Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Danny sits at the dinner table, as directed, looking like a troublemaker in detention. I cross to him, handing him an oversized sheet of white paper and a box of eight crayons.
He smirks. “Crayons?”
“It will help you get in touch with your inner child. Smell them.”
“I’m not smelling crayons, Theranos.”
“I’m your life coach, and I’m telling you to smell the crayons. Trust me.”
Danny sighs and grabs the box from me, opening it. Then he takes a tentative sniff, his amber eyes on mine.
“See?” I say encouragingly. “Close your eyes. Right now, olfactory signals are flooding your limbic system, reminding you of past experiences. Scent memories are old but well protected, like art in a temperature-controlled museum, so they come to us in vivid detail.”
As Danny breathes in the papery, waxy smell, a small line etches itself between his thick brows.
“Good,” I say, watching his face intently.
Some clients smile at the familiar scent of crayons.
Others frown. But Danny seems to be locking his expression away, experiencing his memories somewhere I can’t see their effect.
“Now, open your eyes, and with childlike honesty, I’d like you to draw the origin point of your map here on the left.
This is where you are now, your ‘before photo’ if you will, warts and all.
Then on the right, I want you to draw your goal.
Where you want to be at the end of our twenty days together. ”
Danny rolls his eyes but shakes out the crayons onto his dining table. I hide a small smile. Clients groan all the time about these exercises, but eventually they follow my directives and that’s what counts. He selects the red, and hunches over the paper.
“I’ll leave you to it while I finish up in the kitchen,” I say, standing. People are always more forthcoming in their artwork when it’s created in privacy.
I idly open Danny’s fridge, expecting it to be filled with fluorescent pseudo-food products like his cupboards, but am pleasantly surprised to see greens.
Proteins. Fruits. Nothing is prepped into individual military-style containers, as is my custom.
But still, a quick stop at the shop for a plant-based protein, and it will be easy to construct something macro-friendly for meatless Monday tonight.
I open my canvas bag looking for his training bible, the leather binder his manager Bill gave me, but come up empty.
Shoot. Did I really lose it already?
Oh. It’s not lost. It’s sitting on the glossy stone island in Casey’s kitchen.
I’d brought by one of Zoe’s batting gloves as an excuse to see him and soaked up several blissful minutes drinking iced tea together on his front porch swing.
No girls to distract us. No Helena to ruin the long hug he gave me when I left.
Ten minutes later, Danny’s kitchen is reorganized, and I’m infused with optimism. Not only did Danny work studiously the whole time, as requested, but I’ll get to see Casey again tonight when I pick up my binder.
“All finished with your map?” I say brightly. “The artwork doesn’t need to be perfect, it’s just to get an idea of your overall goal so we can outline the benchmarks needed to get you there.” I peer over Danny’s shoulder like a teacher in primary school.
“Almost done. But I couldn’t get your lips right.” He turns to look at me, his eyes snagging on my lips. He grabs carnation pink and adds some fullness to the page. “There. Better.”
I take in what he’s drawn. In the origin corner of the map, he’s drawn me, although in caricature form and far prettier than I am in real life. He’s given me proper hips and modest yet enhanced breasts, plump lips, and a sensual expression I’m sure I’ve never made. At least not while sober.
But I’m surrounded by the cascading flames of hell, in a rocky cavern, two pert little devil horns sprouting up out of my blonde chignon.
“You said draw where I am,” he says, pointing to a figure that must be him, although it’s much less detailed than my she-devil.
He’s sitting at a table, closing his eyes, a crayon box to his nose.
He even got the eyebrow crease right. “This is where I am. In hell. Because my manager rented me a babysitter who makes me smell crayons.”
He leans back in his chair, arms folded defiantly in front of his chest.
“For the last time, I am not a babysitter,” I say, my voice clipped. I point to the right quadrant of his paper where he was supposed to draw his goal. “Why didn’t you finish?”
Danny rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not as easy as it looks.”
“It’s simple. Just draw where you want to be in twenty days—in the octagon with one arm raised in victory.”
“Can we move on to the next mind control exercise, Madam MK Ultra? Is there some glue you want me to sniff next?”
“Fine.” I fold the paper into a crisp line. “You can try again after dinner.”
Danny puts the crayons back in the box in rainbow order. He doesn’t meet my eye when he asks, “Have you ever done one? The sniff crayon, draw map business?”
“I’m the coach, not the client.”
“Oh, that’s a yes.”
It is a yes, but there is no way he’ll ever see it. It’s hidden in my lingerie drawer like a waiting promise.
“I need to run a personal errand,” I say, glancing at my watch.
“I’ll stay here.”
I catch his eyes flicking over to his bar cart.
“That’s not a good idea,” I say.
“Why?” He stands and walks to it, his hands caressing the tops of the bottles, deciding.
“Because I’m supposed to chaperone you twenty-four/seven, and I’ve seen you swiping.” My eyes drop to the phone peeking out of his jean pocket. “I don’t want to come back and find even more naked women in this apartment.”
Danny uncorks a bottle of cab franc and pours two glasses. “I wouldn’t do that knowing you’re staying here tonight,” he says, crossing to me. His body presses tenderly against my personal space bubble as he holds out the wine glass. “It would be inappropriate.”
“I’m afraid there’s no wine during training,” I say, staring at the glass, disappointment creeping into my voice. God, how I want that wine.
“One glass fits in my macros. Besides, the way I see it, training really starts tomorrow.” He sinks the glass into my hand, our fingertips grazing. “And for the record, if you leave me alone,” he says, his voice dropping low, “I’ll behave.”
A ragged breath escapes me as he looks into my eyes. My cheeks and chest erupt with heat.
Get a grip, Lauren.
“No wine,” I say, taking both glasses and pouring the wine into the sink.
“Hey!” Danny exclaims.
“Sorry. Rules are rules. And Bill said to watch you every second, so you’ll just have to come run my errand with me.”
Danny grumbles, corking the wine bottle.
I cover a small smile. Round one to Lauren.
We drive to Casey’s house just as the sun is dipping below the still snow-capped Olympic mountains.
“Sorry it took so long to get here,” I say, checking all my mirrors before pulling off the freeway. “I know I drive like an old lady.”
“Why rush a beautiful drive,” Danny murmurs, his elbow out the open window as he adjusts the music and tilts his head back on the headrest.
I pull up to the curb because Helena’s red Audi is parked in the driveway. Danny must notice a change in my energy because he shifts in his seat. “You know, we can always grab the binder later. I know my macros by heart.”
“It’s fine,” I sigh, hating that I overshared the night we met. Hating that he knows how Casey dating makes me feel alone in the world. “I need to pop in and say goodbye to the girls in person anyway. I can’t just disappear from their lives without giving them each a hug.”
The words bring up my own temperature-controlled memory. Of Zoe as a kindergartener sitting in the school office with her Dora lunchbox on her lap, her shoes barely grazing the floor, waiting for me to come get her the day her mother died. Guilt and grief interlace fingers around my heart.
“OK.” Danny shrugs and opens his car door.
“What are you doing?” I say, frowning.
“Popping in.”
“Oh no. You stay in the car. And don’t talk to anyone,” I say, glancing around the quiet street. “Lord knows there are some thirsty cougars in these parts.”
“Suit yourself, Theranos.” He settles back in his seat, and gently flutters his eyes closed. “And don’t call people cougars. Last I checked, women don’t have expiration dates.”
“Fine. Just please stay put.” I shut the door and tromp across the wet grass to Casey’s front door.
Then I’m not sure what to do. This is unknown territory now that Helena is in the picture.
Using my key and barging in suddenly feels wrong.
I stand at the front door shifting my weight, noticing formerly unseen blemishes in the wood. Cracks in the paint, flaking and dusty.
The door whooshes open with a shout of, “Auntie Lauren!” and Emma is bouncing on one foot in mismatched jammies.
Casey knows to make them wear pajamas in matching sets so they fade simultaneously in the wash, but clearly Helena favors a more free-range sartorial approach.
“I saw you from the window. Did you lose your key?”
“Ah … yeah. I must have misplaced it. Hi, Ems.” I kiss her head and she leads me into the house, chattering away.
“Miss Helena is here too. And now that you’re here, it’s a party! I love parties. We are having steak and asparagus. I’ll share my asparagus with you. You can have the bottoms.”
“Steak?” I say, trying to keep the waver out of my voice. On meatless Monday?
“Oh, hi,” Casey says, his eyebrows raised as Emma leads me into the kitchen.
Zoe’s face mirrors her father’s as she looks up from where she’s using a pastry brush to paint spiraled potatoes with butter alongside Helena.
“Dad, I forgot to tell you, but Auntie Lauren texted that she’s stopping by to get her binder,” she says, dropping the brush and coming to stand next to me, looking guilty.
“I can see that,” Casey says, flicking a glance at Helena before coming to give me a hug. “Want some wine? Helena brought an excellent red blend.”