11. Chapter 11 Staley
Chapter 11 Staley
H is reply is unexpected and sincere.
Every part of my brain screams Theo might be exaggerating his response. After all, he is a cuddle virgin and maybe even less experienced than that. For my life, I cannot comprehend how a six-foot-four, curly-haired, green-eyed poetry student hasn’t lived through any funny hand business, let alone never having been cuddled.
It’s not good cuddle etiquette to ask someone if they’ve ever had someone badger their witness or had help evicting testicular squatters. I don’t fancy myself a strong defense attorney or a plumber willing to fix a pipe, but I’m not opposed to changing careers to get to know Theo a little more.
As pissed off as I was when I arrived here today, something about lying next to him brings my temper to a low simmer.
Theo’s breathing is so quiet I look at him to see if he’s fallen asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time a client drifted into dreamland during a cuddle. This comforter must have a nineteen hundred thread count and an entire flock of seagull feathers fluffing it up to the point I’m feeling a little sleepy too.
A nap might be nice after being up all night with Dad. He was more restless than usual, and when I walked him back to bed for the third time, I called sleep a complete and total loss and made myself an espresso with five solid pumps of vanilla bean syrup instead. It’s safe to say I am wide-ass-awake for this cuddle appointment, but Theo looks so tranquil, and I wish the same level of chill flowed through my body.
His broad chest rises and sinks on the exhale, revealing the rhythmic pumping of his heart. Theo shifts his head toward mine, and yes, there is an unspoken something here, which is all fine and dandy as he isn’t much of a talker, but I only have the option of reading his body language. It damn near pains me to hold eye contact with him for more than three seconds; his eyes are a forest of trees, deep and layered cross-sections. But his eyes are round and bright—rare even, the rarest color according to my Human Biology class—and their focus on me is so intent I have to catch my breath. Reciting facts helps to settle my nerves.
“Cuddling is more than physical touch and closeness. There’s a hormonal component to it. It’s science.”
Theo shifts his eyes toward our kissing legs like it’s a punishment to have stared at me for too long. The ceiling is an expanse of tin panels punctured in artistic patterns. I trace them with my eyes for distraction and fill the silence with more science about the benefits of cuddling.
“Physical touch, the good kind, releases oxytocin, also known as the love drug. It makes you feel swimmy and safe, loved even. It can take a person from anxious to relaxed with no signs of adrenaline to speak of. If I were to put my money on a parking lot fight between the two hormones, I’d choose the love drug every damn time.”
“Every time?” There’s no hesitation in his curiosity.
I nod at the space between me and the tin decor above us. The intricate details of Theo’s home tell me he’s an old soul with an ancient desk chair and exposed beam and brick interior. Then there’s the way he drinks hot water, lemon, and honey as if his palate is too expensive for the need to engage his cortisol levels. Our lives are not the same.
Maybe this is how all poets are. Theo is the first one I’ve ever met, so there’s no one to compare him to. I’ve seen pictures of the likes of Poe and Thoreau, and Theo deserves a crown for how goddamn sexy he is in comparison.
I want to hate his position in life, but I only envy it to drive home the sale and keep him wanting more; this is why I’m here. Theo has a lovely house—to himself. A modern, only seen in magazines interior design house with the ability to casually throw one hundred dollars at a service worker as if it’s no big deal.
Meanwhile, I am spooning every man, woman, and person on this college campus to keep the electricity on and my dad safe. Without his medication, I run the risk of increasing his distress, and I can’t bear to put him through more than he’s already endured.
“A forty-minute cuddle session can ease stress, reduce anxiety, improve your immune system, and reduce cortisol levels. I’m not sure why more doctors don’t prescribe mandatory cuddling; with a professional, we know how to use our time well.”
Theo sighs, and his side brushes against my forearm. The minuscule space between us is electric and mildly intoxicating, but in the sort of way where I want to lean into it more; it settles my nerves. Professionalism matters to me, and I don’t dare cross the line for many reasons, consent being one of them and a steady income being the other. A flash of him and I in a full-frontal cuddle shakes my core as guilt floods the rest of my body.
This entire moment has a soundtrack coursing through my mind, Luca Blue narrating the innocent happenings between Theo and me.
Luca would say, Holding hands with you, lying with you, drinking in the image of you. This is how I imagined it would be. I could bend you over—the comforter between your fingers—I’d make you hold on to dear life from one touch of my perfect ton—
Nope, I won’t let that word come to completion.
A shiver. No, a whole bucket of ice water courses down my spine, and I quiver a little. If I was hoping to be less obvious in my attraction, I am failing.
“H-how often do you cuddle?” His voice is soft but tickles a part of my brain with familiarity.
I’ve had my fair share of nervous clients, but Theo is different. Aside from the few things he’s said to me, I can’t make green eyes or locked legs of it because of his limited communication, and I don’t care if he has a stutter. He’s the hottest, most physically hesitant cuddler to date.
“I have my regulars, some I’ve seen since my freshman year.”
If I tell him I see ten to fifteen people a week the judgment will follow.
Theo lies still, unmoving and glued to the cloud beneath us. I get to my knees and stand, circling to the top of his head. I hover over him momentarily.
“I’m gonna switch sides.”
His confusion is not lost on me. There’s a haze to his eyes as I struggle not to stare through his perfect eyelashes. Talking a lot or clamming up tend to be my two default modes when I feel anxiety creeping in, and at this moment, oversharing seems to be winning out.
“Cuddling is similar to exercise. What we do to one side of the body, we do to the other. I’d hate for you to walk around with one of your legs feeling all kinds of stressed out.”
His eyes clamp shut as his perfect, delicious lips get chewed up by his pearly whites. Theo is either in total distress, or he’s thinking about the same kind of leg as I am. I’m bordering on unprofessional right now and need to move the energy back to what I’m here to do—my job.
I must treat him as Cuddle Like You Mean It expects me to. He’s a client paying money for a service, a hot-as-hell client, but a client all the same. With every other cuddler I support, the structure is inherently the same.
Arrive at the client’s house, usually a dorm. Maneuver my way through the halls by stepping over couples head-to-head with their legs stretched out, duck under the occasional football spiraled through hallways, and make sure there’s not a sock on the doorknob before I attempt to enter.
We exchange pleasantries, allow the client to update me on anything new in their life, and then cuddle. Each person has their preference in what kind of cuddling occurs, and they all have different reasons for hiring me. Theo should be no different.
“When you said you needed practice, what did you mean? Are you afraid of physical touch? Because I can assure you a lot of my clients have a fear of physical intimacy and touch. They become old pros after a few sessions with me, though.”
Theo laughs at my rambling, pulling himself to a seated position. He brings his hand to his mouth, covering up his heated cheeks. My jaw clenches at the notion of being made fun of. If this is some joke to him, I can stop this session dead in its tracks, leaving Theo with zero of my love hormones.
I shoot to my feet and turn on him.
“Something funny?”
The words huff out of me in accusation. Theo’s eyes glisten from cry-laughing so hard. He can’t contain himself until he notices me edging off the blanket, searching for my shoes and belongings. The laughing stops as the air leaves the room, making the curtains cease their push and pull from the open window.
My legs freeze as I stand, magnetized by some force towering from behind, afraid to move or tempted to stay in place to see what happens if I stay put. Theo’s hand reaches for my wrist but misses by a mile and lands on the curve of my hip.
On his first try, Theo finds my crest, the ridge of my pelvis where all my emotions are held. My body responds, settling into the light pressure of his touch.
“W-wait, please d-don’t go. I’m not laughing at you.”
My chest heaves. Thick golden honey pours through my body, and all of time slows. Thinking about his touch in terms of textbook anatomy is the only way for me not to turn on him and press his mouth to mine. It’s my equivalent of guys who think of their grandmas naked and a pitcher on the mound in the ninth inning with all the bases loaded.
I want this interaction to slow down or the gorgeous mahogany floors to split open and swallow me whole. Indecisiveness floods me with solace. It is an unfamiliar feeling I’ve only ever read about in informational pamphlets about anxiety and panic. Distress is my standard dryer setting, so this is new.
“Then why are you laughing?”
As he pulls himself to standing, dropping his forehead to the top of my head, I hear him breathe me in to stifle the laughter emanating from his body—the threat of embarrassment tussles with the softness his nearness provides.
“I laughed the first time because you think I’m afraid of t-touching, and the second time because I find it ch-charming how you refer to yourself in the third person as if you’re a separate person from who is standing in f-front of me.” The depth of his words settles in my bones, turning my insides into jelly.
Theo finishes his little speech in a soft tone with more clarity than the times he’s spoken to me before. This version of him is attractive too. Not because he stumbled over his words less, but because he was so cool when he said it, and now I’m all kinds of hot and riled up.
Anxious people are in a semi-permanent state of choosing between fight or flight, and right now, I choose flight and move away from his touch to face him. The nerve of this guy. It wasn’t even thirty minutes ago he was hugging the world’s most beautiful woman goodbye at his doorstep. He didn’t see me, of course, and now he dares to hold my hips with his strong hands. I shouldn’t feel any sense of jealousy or ownership. Theo can hug whoever pleases.
“What are you afraid of then?”
Because the universe is keen on doing dickish things—like canceling Freaks and Geeks after one season and making my wonderful, caring father suffer at such a young age—my phone rings. It’s as if the floor is an electric field, and I’m being zapped because I jump out of my skin and scramble to answer it, hoping it’s not about Dad.
A growly sigh is all I can make out from Theo’s side of the room. Tingles crawl up the nape of my neck at the sound of him.
It’s Gabby. I text her instead of answering.
Can I call you back? I’m sorta in the middle of something.
A better plan would be to answer the phone and run away. Advice to future me: Don’t choose logic; be a scaredy cat instead.
Annoyance flashes across Theo’s face, and seriously, I cannot get over the audacity of men. He knows nothing about my life or why I would race to pick up my phone. He’s no different than any other client of mine, and I am silly to have allowed myself any deviance of feelings this time, as I’d break off a cuddle with any of them to see if the call was about my dad.
Hypothetically, Dad could call me, but that’s wishful thinking.
Theo stands before me, deer-in-headlights, ticked looking.
“Is there a reason you’re losing air like a tire with a slow leak?” I spit out.
Theo massages the back of his neck, disrupting his loose waves of hair as he kneads away whatever tension I’ve brought into his perfectly coiffed world.
With a sharpness to his tongue, he delivers a command.
“Ask me again.”
So direct.
“Ask you what?”
“What I need practice with.”
I’ve never been good at rhetoric, and here I thought my life couldn’t get any more complicated. I’m not to be bossed around, but the nagging in my gut is betraying my inclination to walk out the door and leave this object of desire behind. The heavy pull I feel when he speaks leaves me anchored to the floor.
“Fine. Theo, what do you need practice with? And please don’t tell me something lame like working on your fear of spiders.”
Theo pauses, straightening his upper body, and his slow sigh becomes more assured and complete. He saunters off the blanket and stops when we are two feet apart.
“I think someone is at the front door.”
A pounding echoes within my ears. I throw my thumb over my shoulder, confident it’s not my heart rate causing the noise within. Theo cranes his face down the hall, and I stand here, taking advantage of his smell, throwing my downtown region into a floodplain.
He hesitates as I gesture again to the door, anything to get him away from me to quell this overwhelming intensity between us. I need a time-out because my wires are totally crossed. Theo humors me and leaves my side to check the front door.
The universe works in threes, and it’s not lost on me how another ringing disrupts this moment. First my phone, then what I thought was his front door, and now his phone? A machine clicks over, and a lovely voice sings through Theo’s home.
“Theo, it’s Maeve. I’m sure I left my toothbrush there and some clothes in your washer this morning. Can you hang up my delicates? I’ll be back later this week to pick them up. Love you!”
The girl at his front door, maybe? Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I attempt to play the message back to decipher if the love you was friendly in tone or the kind of love people who lay together naked have. Who has answering machines anymore?
“Message deleted.”
Son of a mother-father.
I may as well stop breathing now. The anxiety from the earlier touching and now the current line tapping I participated in while deleting said communication has me in a complete chokehold. I’m embarrassed so much for being professional.
How do I explain my behavior to Theo? He hugs a beautiful woman, and I erase her voice message about proper washing techniques for her lacy undergarments. Nosy stalker, much?
“There’s no one at the door.”
The pounding was your heart, you naive little thing.
Forest eyes connect with mine, and in a weird space-time continuum, Theo and I coexist in a fourth dimension of hell. If I were to check my watch now, it would say I’ve only been here ten minutes, but if I were to hazard a guess, he and I have been standing, feet apart, for ages, studying one another, waiting for time to send us back to the present moment.
“I should probably get going.” I force the words out.
One of his wavy chestnut curls falls into his eyeline when he shakes his head no. Without thinking, I reach to move it away, but my fingers make the slightest contact and pull back because I am many things, and a homewrecker is not one of them.
There are sharks in those waters, Staley—girlfriend sharks.
But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t pay some of my very sparse money to thread my fingers through his hair, raking my nails over his scalp.
I gather my things quickly and press on through a stressed breath, “Class starts soon, and if it’s any help to you, I’m happy to get you another cuddler lined up. If this”—I gesture back and forth between us as if we’re an item—“isn’t what you had in mind.”
Before Theo can put up a rebuttal or try to make me stay, I escape his house with shoes in hand.
Hormones, that’s all this is.
It’s not until I make my way around the corner that I realize I have no idea what Theodore Sullivan is afraid of.