Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Romeo
On the drive home, I try to think of a way to pitch this to Ivy. This could be a regular thing.
She makes appearances as my girlfriend in exchange for benefits.
Hell, I can pay her.
I have the money for it.
She's right. I should have hired someone in the first place. Then I'd be in control. Then we'd both know exactly where we stand.
Money for time.
No questions about feelings.
No confusion about how much I like her.
Or whether or not I could do this sort of thing for real.
I haven't had a girlfriend since college. And I wasn't exactly boyfriend of the year then.
And with my job—
How the hell could that ever work?
And what if it's the only thing that does?
Maybe I want this too. For another six months. Two years.
Indefinitely.
By the time we arrive home, I'm ready to offer her cash. Or sex every night we're together.
Is that what she wants?
Or does she want what every normal person wants?
A partner who loves her.
After a quick lunch, we move on to our next activity, an intimacy exercise. Thirty minutes to sit across from each other, hands pressed together, staring into each other's eyes as we share anything that comes to mind.
The idea is to build a safe space. A place to say anything. Even if it feels uncomfortable. Even if we're afraid of how our partner will react.
Ivy nods along with Mom, but the second we're alone, in her room, her posture shifts. Her shoulders tense. Her body curls inward.
She's uncomfortable.
Why?
I want to know. I want to ask. I want to stare into her eyes and spill my deepest secrets. But what would I even say? For years, I've been lying to everyone I know. It's as natural as breathing.
The truth is a foreign concept to me.
What else can I say? Besides hey, I work as an escort.
But that's not the full story. Not even close.
As far as she knows, I'm some sort of perfect picture of a male companion. And how would she know otherwise?
That's the image I'm trying to sell her.
The image I'm trying to sell myself.
Sure, I've talked about my inability to tap into my own urges, but I haven't shared the really ugly stuff.
The number of clients, past and present. The way my mind goes straight to my bank balance when I meet a new one, no matter how kind—or even sexy—she is.
The way a neat stack of twenties makes my blood rush south and my stomach churn at once.
But that's the weird thing.
I want to tell her. I want to show her these ugly, hidden sides.
It's terrifying. And thrilling.
"Are you okay?" I ask. It's a simple question. Matter-of-fact. That's where I want to be with her. In a more honest place. Whatever that means.
She thinks for a long moment, then she speaks in a clear, even voice. "This is another couple's therapy exercise." She moves to the window and stares at the view of the backyard. It's a beautiful day. Sunny and bright. The picture of Southern California luxury.
"And you're tired of prescribing them…" I try to make a joke, but it comes out flat. Humor is a defense, after all. She's not dropping hers, but she's brave enough to admit it.
"No, uh…" She runs her fingers over the windowsill.
"I shouldn't deflect."
"You're good at it." She keeps her eyes on the backyard. "It's probably served you well. In life. And your job." It's a matter-of-fact observation.
And it's true. So why does it feel like an accusation? It's nothing she saying. It's the reflection in the window. The parts of myself I don't like. The parts of myself I need to change. "It has."
"You're very charming. If you wanted, you could probably get through an entire marriage on flattery and humor." She turns back to me with a frown. "Sorry. I don't mean that how it sounds."
"Isn't that the exercise? We're supposed to be honest, even if it hurts."
"We're not doing the exercise," she says.
I try to hide the disappointment in my expression. "I'd like to try."
"Oh." Surprise fills her green eyes. "But you…"
"Never say anything honest?"
"No. You're far more clever than that." She half-smiles. "You say things with this sheen of honesty. There's one big honest thing, but the overall statement isn't quite truthful."
"That sounds philosophical."
"I guess I've thought about it a lot," she says. "I see a lot of variations. Ways people are 'honest' without being truthful."
"What's the difference?" I ask.
"Vulnerability." One word. No questions. That's it. In her personal and professional opinion.
It is the thing I'm lacking.
"We don't have to talk," I say. "That's not a requirement of the exercise."
She looks to the bed. "Five minutes. That's all I'm offering."
I take the win. "Shall we sit?" I motion to the comforter.
Ivy nods and slides onto the soft fabric cross-legged.
I take the spot across from her and hold out my arms.
She presses her palms against mine. She meets my gaze.
At first, the eye contact feels normal. I'm used to looking into people's eyes. Even staring into a stranger's eyes.
But as it goes on, something in me stirs. Warmth builds in my chest. Spreads out through my torso, down my arms and legs, all the way to the place my fingertips touch hers.
My stomach flutters. My throat gets dry. For a long moment, I'm nervous. Scared of how open I feel.
How deeply she can see inside me.
How deeply I can see inside her.
Then the fear settles back into warmth. An excitement. A comfort.
It doesn't make sense. They're opposites. But they're both inside me. Not dueling. Playing together.
A desire to share myself with her. A drive to see more of her. A safety. A trust.
When is the last time I felt that?
She stares back for a long time. I'm not sure how many minutes have passed when she looks aside.
"I'm sorry. I just… I did this with my ex-husband. We went to counseling when we were trying to fix things. But we couldn't. I thought I was over that. Over failing at this thing I swore I could do for life. But I'm not."
How could anyone see her as a failure? She's got a PhD. A successful business. A brilliant mind.
But I know better than to object. It's not as if everyone sees me as a success just because I own a condo in Newport.
"What is that like?" I ask.
"Failing at marriage?" She flops onto her back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling.
"It's strange. I never wanted to get married.
When I was younger, I imagined my life as this strong, independent woman.
But I fell in love. And I fell into that relationship.
Marriage seemed like the next logical step.
And I enjoyed it. I liked waking up next to someone.
I liked sharing chores. I liked having someone to hold me if I had a bad day.
I liked making plans together. I got so used to it…
to this spot he had in my life, that I accepted things, no matter how hard they felt. "
"What made them hard?"
"I don't know. That's the thing. I still can't explain it.
And I know better. I know that isn't the answer.
The reasons don't matter. There's no use in identifying the exact spot where our paths diverged, or the moments where I should have said something else, because I don't need to go back and fix it.
I don't want to fix it. We were right to separate.
And I'm not worried it will happen again, because I won't be with him again.
I'll be with someone else. But my brain still keeps going back to it again and again. "
"It's hard to move on from something you don't understand," I say.
She nods exactly. "I tell my clients to 'make up a story' if they need something.
Because it's better to tell a story you understand, one you can accept.
That helps you move on. But, for some reason, I can't get my brain to do that.
It keeps looking for the places I needed to try harder, do better, listen more. "
"Maybe you needed to try less."
She nods. "I did. I needed to stop trying so hard… but that's so far outside my skill set." She laughs. "I miss parts of him, sometimes, but it's not really about him. It's about the failure."
"Have you failed at anything before?"
"Not often."
"It sucks," I say.
"When have you ever failed?" she asks. "Sorry. I didn't mean that as an accusation."
"It's a fair question. I've never loved someone. I've never tried. So, who do I think I am, telling you how to feel about your relationship?"
"You're not… but that is true."
"I haven't failed at love. You're right there. But it's because I haven't tried. And isn't that a sort of failure?"
"Yeah, but it's a cop-out too."
"I failed chemistry," I say. "In high school. I had to take it twice."
"That's a start." She rolls onto her side and looks up at me. Still sad, but a little softer. "What else?"
"A lot of clients," I say.
She motions for me to go on.
So, I do. "There was a woman who wanted a Dom. Sasha told me it was an easy gig. All I had to do was show up in a suit and use a firm voice and the client's excitement would do the rest. But I couldn't even order her out of her dress."
"Really?" she asks.
I nod. "I tried, sure. I stood up straight and I dropped my voice as low as it would go, and I channeled Sasha and said the words.
'Take off your dress.'" I try to remember exactly how I went.
The way it sounded like a question. Or a plea.
"It was an early client. I didn't have the confidence.
I'd never tried that sort of thing before.
And she saw it immediately. She gave me another few minutes then asked me to leave. "
"Really?"
I nod. "Asked Sasha for a refund. Which we provided. After all, I couldn't deliver."
"Was it hard?" she asks. "To learn how to… turn on that mode?"
"With some people, it was easy," I say. "When I was younger, I was good at seducing with charm.
Especially when I leaned into that image of myself as a Latin lover.
Or a master in the language of love. 'Mi amore' did all the work for me.
When I could turn that on, I did well with clients.
But when people wanted anything else, I was lost. I didn't know who else I could be.
I didn't know who I was. I still don't."
"That must eat at you," she says.
"It can."
"Why do you stay at your job, then?"
"Why does anyone?" I ask.
"Really." She sits up and looks me in the eyes. "You're good at it, I know. You came highly recommended. And that rec came with another. But you built the business well too. The website, the cards, the aftercare. And your family seems to think you're doing well."
"No. Daniel thinks Mom gives me money. Mom thinks Daniel has me on the payroll. Neither of them is willing to really ask about it."
"Why not tell them the truth?"
"Why not tell my family I'm an escort?"
"Sure, there are obvious reasons. But if you're proud of your hard work, why not? Besides the those reasons?"
"I'm not sure I can get beyond the obvious reasons."
"Try."
"Is this Doctor Vaughn or my fake girlfriend?" I ask.
"Let's say it's your friend, Ivy." She sits up a little straighter. Looks at me a little more sharply. Not with judgment. As if she really wants to know. Really wants to see inside me. "That's one reason. What else is there?"