Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Huh?
"You've put Ivy first," he says. "Put Cynthia first. Put me first. If the business plan checks out, okay. I'm in. I can't start until after the honeymoon, in January. And we still need mom’s money. But once we have it, we can hit the ground running. I like this new version of you, the one with a girlfriend."
Everything I want.
If I can keep Ivy around until January.
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.