bad. Will you c-cry for me if I tell you there is little to no difference between living with her and not living with her? Suffocating.”
She winces at this and leans back in my chair, the hood of her blanket falling off, exposing her purple hair. Maeve has never pitied me; it’s why we’re so close. Maeve is a breath of fresh air, the opposite of my mother.
“I’m gonna get out of your hair, Theo. Are you ready for today?”
A substantial gulp is all I can muster, and then I top it off with a casual nod. I want to say it’s all fine, and if anything, calm and collected.
“Remember, you’re likable, and anyone who can’t see the real you can roll themselves up in a sheet of fiberglass. Theo, I mean it. Don’t put all of your words in one poem. Do you hear me? Staley will miss out on one of the greatest humans in the world if she isn’t willing to give you a chance to explain. Tell someone aside from me about your stutter, and then open your damn metaphorical door and let her in.”
It feels counterintuitive to trust Maeve, as every nerve ending in my body begs me to disagree, so I offer a smile through my gritted teeth instead.
Maeve stands on my front stoop with her leather jacket hanging off her shoulders, too cool to slip her arms into it. It’s a quarter to eight, and Staley will be here any minute.
“Theo, you can do this. You deserve this, and if for one second you disbelieve me, know I have Barb on speed dial, and she and I will talk about this.”
Maeve uses her shellacked, pointy fingernail to drive the message into my chest.
“Ouch, M-maeve! I hear you, okay? No need to burn me down. You have to g-go now before she gets here. Barb is legally obligated to me, not you.”
In classic Maeve fashion, she hugs me with every muscle in her tiny little frame.
“Theo, you’re my best friend, and I love the hell outta you.”
A chuckle escapes my lips, and I let my head drop into her fluffy purple hair.
“I love you too, M-maeve.”
Back inside, I tidy Maeve’s mess, set the kettle on the stove, and double-check that none of my writing is on my desk. A gentle knock stops me in my tracks as I approach the door. I take a nice deep breath before I open up to her. I remember what Maeve said about projecting confidence: Give her your best self. Stay steady and smooth.
“Y-you’re early.”
Puking isn’t off the table as I stutter on the first word. So much for exuding confidence.
Staley huffs. Without missing a beat, she looks at her watch and back over her shoulder, eyeing nature or the cars passing on the street.
“I’m early, yes. After last week’s debacle, I didn’t want you to leave me standing at your front door well past the start of our appointment again.”
Although I deserved every bit of her aggravated tonality, this tone is familiar, and she used it with the jerks in the poetry class. I’m not one to lump myself in with other guys, but I have no other reference point to determine why she’s so heated.
Her irises darken from brown to nearly black, eighty percent dark chocolate. Staley’s hands hang at her sides coiled into fists, and I pray I won’t be the recipient of a middle finger gun shootout again.
“Understood.”
Stepping aside, I pull the door back and gesture for her to enter. As frustrated as she seems, I can’t help but notice the shift in electricity transmitting between us. Staley doesn’t wait for me to make space in the doorway. She shoves past me instead. The feeling, although abrupt, shakes my heart, giving me a slight arrhythmia. Heat floods my body, and I’m sure my face and neck are bright and crimson.
Turn around, shut the door, and take a breath. Let the blood come back to your other head.
Footsteps approach my back. Staley must have changed her mind, ready to ask me to let her back out so she could escape. Maeve did not go over this possible scenario—one where Staley cuddles me, yes, but not bailing after twenty seconds. Although highly unlikely, I replay what to do if Staley put her hands on me in a sexual sort of way; I must relax, reciprocate, and check in with her. A lot of good it does me as Staley has murder in her eyes, and her nearness isn’t proximal enough to be considered touching but might as well be.
“Listen. I don’t want to be here after how you treated me last week.”
I open my mouth to explain and freeze.
My poor attempt to interject is swatted away.
“You said you wanted to explain, so explain.” Staley presses further.
I lead the way to my office, the scene of the crime and where Staley’s poor first impression of me was formed.
The oversized blue and white flannel would look sloppy on anyone else, but on her, it’s suitable to her overall style. It’s obvious she dresses for no one but herself. The makeshift crop top underneath the flannel has an image of Alice in Wonderland in her classic blue dress and white apron; her dainty wrists are secured in chains. It’s as if Staley time tripped back to the 1990s and absorbed the fashion and the zero-fucks aesthetic of the grunge era.
Existing within the bounds of an average woman makes Staley’s attractiveness twice as sublime. Enchanting as hell. If I were brave enough to step into the confines of her flannel, I’d tuck myself into her and allow for the swell of her chest against mine. She’d feel all the ways my body is curious for hers, and I’d show her what grunge is. I withhold a laugh at my runaway imagination and let my mind wander to writing and building castles in the air.
For now, I’ll settle for what my imagination can provide, and it’s nothing short of magnificent. I’ll explain myself, and then my notions can merge with reality, and we can get to touching, an opportunity to pull the Band-Aid off of my social block.
The kettle is still hot, and I do my best to speak when I’ve had hot water with lemon and honey. I pour us both a mug. Staley’s mug has Emily Dickinson printed on the side, flipping everyone off. I don’t miss the lopsided grin of amusement brandished across Staley’s face, and I take it as a win.
Pay attention to the details. This was Maeve’s number one piece of advice.
A slow sip of the drink dislodges the swell within my throat, allowing us to return to our opposing corners. I take a visual snapshot of Staley sitting proudly in my writing chair, which she has commandeered as her own, and decide here and now if I were to die in my sleep, the image of her with her chest out owning my spot, I’d perish a smiling and satisfied man.
“Well, I’m waiting.”
She checks her watch. This is an appointment, and I’m on borrowed time—correction, paid time, which I plan to address.
“I’m sorry.”
She waits for more because two words are not enough to apologize for my behavior.
“You’re sorry? Listen, my life is complicated. I don’t need your hot and cold buckets of water doused over me anytime we meet.”
If I don’t breathe, every word I speak next will sound like a scratched-up CD skipping through the best song on an album.
“I’m so-sorry, and I w-wasn’t ju-judging y-you la-last we-we-week.”
She waves her hand around for me to continue, demanding I give her what she is owed, but with interest.
“Speaking is difficult for m-me. My st-stutter is worse when I’m stressed or anxious, and I accidentally b-booked you.” I pause and allow the betrayal between my mouth and brain to do their thing. Fatigue sets in.
“I mean, I booked the c-cuddle session ... I had no idea it would be y-you. I was caught off guard. I apologize for adding more complication to your life, Staley.”
Staley relaxes her frame, and her head does this sweet little tilt. Her auburn hair falls to the side, exposing the expanse of her neck. The softening of her voice lightens the air around her, and the tension her body holds melts, all soft and warm.
Professor Graham said imagery is inseparable from the poet, it awaits the pen to carve into it, highlighting its loveliness. Staley’s eyes cast through me, and if I am to receive anything from what she says next, let it be honey on the tongue and not the hot coals of pity.
“Oh. Well, I guess that makes both of us accidental assholes, then. I wasn’t my best self last week, and I sure as hell wasn’t expecting you to open the door.”
Her reply isn’t laced with pity, and I feel the tension in my shoulders ease some. The way she says you doesn’t settle right in my body, though. Sweat paints the small of my back.
“Clean slate, we can start anew. What do you say we start the cuddle session? Do you have a spot in mind? A couch or a bed? Sometimes, my clients offer a soft blanket on the floor to make it feel less intimate.”
The word intimate freezes midair above us. Color blooms across her cheeks, only magnifying the beauty of her sun-kissed face. Staley bites her bottom lip, and I watch her peachy mouth transform into a state of speechlessness.
“A b-blanket would be o-okay.”
“Great, let’s get started. I’ll go as slow as you need me to.”
The thought of doing anything slow with this firecracker lights my soul, inspiring my future content. I’ve had twenty-plus years of slow and unhurried; what’s one more day?
My comforter is a cumulus cloud of down feathers blanketed across the hardwood floor. Staley fluffs the corner of the blanket and places her shoes to the side, exposing her hot-pink painted toes.
She crouches and sits cross-legged on one end of the blanket. From this angle, her brown eyes stare up at me, and I can’t help but imagine bending over to kiss the top of her head, my hand at the nape of her neck. She might shudder and settle into the comforter because my presence brings her to an even keel. A daydream, but I cannot help myself. As a writer, my thinking is insufferable at times. I find myself writing out scenes and lines in my head to get a visual of how a reader might see the words and not because Staley is showing me any sign she wants me to do any of these things.
Staley pats the comforter’s top for me to sit. We look at each other, and I mirror her body language by crisscrossing my legs, prepared to say namaste if required.
“Cuddle sessions with a client or any other person should not be a transactional event on my end. I am not here to receive anything from you. These sessions are for you and your needs.”
The movement of her chest captures my attention not because of the shape of her breasts or the way I can see a faint outline of her nipples through her shirt but because of her ability to be so present. Staley breathes with control, and it’s clear she’s in the driver’s seat here, so I need to follow her lead. My lungs fill with air and pass through my lips in time with her breathing pattern.
“When we met the other day, your intake form mentioned ten sessions, and I suggested we cuddle once a week. Do you mind telling me more about that? I want to structure our time together accordingly, and if once a week feels adequate or not, let’s talk about what does.”
I’m a cuddle virgin, with emphasis on the v-word, even though it’s a societal construct to shame women and emasculate men.
“I’m n-not sure. My therapist s-said I need more interactions with p-people.”
Her head quirks to the side. Politeness is not lost on me; she never mentions my stutter.
“Wait, did your therapist say you needed to do cuddling as your interaction, or is this what you chose?”
Now, her hands fidget, seeking a place to situate themselves on her body. She settles on leaning back on her hands, exposing her torso to me. This is Staley being comfortable, not intentionally seductive on her end, but I can’t help but drink her in.
“No, my therapist said I n-need m-more practice with people. So I can practice speaking m-more confidently and build relationships with others ...”
“Okay. Do you still have the handout I gave you with various cuddle positions on them?”
This is a dig on my behavior from last time. It’s a warranted dig, one I receive on the chin while shaking my head no.
She dusts her hands off and fetches a new handout from her bag, passing it to me.
The Leg Lock is the safest one. I place the paper between us and point to the cuddle position.
“Great! I’ll have you lie here, and I’ll be right next to you. Consider our time together similar to when you go for a massage; this is a chance to care for yourself. No need to talk. No need to do anything at all. I can guide you through it.”
Staley arranges my body—flat on my back—in the cloudy blanket as she positions her head closer to my armpits. I’ve got at least six or seven inches on her height, so shoulder-to-shoulder won’t work here for our legs to line up.
“Is this okay?” Her question is kind and soft.
She and I are literary devices in a Rube Goldberg machine. I breathe in her goodness, and a chain reaction triggers the blood pumping its way through my body, loosening the stiffness of my frame. Staley drapes her leg over mine, pushing my words over, and suddenly, we’re two perfectly imperfect human beings in a cuddle puddle positioned right where we belong.
I respond in the best way I know how and with what I know to be true.
“It’s poetic.”