28. Chapter 28 Theo
Chapter 28 Theo
T he fundraiser starts in ten hours, leaving me free time to work through some voice exercises. After our thrift-shop, ice-cream date, I can’t shake the image of Staley in pink from my mind. Spending time with Staley has ingrained itself into my daily regimen, making falling asleep uncomplicated. All I have to do is remember the sensation of her hair as I drag my fingers through it, and a sense of peace welcomes me into slumber.
It’s difficult to remember life before there was a she and I, and it’s an awareness I do not take for granted. My recordings are more frequent and done with less need for me to re-record or take massive breaks in between. Perhaps, on a self-conscious level, I don’t care as much how smoothly I come off anymore. I’m not arrogant enough to think I’m cured, nor do I want to be, but I won’t argue with the ease my body has these days. Managed stress quells my stuttering. This stutter of mine will never go away. I don’t wish for that anymore. Between Barb’s therapeutic kombucha sessions and Staley’s stolen and gifted glances when I’m reading to her, I’ve never accepted how I sound as well as I do now. Staley finds it attractive; honestly, I never thought that someone would.
My chair hugs the weight of me as I slump back because my ego is a heavy son of a gun that has me spun up on the first woman who has taken me to bed. What a cliche I’ve turned into. Staley would call me a simp, but not the kind who has ulterior motives—mine are nothing short of pure, except for the thing she lets me do with my tongue. The things I do to her and with her are from a place of love.
I admire the rich mahogany floors where Staley and I have laid the comforter out more times than I can count. If these wooden floors could talk, they’d say Take it to the bedroom, pal . You’re going to start a fire. I laugh at my ability to personify the ground beneath my feet; Staley is wearing off on me in more ways than one, loosening my ability to be witty, playful, and not guarded all the time. She’s made me love her. At this thought, I let myself sit with what I’ve known to be true from the first day she aggressively hugged me. This was love from the first time we touched.
A trifecta of notifications: my laptop, cell phone, and house phone all clamor at once. The ringer on the landline goes straight to the answering machine.
“Theodore, it’s your mother. As we discussed, you and the volunteers must arrive three hours before the event begins. A suit should arrive at your door in the next hour.”
The answering machine cuts her off. Reluctantly, I open the email and see a forwarded email for the suit purchased by my mother at a price in the thousands.
Outlandish.
The notes show it’s all tailored to my measurements, and I searched my brain for the last time I offered up my waist size or my inseam length.
Maddening.
And because I’m a glutton for punishment, I open the text message, thoroughly disappointed it’s not from Staley.
Your driver is Willard. The suit delivery ETA is ten minutes.
The doorbell interjects the angry thoughts I have conjured about my mother. I could refuse to open the door, but poor Willard would be a victim of my family’s dysfunction. A gentle rap meets the door. A handsome older gentleman with a warm smile greets me when I open it.
“Mr. Sullivan. Your suit.”
He hands the garment bag to me, laying it across my arms as if the multi-piece suit is made of easily wrinkled silk. There is no sense in shooting the messenger. I accept the underhanded gift and offer Willard a gratuity for his time.
Without hesitation, I place the bag in the front hall closet. There’s no need to look at the overpriced monkey suit because I’ve already picked my clothes for tonight—a bold-colored blazer to complement my fearless date and her auburn hair.
***
Mary Oliver once said, “Joy is not meant to be a crumb.” Staley’s liveliness is a fully formed cake and not a pile of scraps. The vibration of her voice finds me first. It is a sound that is neither salt nor sugar, but a tone that ends in a fully formed layer cake and not a pile of crumbs.
Staley huddles in a small semicircle, her back to me, with Maeve and Gabby. Maeve stops talking and offers me a cheeky smile, one I will chastise her for later because she’s supposed to be my best friend and ally, but ever since I’ve become one with Staley, I’ve found my place in line as number three in her eyes.
“Hey, Theo ... does your mother know about this?”
Maeve waves her finger around, addressing my choice of crushed velvet blazer instead of a suit. Staley spins to face me, her eyes glowing with delight at my appearance. The outfit she’s wearing is original at best. Somehow, she managed to make a T-shirt with a Walkman, covered in flowers, look no less formal than anyone else here. The sleeves have been altered, cut, and twisted into coiled straps, accentuating her collarbones. A full midnight-black tulle skirt with a satin waistband hits her at the knee. It’s not pink, but something miles better: It’s all her. The temptation to reach out, stroke her smoothed hair, and cup her chin for a kiss overwhelms me.
We stand here staring at one another as if we’re the only two people in the room. Gabby jabs Staley in the ribs.
“Hey, ya weirdos, we’re still here in case you didn’t notice.”
Staley laughs and leans in for a hug, and I feel her breathe me in. It’s a comfort I didn’t know I needed tonight. Her makeup is light, albeit unnecessary for her natural beauty. I enjoy seeing her in a different light, all the same.
“In case no one has said so, you look completely fuckable in this coat of yours.” She flirts in a whisper.
Mischievous and genuine, her words crash into me as if she is professing her love while clutching the lapels of my coat.
Maeve’s eyes go wide in excitement. She has checked off a box on her bucket list: Get Theo laid, good and proper. Check .
“Have you found your s-seats yet?”
“No, we were waiting to wish you luck first.” Staley gently slugs my upper arm.
“If you c-could keep my m-mother away from me, that would be—” The muscles in my jaw are tense, and I know it’s due to stress.
As if summoned from a ritual performed in the forest, my mother appears at my side with a phony smile.
“Theodore, there you are, darling. I expected you thirty minutes ago. Oh good, you brought Maeve as your plus-one. I suspected you might.”
Maeve is impervious to my mother’s antics and greets her with an equally fake smirk.
“Lovely to see you too, Elizabeth. But I’m not here with Theo. Gabby is my plus-one.”
Gabby bumps Maeve with her elbow. Her cheeks washed over in a blushed state.
“Mother, you remember Staley. She’s m-my plus-one.”
Staley extends her hand, but before my mother accepts the societal norm of shaking one’s hand upon greeting, she draws her eyes from Staley’s feet to her head. It’s barely there, but a small tongue click hits my ears, and I’m seconds away from bailing on this event and taking all my friends with me.
With how my mother shakes Staley’s hand, it might as well be a limp fettuccine noodle. Elizabeth P. Sullivan hates gluten and people who cannot follow a dress code, and this greeting between them exhibits how unhappy she is with both.
“It’s nice to see you again, Ms. Sullivan.”
Maeve isn’t quick enough to hide her snort of laughter.
“And you as well, Staley. We met, but you were dressed differently. Theo, you didn’t tell me you’d be bringing her. You’ll have to forgive my surprise and accept my apologies.”
“Apologies for what?” Staley inquires.
“If I had known you’d be coming, I would have sent you a detailed dress code description.”
Staley pulls back from the handshake, stung by the dig. Protectiveness is a new feeling but spurs me into motion without thinking. Pulling my mother by her elbow out of earshot, I lay into her.
“I will only say this once. You will not insult her again. Do you understand me?”
My warning is a tepid cup of Folgers coffee and not a European espresso ground to a perfect fineness. She attempts to speak, but the bitterness of my words hangs in the air, causing her to think twice before delivering a comeback. When I return to Staley, she smiles at me softly, shaking her head in disbelief. I press her body to mine, and the adrenaline spike crashes at her touch. I’m safe here in her arms. She proves it time and again: With her, I am loved for who I am. Tender apologies tumble from my lips into the expanse of her neck. The muscles in her body repay me in kind as she softens beneath my words.
The sound of a man clearing his voice punctuates my moment with Staley. We both turn to our right and speak simultaneously.
“Harrison—”
“Harrison—”
Staley looks at me wide-eyed, and I return her confused look with an equally perplexed face.
“How do the two of you know one another?” Harrison Phillips is the kind of man the rest of the male species is compared to and measured against. He dons a suit similar to what I suspect is hanging in my closet at home, but here before me, I know he makes it look a million times better than I ever could.
Staley looks at me and starts with what we’re both thinking, “Wait, how do you know Harrison, Theo?” Her hand rests on her waist, exposing a small skin patch beside her belly button. I make a mental note to use my mouth on this delectable part of her body before I undress her later.
Harrison smiles, looking at me, deciding how much he is or isn’t allowed to say.
“Theo and I have worked together a few times. By the way, did you get my most recent correspondence about the analytics for potential expansion?”
“Um, yes. I d-did. It’s been busy with school, and uh”—I glance to Staley nervously and back to Harrison—“with other things. But Staley knows about my side work. You don’t need to speak in code with her present.”
He claps me on the shoulder and eyes Staley, whose face holds many questions.
“No problem, Theo. I can wait. Your work is unique, and TouchPoint would love to set up another meeting with you soon. Whatever you’ve been doing”—Harrison winks at me and returns his handsome face toward Staley—“has been killing the ratings lately. Keep it up. Sponsors are reaching out and want to know if you have a PR rep.”
Understanding the implication, Staley blushes, turning her face into the crook of my arm.
“Staley, how long has it been?” Harrison opens his arms, and Staley obliges him with a familiar hug. I try not to let myself make up a story, not fall into the trap of thinking Staley doesn’t have a past before me.
“Three years now. You look great. How’s Claire?”
At the sound of another woman’s voice, I see a mirror image of my own in Harrison’s face—a man in love. Relief can wash over me at any time, I’d welcome it.
“You’re shocked to see me. I apologize for my sudden appearance. I meant to tell you I’d be in town, but this was a last-minute visit. As for Claire, she’s incredible, running the business better than I ever could.”
I can’t help but press the issue. Call it a residual overflow from the protectiveness I had to exhibit with my mother and the low simmer of jealousy from other male cuddlers, but a new sensation creeps to the surface of my skin. Territorial, but not in the alpha asshole kind of way. Now, I’m the one clearing my throat. Staley beams at Harrison because how could she not?
“And h-how do you know Staley?”
“How do I know Staley? Great question. Can I tell him, Stay?”
Nicknames? Did they date? Sleep together? Buy one another plants and keep them alive to reflect how much they wanted to love and nourish each other?
Staley nods as her cheeks turn the color of cotton candy, and I’m in awe at how she changes color for each of her emotions.
“I was one of Staley’s first cuddle clients. She taught me everything I know. Well, almost everything.”
He winks, and Staley scoffs, and I pray for a swift death where the ocean crashes my body into sharp rocks, and I turn into whale food. Harrison’s phone rings, and he excuses himself by giving Staley a small kiss on the side of her cheek, European in style, but it’s his lips on her body, and I can’t say I’m a fan of this suddenness of new information. Harrison nods at me to end our exchange, a masculine way of saying we’ll catch up soon!
Staley and I stand, mouths agape.
“Is that what you would call serendipity? The two of us both know Harrison Phillips. What a small world. How did you meet Harry?”
“Through Maeve. When she found out I was toying with re-recording, she bullied me into making it a thing. Harrison does all of the talent management for TouchPoint, and we’ve met over video chats a few times. Nice g-guy. Is he married?”
“Long story short, Harrison was head over heels for a girl out of his league—Claire—but he was also processing a lot of trauma and wasn’t as emotionally available as he could have been—and yes, he is.”
This sounds familiar.
“He was this closed-off, sad person when I met him. The Harrison we’re looking at now is almost unrecognizable. Have you met Claire? She’s a badass.”
Relief floods my chest, and I shake my head no.
The stop-clapping-idiots-so-the-presenter-can-speak music sings through the hall as the fundraiser begins. I secure the sole button in the middle of my blazer. Mother stands at the podium, addressing the crowd as Staley looks up to me and wishes me luck. The squeeze of her hands tells me it’s all fine. But is it? I’ve become more confident in her presence, but this room is filled.
“Ladies and esteemed gentlemen. It would not be a successful charitable event without your gratuitous check-writing abilities and the generosity of donations from TouchPoint and the Clayton Corporation. Now, to introduce my son, a person, like many others for whom this sort of charity exists. Theodore Sullivan is a bright young man who has struggled with the spoken word for many years.”
Angles of light cast across the stage, guiding me to the podium where Mother hugs me, leaving enough room for Jesus, for fear the fabric of my blazer will cause her to break out in hives. Four deep breaths is all I need before I lock my eyes on Staley’s table. Her outline is in my sights, along with my friends, new and old. My heart settles as I prepare to read what I’ve written for her.
With Staley’s encouragement, I added some jokes to help the crowd loosen up before hopping right into the meat of my speech. The crowd is kind and laughs more than I expected. Deep breaths and courage from the soles of my feet propel me forward into the next part.
“Without p-poetry, I wouldn’t be who or where I am today. My st-tutter has nothing to do with literacy, but it does—”