Three #3
Leaning back in her chair, Gillian let herself soak in at least the sense of superiority at having won that particular battle.
She hadn’t even flinched when Daphne’d said the words “professional cuddler” or “snuggery,” which felt like a rather sizable accomplishment in retrospect.
She’d spent years sitting comfortably with people’s most personal, vulnerable, and shameful disclosures, but she still took pride in knowing her skills held up when the revelations dipped into the farcical.
Or at least she would’ve felt gratified if that farce she’d held steady for wasn’t about to infiltrate her life in almost infuriating ways.
“Cuddling,” she grumbled aloud as the reality landed again. “What the hell?”
She unlocked the bottom drawer of her old metal desk and pulled out her iPad. Firing up the web browser, she navigated to the search bar and typed, “Is cuddling a job?”
An overview paragraph popped up immediately stating, “Yes, cuddling can be a job. Known as professional cuddling, these services offer platonic touch and comfort to clients, maintaining boundaries to keep the session nonsexual and therapeutic. For more details see ‘Cuddling Therapy.’”
“Absolutely not.” She snapped the cover of her tablet closed.
Cuddling therapy? There was no way she would keep a neutral and open stance on this one.
She had a master’s degree in Marriage and Family therapy, not to mention the hours of credentialing, supervision, and continuing education.
She would under no circumstances denigrate her field by putting the words “cuddle” and “therapy” together in a Google search, her personal lexicon, or anywhere else.
The very idea set her teeth on edge, and she glanced at the clock to confirm she still had a solid twenty minutes to indulge her indignation before having to face clients. She grabbed her phone and texted Brooke. “You up?”
She waited, quietly stewing and trying not to notice the smell of Daphne still clung to her blouse, a mix of mocha and clean laundry.
Brooke’s reply buzzed. “We are awake, not sure I’d go all the way to up.”
We. Gillian shook her head, trying not to picture her best friend in bed with Tegan. Cuddling, no doubt. At least neither of them had exchanged money for the honor … not that they hadn’t paid in other ways.
The phone vibrated again. “Everything okay?”
She dodged the question. “You coming into the office today?”
“I can if you need me to.”
“So that’s a no,” she muttered, then pushed up from her desk. If she wasn’t going to vent, she needed coffee. Heading back into the waiting room, she set a pot to brew on their trusty old machine before replying, “No, just checking schedules.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. See you tomorrow.” Then to end the exchange she added, “Have to get ready for a session.”
It wasn’t a lie. She may not have anything logistical to prepare, but mentally, and perhaps emotionally, she needed to center herself. While it would’ve been nice to talk to Brooke as part of that process, it wasn’t worth interrupting her domestic bliss.
Besides, what would she even say? “A woman I used to know swept me onto a mattress she plans to use for a business that manages to sound simultaneously comical and tawdry”?
It didn’t even make sense to her. How could she make someone else understand?
Gillian stood there, jaw clenched, as the coffee filled the pot.
She should’ve been used to turmoil. Life had become illogical in so many ways over the last few years, but at least everything had kept functioning at work.
Even when Brooke had taken a teaching job and started dating Tegan, the overall dynamic had shifted but stayed intact.
Things were hard, but there was a plan. It made sense.
This … Daphne, the bedlam, the cuddling, sharing her cherished office space with something called a “snuggery”.
She scoffed at the concept rather than trying to fathom the execution of something so ludicrous.
Pouring her cup of coffee, she added only a dash of the oat milk her colleagues had decided on without her consent. Taking a tentative sip, she anchored her senses to the warmth spreading through her. This was concrete, familiar, real.
Opening her eyes slowly, she tethered herself to details she’d chosen with deliberation, the layout of the room, the reception desk she shared with colleagues she’d hand-picked and nurtured, the furniture with sleek lines and deep cushions to convey a special blend of comfort and competence. Not everything was out of her control.
As for the rest of it, she needed to compartmentalize. The facts of the situation were exactly how she’d relayed them back in Daphne’s presence. Anything more was moot for the moment, and maybe for all eternity.
Other people’s realities could intersect hers without changing any of the core characteristics she clung to.
She had a job she loved, friends she adored, a life she’d cultivated with intentionality.
She had to stow the urge to make meaning about anything outside that sphere, because she couldn’t yet, and not because of some inadequacy on her part.
She couldn’t make any of this make sense, because it simply didn’t.
Sighing, she glanced through the window in the closed waiting room door to the open one across the hall.
No, none of that made any sense.
Daphne never had.