Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Romeo
"How's this?" Daniel adjusts the knot of his purple tie and studies his reflection in the mirror. Since he's following strict wedding protocol, he hasn't seen Cynthia's dress. He only knows it's purple.
She refused to help him with the exact shade, too. Said she'd rather they blend in a beautiful harmony of hues. Or some woo-woo bullshit like that.
He barely had time to buy four different purple ties. He was too busy going over my numbers. Trying to figure out how we could maximize Sasha’s and my business by increasing our employees.
I tried to explain it to him—that would make him a pimp—but he didn't quite grasp the implications.
My brother, the naive one.
It's a strange feeling. One I want to share with Ivy. But she's not here.
She ran. She didn't run back.
I know, I could reach out. I could talk to her, tell her I understand. And I will. I'll say something, at some point. I'm just not sure what or when.
My head is still fuzzy.
Damn, I wish she was here. I miss her in this way I don’t recognize. A way I haven’t felt before.
Is that love? This gaping hole when you lose someone?
No wonder I have so many clients asking me to pretend to love them, on their terms.
Watching the person you love walk away is miserable.
I try to shake off my funk, to focus on my brother’s wedding, but the weight of it remains. A heaviness in my chest. A crushing sense of emptiness.
All these feelings I’ve ran from, for my entire life.
"It brings out the honey in your eyes," I say, dragging myself back into the here and now.
"Is it close to her dress?" he asks.
I mime zipping my lips. It's too fun playing with him. After all, how often does your older brother get married?
How often does he need your wisdom to do it?
"Rome," he stresses.
"She'll like it."
"Will it match?"
"Yes." I motion to the tie that's a little more vibrant. "But that one will look better."
"Thank you." He switches ties and checks his reflection in the mirror again.
We're in his old bedroom. It's a small space for both of us, and it's strange, being here before his wedding. Like we're getting ready for Prom.
Not that we ever went to a dance together. No, the only time we ever attended an event together was when Cynthia begged me to make it a group thing, so she'd get the chance to dance with Daniel.
But he spent the entire time acting as chaperone to all my younger friends.
He perfects the tie, smooths his suit, checks himself out in the mirror again.
"You look good," I say. "Like a groom."
"I do, don't I?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
He smiles in a dopey in-love way I don't recognize. But that's on me. I haven't been looking.
I haven't been here.
I let all my bullshit come between us.
Daniel had plenty of his own, but I didn't give him a chance to play, really. Not with our communication consisting entirely of lies.
He still doesn't know Ivy and I weren't really dating. But I think that's an acceptable white lie.
After all, I really felt things for her. So, what's it matter what we technically called the relationship?
"Have you talked to her?" The man seems to read my mind.
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
"I don't know what to say."
"That doesn't sound like you," he says.
"It's a strange sensation."
Again, he smiles in that knowing older brother way. "You really like her."
"You keep saying that."
"It continues to surprise me." He turns and raises a brow. "I listened to the episodes, the two she apparently recorded here."
"Oh? Any notes on my performance?"
He waves me away. "It sounds like she really likes you. Maybe you should reach out. Let her know it's okay she shared that. It is okay, isn't it?"
"I told her she could tell anyone," I say. "Technically, yes."
"But you didn't think she was using you for content?" He smiles in a knowing way. "Yeah, she crossed a line, but I think you could learn something, too. You're too used to being in control, Rome. But that's not love. You have to let go. You have to trust someone else with the reigns."
"What if they steer you off the cliff?"
"Then you pick yourself up and climb back up the hill."
"Sounds fucking painful," I say.
"It is." He nods. "But it's worth it."
I reach for my phone reflexively. Stop myself just in time.
He shakes his head. "You have half an hour. And you know Cynthia is going to be late. So more like forty-five minutes."
"An hour even."
He smiles that same lovesick smile. "Give her a chance."
I suppose I could at least send her a can we talk text.
I unlock my phone, open my messaging app, start typing. Can we talk is too simple. I need to say more. To say I really like you. Or I know this was my idea. How can I fault you for not sharing all these details when I asked you do this, no matter what?
But I feel betrayed anyway.
I wish I knew anyway.
I'm hurt anyway.
Maybe that's trust. Saying I know it's a little ridiculous, but I'm hurt anyway. You hurt me.
And I'm fucking embarrassed that you hurt me, that anyone got close enough to hurt me.
But that's good.
That's progress, I think.
I got hurt, and I survived. And I still care about Ivy.
My phone buzzes.
The space fills.
A message from her. She beat me to the punch.
Ivy: A new episode is dropping in a minute.
It says a lot I needed to say. A lot I'm struggling to say.
I'm sorry I wasn't honest with you. I hope you're doing well. Call me when you have a minute. If you want to talk. And even if you don’t. I want to make sure you’re happy with how I handle the identity of my mystery lover.
I open my podcast app immediately.
It's there. A new episode of Sex and The OC.
The Truth, This Time.
I skip past the introduction and ad break, and I listen to Ivy pour her heart out.
Dear Listener,
It's me, Doctor O, though I suppose most of you have already heard the news. That a few people on the Internet have put together the identity of the man I hired. But that’s not what’s important here. Because this isn’t about his honesty. It’s about mine.
People are putting those details together too. I could say something to throw you off the scent, but I won’t this time. No, this time, I’m going to be honest.
My name is Ivy Vaughn and I go by the alias Doctor O.
Don't worry. I'm not changing my moniker. I'll always by Doctor O, in my heart, but I should confess something:
Until recently, my stories weren't mine. They were my wonderful producing partner's, Mistress Mayhem. See, she's the one who's brave about these things. She's the one who fearlessly charges into sexual situations with strangers.
I've always been on the more timid end of the scale.
At least, that's what I thought, because I only wanted to be with one person, and one person I knew well. A long, long time ago, I fell in love with a man. We had sex. It wasn't great, but it was good enough, and I felt close to him, and I thought that was all that mattered.
Then things changed. We were together long enough for the excitement and novelty to fade. I wanted to find new excitement together. He didn't want to talk about it. He escaped into this other world. Used porn to self-medicate.
And I thought if I tried hard enough, if I learned enough, if I became enough like those women in those videos, maybe he'd want me the way he did.
But it didn't work that way, listeners. Because his interest wasn't about the large breasts or blonde hair or perfectly waxes bikini lines.
He wanted everything on his timeline. On his schedule.
It's common with porn. But it's common in so many other areas in our modern lives too. We open up Instagram to order up socializing on demand. We swipe through Tinder to order a man like we're ordering a pizza. We text a friend because we're lonely, not because we're maintaining a relationship.
In our modern bubbles, we hide from rejection, from vulnerability, from the risk of really depending on someone.
I did that too.
I did that here. I'm your on-demand therapist. The friend available at a click. And I only offered what I was willing to give.
But no more. Yes, I won't share my entire life with you. That's still mine. But I will tell you the truth.
The truth is, I may have a PhD in sex, but I'm no doctor of fucking. I'm not some sort of sex goddess, even if I'm occasionally with a man who makes me feel like one.
The truth is, I'm not good at this relationship thing either.
The truth is, I hurt someone, because I was afraid to share. My history, my failings, my life. Because I wanted to have all the cards. Because I wanted to take the experience and turn it into a story I could tell, a memory, a thing that couldn't hurt me anymore.
I hurt him because I was afraid to fall for him.
But I did anyway.
That's the truth, listeners.
There's no way to connect and protect your heart. It's not possible.
Love and sex are full-contact sports.
There's a high risk of injury.
And I fucked this one.
But enough of my somber story. Back to something a little more fun. After the break. And a preview of next week. We're continuing our series on sex work with a special guest. A professional Domme. You can call her Mistress Pain. Call in with questions. And be nice. She's a friend of a friend.
I pause the podcast and stare down at my phone.
I have to talk to her. Reply. Explain this somehow.
Why I didn’t rush after her.
How foreign these feelings are.
How much I care about her. And want more with her. Want everything with her.
I start to text something, but a knock on the door interrupts me.
Cynthia speaks. "Hey, don't open the door. I know Danny is in there. Hey."
"Hey," he says back.
"I'm scared," she says.
"Don't be. You'll do great," he says.
"I’ve never worn a dress like this," she says.
"I bet you look beautiful," he says.
"Thanks." She runs her fingers over the door. "Sorry, I actually came for Rome. Ivy is here. And she wants to talk.”
My body fills with nervous energy. It’s a good sign, if she came all this way, but I’m not ready to assume it means she wants everything. I want it too much. I’ll be too crushed if it’s not the case.
“Did you see that episode drop? Have you listened yet? What does it say? Oh my god, that will take my mind off things. Good thinking. Well, hop on it, kid. Danny, close your eyes, so you don't see anything."
He shoots me that same knowing look first. "You better go get your girl."
"You better… close your eyes," I say.
"Good one." He laughs and puts his hand over his eyes.
I slip out the door.
Cynthia is already in her dress, and she looks beautiful. Radiant. She throws her arms around me. "I'm glad she made it."
"Me too."
"Don't fuck it up." She kisses me on the cheek and returns to her room.
I move down the stairs. Into the living room, where Ivy is waiting in the foyer.
The space is already set up for the reception. Right now, it's quiet. All the guests are in the backyard. Not that it's a lot of people.
Mom. A few friends. Some relatives. Cynthia's parents.
Ivy stands under a Congratulations banner.
She looks beautiful and perfect and nervous.
The sight of her soothes something in me. Some place that’s afraid. No, not just the sight. The smell, the sound, the feeling of her presence.
I like being around her.
It’s really that simple.
"Hey." Her voice is nervous. Like she doesn’t know how to say all the right things.
"Hey." Mine is too. I barely recognize it. After all, I don’t get nervous. I don’t put my heart on the line enough to risk anything. Or I didn’t.
"I'm not sure I got the timing quite right. I was too nervous to tell you about the episode. And I wanted to ask how you’d like to handle your identity. I can decline to share more details. Or I can share some incorrect ones. I can even find another escort willing to go on record as my mystery man. So no one will know it’s you. ”
“I don’t care about that.”
“You don’t?” Confusion streaks her eyes.
She’s right to be confused. I do care about that. I don’t want someone else to take my place as the man who rocked her world. Even if it risks more people finding the truth.
I don’t want to lie anymore.
“Don’t,” I say. “Tell people the truth.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Ivy smooths her teal midi dress. It's perfect. Exactly how I imagine her on formal occasions, yet completely different. A soft silk that drapes over her curves and falls just past her knee. Smooth enough to touch. Formal yet casual.
"You look beautiful."
"Thanks. I was jealous of how Cynthia looked in this in purple, so I figured, hey, if she doesn't like it, why let the cut go to waste?" She takes another step towards me. "You do too."
"Beautiful?"
She nods. "Handsome too. And maybe a little ragged."
"Hey."
She smiles. "I'm trying something. Honesty."
"Brutality is more like it."
"Still handsome though," she says.
"Better." I take another step towards her.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the podcast," she says. "I didn't want you to go and listen to every episode and get this idea of me. The wrong idea. Because it wasn’t me. It was Meredith. And I wasn’t ready to share that part of me, yet. I didn’t know you.
And, well, I didn't want you to say no. I was desperate for some content.
I was desperate to make it work. To finally succeed at something. "
"Seems like you did."
She nods. "Yeah, and thanks to you. I owe you a lot for that."
I shake my head. "You did all that on your own."
"Okay, but I am still sorry I didn't tell you. Even if I was technically within the bounds of our agreement, I knew I wasn't totally…"
"Honest," I say.
She nods. "Yeah. It's a weird thing to start trying, when I'm showing up here"—she moves close enough to whisper—"not planning to tell your family we haven't really been dating. But I do really like you, so…"
"I really like you too."
Her cheeks flush. "Yeah?"
I nod and wrap my arms around her waist. "And, I think, if you give me time, I might really love you, one day."
"Me too." She leans into my chest. "So, what does that mean, about us? Where we are?"
"We're two people, on our first real date."
"At your brother's wedding."
"Is that not a normal first date?" I ask.
She smiles and presses her lips to me. "When have we ever been normal?"