Emee #2
“I can’t see him tonight,” I say, my belly rolling in anticipation of my third date tonight with the latest guy I met on Hollar.
“But I had a cancellation at eight am tomorrow. And go over the Cuddler Client Code of Conduct and prep work with him. I’m not giving him any leeway. He screws up, I still get paid.”
Milton thanks me, and we wrap up the appointment details, signing off as my tense attention turns to the mess of my sibling, who has taken a seat on the edge of my Adrian Pearsall glass-topped coffee table.
“There are many places here meant for sitting.” I push back from my desk, grabbing a handful of Kleenex from the box next to my monitor, taking three steps before dropping them on the Coke stain, applying pressure with the toe of my white sneaker.
“Do you need something? I need to get ready to go somewhere.”
He doesn’t ask where, which is no surprise these days.
His face erupts in a wide, forced smile, showing off the hit his teeth have taken from his lifestyle choices. “I’m in a bind, Carrot.”
Here we go.
My gut turns sour as I drop to my knees to work at the last stubborn specks of the brown stain. If that spot doesn’t come out, I won’t be able to sleep.
Benjamin looks strangely excited. “You working with Hertzof? That’s promising.”
“You are not supposed to know about that,” I bark, pointing the handful of tissues his way while silently admonishing myself for allowing him to overhear my conversation. “You hear me? That’s confidential.”
Following rules and keeping my practice squeaky clean are front and center in my business plan. One screw up as a newly-licensed therapist could spell disaster.
He raises his hands, the can of Coke wobbling as my temples throb. “Don’t get your tutu in a twist. I’m just saying—”
“What do you want? I have things to do.” It’s nearing six o’clock and contrary to what most people may think, cuddling people all day can take it out of a girl.
“Okay, okay. Just, my rent is due—”
I cut him off, dabbing angrily at the carpet. “I gave you rent money already this month. Try again.”
“I have business I’m trying to get off the ground, Em. I just need…like, a grand. Two at the most. Takes money to make money, ya know?”
“Two grand?” I huff, swallowing down a string of curse words. “A thousand, and that’s it for this month.”
The pressure inside my skull grinds toward the point of no return. The co-dependence is strong here, which only makes me feel more helpless.
I push to my feet moving back to my desk, grabbing my vintage Dior purse from the bottom drawer of my credenza and count out ten hundred-dollar bills from the envelope of cash one of my clients always hands me on his first appointment of the month.
He pays in advance for his two sessions a week where I simply sit with his head in my lap while he naps.
I’m pretty sure the cash isn’t from above board business dealings, but I have no proof, and even underworld mob bosses need a safe, soft place to land from time to time.
Benjamin sets the dripping can of Coke on the coffee table, right next to the stack of coasters, rubs his hands together, and wobbles to his feet.
I shove the money his way, swallowing down all the questions and bottom lines I’d like to discuss. But it’s my turn for a little stab at some happiness.
Or at least some distraction.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as he whistles and counts the bills, then I grab his shoulders, spinning him toward the door with a soft shove.
“Thanks, sis,” he says with a wink, and a sadness creeps through my heart, hearing Mom’s voice, telling me it’s the woman’s job to be responsible because men are pigs.
Her own actions said otherwise, but I was always the pleaser.
Still whistling, he’s out the door, stuffing the cash into his pocket, phone in his other hand, dialing God knows who. I know that money will likely be gone by midnight.
Not my problem right now, I tell myself as I lock the office door and check my Apple watch.
6:04 PM. Heartrate 180.
Shit. I’m off my schedule. I wanted to be getting dressed by six.
I scurry into the back-office space, the patchouli oil and citrus blend in the oil diffuser sending a calming fresh scent billowing around the room.
There’s an oversize low king bed, covered in cream and white linen bedding and pillows.
There are two overstuffed chairs in a dusty blue, and a sumptuous sofa draped with faux fur throw pillows and blankets.
This is where the cuddling happens, along with a lot of tears and confessions. Also, some snoring. And at least I hope, some healing.
I swing open a door to a large closet filled with mostly stretchy pants, t-shirts and tank tops with my company name and logo.
The outlier in the sea of yoga pants is a scarlet red dress I scored at one of the resale shops I scour weekly when I need some retail therapy.
This dress is the poster child for pushing outside my comfort zone. It’s vintage Galliano, with its cinched waist and corset-looking bodice. My boobs are going to look epic, I think as I strip down and tiptoe into the washroom to freshen up.
With my hair already done, I contemplate wearing the Skims mid-thigh control deal I bought to go with the dress, but decide to give-no-fucks and ride this ride without fear I wiggle and tug the stretchy fabric over my hips and down my legs.
The side zipper fights me for a second on the way up, pinching at my pale skin, but I win the battle without so much as a curse word.
With a new coat of Tart Cherry Everlast lipstick, I slip on my new boots, then add a squirt of perfume, grab my keys, credit card and ID, re-homing them into a sparkly little black clutch purse, and I’m out the door.
The dress is second skin snug, but I feel womanly and sexy, and I don’t miss the look Jack the security officer behind the desk on the main floor gives me as I pass.
He’s harmless, so whipped by his wife I’m envious.
I’m a curvy girl, but I have no shame about my body.
I eat well, enjoy life and do yoga daily.
If someone is turned off by a type-A size-fourteen redhead with a high emotional IQ, that’s on them, not me.