Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ivy
Here's the thing. You know how I mentioned I'm going to tell my friends about this, and you said "go for it?"
Well, that was true. It was just more true than you realize.
I'm going to tell a few hundred thousand strangers on the internet about it. And, hopefully, a few hundred thousand more. If things go well, maybe an extra million.
It's technically within the realm of our agreement, but we didn't exactly specify this part…
I smooth my slacks as I settle onto the bed. We're in Romeo's bedroom today. Only it doesn't seem like the bedroom of a teenage boy. More like a room an older woman would design for a young man.
A thick oak desk, a leather chair, wine-red sheets, dark paint on the wall. I can't tell the exact color in the dim lighting. A sort of purple, maybe. Or a burgundy that matches the sheets.
"Did you decorate this room?" I ask.
Romeo falls into the big leather chair like he's auditioning for the role of an all-powerful billionaire in a cheesy movie.
"You mean this East coast old money aesthetic?
" He shakes his head. "No. This was the way my great-aunt did it.
As a guest room. She married into money.
And then she died suddenly, and we inherited the place, and we never changed it, I guess. "
"What about Daniel? Is his room the same?"
"It's a little softer. More artistic," he says. "Mom added some paintings."
"But still leather and oak?"
He nods yes.
"How old were you when you moved here?" I ask.
"He was fifteen," he says. "I was thirteen."
"Was it strange, having all that money, all of a sudden?"
"We didn't have as much as you'd think," he says. "Once we paid off the mortgage and put aside enough for school and property taxes, we had the house and that was it. But it was still strange. Like I was visiting a world I'd only dreamed about."
He looks to the door as footsteps move down the hall. Cynthia and Daniel, from the sound of it. They're moving fast but not in a rushed, frantic way.
They seem more at ease right now.
Or maybe I don't have a good gauge on this at all.
"We don't have to play Mom's game," Romeo says. "But we can. If you want."
"Do you have something to confess?" There's a playfulness to my voice. I don't expect it. I suppose it's easier, letting my tone get flirty, rather than consider the actual implications of the question.
"It's a hard question to answer, isn't it? Is there something I should tell you that I haven't? It's the sort of thing you could answer, but only after I told you."
"Like a paradox?" I ask.
He nods.
"Or maybe that means you're not hiding anything."
"Or I'm too used to hiding things."
"It would make sense. Given the nature of your work."
He chuckles. "Go on, Doctor Vaughn."
"Sorry. Bad habit." I press my hands together. Shift my weight on the bed. We're across from each other, but that almost feels more intimate. Like we're teenagers hanging out at our parents' house, like we're used to sharing things casually.
I can say this.
It's not a big deal.
Really, I should be honest.
I take a deep breath and let out a steady exhale. "I should tell you something. Probably."
"Oh." He raises a brow and motions for me to go on.
"I am telling people about you," I say. Strangers, who listen to my podcast. No.
I can't share that with his family so close.
If they don't like my divorce, what will they think of that?
"Colleagues. I'm talking about this experience we're having.
I'm not expressing it as, I, Doctor Vaughn, hired this professional, but I am talking about it, and a lot of people are hearing about it, and I guess I just… wanted to make sure that's okay."
He doesn't hesitate for a minute. "Go for it."
"What if your family finds out?" I ask.
"From your colleagues?"
Or a listener, who puts the pieces together. "You never know," I say.
"Do you use my name?" he asks.
"No," I say.
"Any identifying details?"
"Only the exact spots of your birthmarks." I bite my tongue. I shouldn't be sarcastic. I should be honest. Say no. "I haven’t. I won't."
"Then go for it. As long as I can see the results."
"You mean when I write that book about you," I say.
He smiles. "How Doctor Vaughn Got Her Groove Back? Yes. Of course. As long as I come across as a skilled lover."
I stand and shake. It's a joke, I think, but it feels real.
Honest. Better. I settle into my seat with a lightness in my shoulders.
I'm not a total liar. Only a partial one.
"Is there something you want to tell me?
" It sounds like a cliche 'trap' sort of question.
One a parent offers a child they know misbehaved.
But I don't mean it that way. I don't have anything in mind, really.
He looks me in the eyes and says the last thing I expect. "I like you."
My cheeks flush. My chest too. "You like me?"
"I do." He nods. "I can't remember the last time I liked a woman, that I even considered it.
I don't expect it to go anywhere. I don't expect anything from you.
But I want you to know. Because I do. And, well, I want you to know.
" He smiles in this way that's impossibly shy and confident at once.
"I like that look. Like it means you like me too. "
Am I really smiling that wide? Somehow, I don’t feel about it. "I do. And I don't expect anything, either." But that does bring me to another question. Two actually. "Would you ever expect anything, in the future?"
"In general, or with you?"
"In general," I say.
"I don't know. I haven't considered it in a long time. Most women aren't okay with my line of work. I don't blame them. I wouldn't be okay with it easier. But it's still my job."
"Would you quit?" I ask.
"For the right woman, you mean?" he asks.
For me. One day. I want to ask, but that's crazy, isn't it? We're here pretending we're in a relationship. Not building something real. "Is it something you think about?"
"Who doesn't?" He laughs. "I love my job, most of the time, but some of my clients… but then I think about the look on a woman's face after I bring her to orgasm for the first time in years and I don't know. How could I give that up?"
"Become a sex therapist."
"Work the brain instead. No. I don't have the patience."
"So, your business with your brother… that's not your next full-time job?" I ask.
"It might be," he says. "One day. But not for a while."
“And if you inherit that money from your mom, like she talked about?”
“I’d use it to pay off my mortgage,” he says.
I nod of course as if it doesn't mean anything to me. Like I’m not asking so, are you going to keep sleeping with people for work. Like he isn’t answering yes, of course, it’s my job.
I stop and really consider what he's saying. Or not saying.
He's planning to stay employed as an escort for a long time.
He's not asking if I could live with that, because this is a fake relationship, but he does like me, and I do like him, so it's a fair question to ask.
Some people wouldn't be okay with my job. Some people wouldn't want their partner talking to people about sex all day.
Everyone draws the line somewhere.
And people do have all sorts of arrangements.
It's better to decide yes, monogamy is right for me, and it means this to me, than to assume it's the only choice, and it only means one thing.
I close my eyes and try to imagine that future. A world where I can fall in love, build a life with someone. It would be nice, having a boyfriend with the sort of income a high-end escort demands. Certainly.
But the thought of him spending the night with clients? Or coming home smelling like other women? Or even smiling, with pride, about his work?
I don't think so.
But for some reason, I don't want to come out and say it yet. I don't want to ask the question would you quit this job for love. We're not there yet.
But I do like him. And he likes me. It means something, that neither of us expected this but we found it anyway.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe I don’t need more from him. Maybe I can appreciate this for what it is.
Because nothing is forever. Not marriage or diamonds or love. Eventually, we die, the sun goes supernova, the universe implodes.
Everything ends.
So what if this ends a little sooner than the end of my life? I can still enjoy the ride. I’m determined to enjoy the ride.
So, I ask another question. "What's the closest you've come to love?"
Surprise fills his eyes. He was expecting another question. He smiles, happy to answer. "The woman I dated before Sasha pitched the idea," he says. "She was an artist. Beautiful. Funny. And shy the way you are. This outer innocence that hid an inner boldness."
How can he make a story about another woman flatter me? He is skilled. As a professional. Or maybe he's just charming. There's nothing wrong with that.
"We had a great time together. Great sex. Long days at the beach. There was something about her presence I loved. I didn't need to talk about anything. I could just lie in her bed while she sketched me. Or while I studied for a test."
"That almost sounds innocent," I say.
"I guess, in a way it was." He shakes his head as if to say just not the way people usually mean it.
"She'd been in relationships before. I hadn't.
So, I didn't realize we never actually talked.
I didn't know much about her, here." He taps his head.
"Or here even." He puts his hand over his heart.
"One day, she woke up, and she realized that.
She didn't want to be with some heartless business student.
Even if he was handsome and witty. No." He laughs.
"I added witty. She didn't care about that.
She thought talking was wasting air. She was…
intense. I loved it, but I didn't love her.
I loved the idea of her, the idea of loving someone. "
"I get that."
"After we broke up, it was obvious. I was trying it on. Maybe that's what all relationships are. You try someone on. See how they make you feel, if they fit into your life, if your family approves."
"Did they?" I ask.
"Dad loved her. Daniel, no, but he never approves of anyone."
"Amara?" I ask.
He taps his chin, trying to remember. "I don't think so. I don't think she tried hard enough to learn Italian."
“But she’s fluent in Spanish,” I say.
“That’s Mom.” He shakes his head at the memory. "She's always been particular."
"She still is. I, uh… I don't think she likes me."
Surprise spills over his expression.
"I guess that's what I should tell you, really. She made it clear my divorce is an issue. So, uh, what do you want to do if that's how this goes?"
"If she doesn't approve because you've been divorced?" he asks.
I nod. "Because I think that's how it's going to go. She's going to take you aside and tell you she doesn't approve. And then, there goes your wedding present. There goes the money to pay off your condo. So if you want to call this early, I understand. I don't want to waste your time."
He looks at me funny. "Is that what you want, Ivy? Do you want to call this early? I won't stop you. I never would. If you want to walk away now, just say the word, and I'll drive you home."