“Yeah? You visit him on set?”
“A few times, but he says it’s not a good place for kids because there’s always people pretending to die.”
“That makes sense.” Sounds like an asshole to me.
“Oh, here, I got this box from the classroom.” He pulls a shoebox out from his backpack. “You can poke holes in it and put Mr. Noodles in when you’re driving.”
I take the box from him. “Good thinking.” I am not putting her in a shoebox, but I like where this kid’s head is at.
“I gotta go. My grandma’s probably waiting.” He gives Mr. Noodles a little scratch on the head. “I’ll call you!”
He runs off, toward the front of the building.
“Wait—what’s your name again?”
“Noah!”
My head is spinning, but I think Noah may have just handed me exactly what I need right now.
I guess I’ve got a girl moving in with me after all.
10
Scarlett
I am living right on the edge over here in my bathtub on a Wednesday night. Instead of watching Beetlejuice in bed with two dogs lying across my lower limbs, I’m surrounded by votive candles and covered with lavender-scented bubbles. I’ve got Al Green singing at just high enough a volume to drown out the sound of any accidental gasps and moans from behind the shower curtain while also blocking out the whining Basset Hound outside the bathroom door.
I have never touched myself like this when Noah’s in the house with me before, but it’s almost midnight and he was fast asleep the last time I checked on him. I’ve been so worked up about seeing Dylan tomorrow, my clitoris will detonate as soon as he walks into my office if I don’t do something to defuse it first. I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop picturing him—the way he looked up at me that first time we met, when he was tying my shoes. The way he looked at me when he was in my office last week. I can’t stop thinking about the tone of his voice when he said he wanted to take me to dinner. Three years ago and six days ago. I keep surreptitiously rereading his emails on my phone, as if they’re love letters or sext messages.
They aren’t.
They’re barely even flirtatious, but they turn me on like nothing else has in years, simply because he wrote them—to me.
I did not allow myself to Google him, even when I was home alone on the weekend. I googled myself silly, but I didn’t Google him. I did not watch his thing on HBO or his thing on AMC. I didn’t rent or buy any of his films from Amazon. I didn’t even watch the wizard show in some foolish attempt to convince myself that he’s twelve. It’s not my fault that beachy man perfume ad kept following me around the internet, but I didn’t click on it.
I just let the damn Caddyshack gopher thoughts tunnel through my brain, and now there’s nothing left up in there except this fantasy of Dylan Brodie getting into an elevator with me after a session.
He was my last appointment of the day, and when I pack everything up into my bag, lock the office doors, and walk down the empty hall to the elevator, he’s standing there. Waiting for the elevator. Waiting for me. In a wet leather trench coat—no wait, not that. Black jeans and shirtless. No, not shirtless. A tight black shirt. He’s always confident, but he’s had that intense nervous energy because he wants something that he can’t have and I haven’t allowed him to talk about it. He respected the boundary I had set during the appointment—danced right up to the edge of it, of course—but he’s frustrated. That frustration could have turned to anger at any second if I’d nudged it out of him. I could have subdued him or triggered him or tantalized him.
I have the power to control his feelings.
As a therapist and as a woman.
I behaved myself during the session.
But now…
In my fantasy, I am unscrupulous. I don’t have to wear stilettos and a plunging neckline to convey my wanton mood now that it’s quittin’ time. It’s in the way that I walk. It’s in the way that I toss my hair over my shoulder in slow motion. I’ve applied a fresh coat of red lipstick, but I’ve changed into my red T-shirt dress and tennis shoes because I’m super casual, freshly shaven, and moisturized from head to toe. Just like when he first saw me.
He’s standing there facing the elevators, hands on his hips. He’s tense. Poor baby. I could help him with that. Not as a therapist. As a woman. He turns because he hears my heels clicking down the hall—wait, no—I’m wearing tennis shoes. He just senses my presence.
His eyelids flutter the tiniest bit. It’s such a subtle hint of the effect I have on him, but his jaw is still tight. His nostrils flare. His shoulders broaden, chest puffs out. But I know how vulnerable he is. I can see it.
He doesn’t say a thing.
He doesn’t have to.
He just stares at me. He says everything he wants to say to me with his electric-blue eyes. They roam freely from my mouth to my neck to the curve of my breasts and hips, down my legs to my shoes and back up again. There’s a spark in them when they meet mine. We grin at each other.
That’s right.
My shoelaces are untied.
Both of them.
The elevator dings, the doors open. It’s empty. He holds one beautiful hand against the edge of the door and gestures for me to go ahead with the other. I pass by him, holding his gaze in the reflection of the mirrored wall in front of me. He steps inside the car, standing right behind me, and I don’t turn to face him until the doors have closed.
He doesn’t touch me, but I can feel his warm breath on the back of my neck.
In the fantasy, my building is a tower in the sky and my office is on the top floor.
Everyone else has gone home already, and it’s a long, long way down.
I drop my bag to the floor and lean back against the wall, resting my hands on the handrail.
Dylan lowers himself before me, on bended knees, and ties my shoelaces.
Slowly, carefully.
Double knots.
“It’s dangerous to walk around like this, Dr. Shepard.”
“With my shoelaces untied?”
“With bare legs. In this short dress. Wearing those deceptively innocent white cotton panties.”
“How do you know I’m wearing white cotton panties?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Care to make a bet?”
He places his hand behind my right knee, drags his fingers up the inside of my leg, from the ankle.
Slowly, carefully.
My hands grip the rail tighter.
He doesn’t look up at me, just stares at my leg. “What do I get if I win the bet?”
“You get to see my white cotton panties.”
“What do I get if I lose?”
“You get to see me in some other kind of panties.”
He taps at the back of my knee very gently, causing it to bend, and parts my legs just a little more.
“I’ll take that action,” he says calmly. There is nothing boyish or hesitant about the way he touches me. He’s the one in control now. He finally looks up at me and gives me a wink. “And I’ll take my time.”
He drags the fingertips of both hands up the sides of my legs now.
“Well, I don’t have all night.”