What is this thick, curling, yet somehow weightless feeling within? Is it hope? Relief? Should I feel relieved that the visits seem to have ended? I owe my life. My self. My past and my future.
It is a heavy debt.
Something changed, and I cannot pinpoint the precise moment when, or how, or why. Or even what. Something to do with Jonathan, oddly. Seeing his transformation, perhaps the only true success I’ve ever had, watching him unfold and be reborn out of his cocoon, become a man worth knowing. It made a lie of what I do, for the alteration was all of his own doing. I provided the impetus of seeing the need for change, perhaps, but that at most only. I did no changing.
Now I wonder what service I provide. I once thought I did something worthwhile. But now I wonder. These young men who pass through my life, what do I do for them? And what payment do I receive for doing so?
How have I existed—somehow the term lived seems too strong, suddenly—for this long, having asked no questions?
I’ve been floating along, doing as I’m told, blinded willingly.
Now I see more clearly, but all I am able to make out is outlines of absence, the shape of all that is missing. I see how much I do not know.
And then, one day six weeks after the charity auction event, my door opens, and my heart ceases to beat.
I sit on my couch, sipping tea, waiting for my last client of the day. Oddly, I have received no dossier, no contract. Only a notice stating that the final time slot of the day—six forty-five in the evening—has been filled at the last minute. The client will provide all necessary materials at the time of service.
I sit, leg hooked demurely over knee, and wait. Smooth my dress over my thighs; it’s a white dress with a square neckline, the hem falling to an inch above my knees. Blue peep-toe wedge heels. Hair in a deceptively complicated knot at the nape of my neck, the sapphire pendant at my breastbone.
Ding.
Watch my door handle twist, watch the door swing inward. Shrug my shoulders, square them, let out a breath, force my posture to appear relaxed, my expression blank, indifferent. Tug the hem of my dress closer to my knees, so as to not bare too much flesh.
Saucer in my left hand, cup in my right. Plain white china, gold lining the edge of the saucer and the rim of the cup. Harney & Sons Earl Grey Imperial, a touch of milk.
These details are seared onto my brain.
Watch over the rim of my teacup as the door swings open, a male frame fills the opening. Steps through. Closes the door.
My heart freezes. Lungs halt midbreath. Teacup at my lips, paused. Eyes wide open, unblinking.
It is him.
Logan.
Dark blue denim, tight around thick thighs, a rip at the left knee, right thigh. Rectangular outline of a cell phone in the right hip pocket. Black T-shirt, V-neck, hugging ribs and his powerful chest, sleeves taut around golden biceps. Mirrored silver-frame aviator sunglasses hanging at the apex of the V. Wavy blond hair swept back, hanging around his jawline, a strand across his too-blue, almost purple eyes. Jawline so hard, so strong it could be hewn from seaside cliffs. High, sharp cheekbones. Lips curved in a knowing smile as he meets my gaze. Lips that kissed me, lips that stole my breath and with it my life.
“Found you.” I shiver at the intimacy of his warm rumbling voice.
It seems a voice I’ve always known, a voice heard in unremembered dreams, the dreams you forget upon waking, dreams you wish you could return to as you surface to wakefulness.
I gently set my teacup and saucer on the coffee table, so as not to betray my shaking hands. I cannot take my eyes off Logan. I also cannot speak, cannot offer so much as a polite hello.
He moves toward me, eyes on me the whole while, and sits on the coffee table, a sturdy thing of thick black wood and polished glass, an antique map of the world under the glass. So close. Knees brushing mine.
He leans forward, into my space. Smiles. “What’s the matter . . . Madame X? Cat got your tongue?”
I breathe in, and my eyelids flutter and I am shaken out of my paralysis. Cinnamon and cigarettes. His jaw moves, rolling, lifting, compressing; gum, the source of the cinnamon.
“Logan. I—what are you doing here?” I sound suspicious, worried, upset even. “How did you find me?”
“Once I had your name, it wasn’t that hard. Getting an appointment this soon was, though. You are in high demand, it seems.”
“Why are you here?” I have to remember to breathe, force each breath in, each breath out.
“I’m your six forty-five.” He moves nearer. “I’m here to learn, Madame X.”
Every lungful is full of his scent, spicy cinnamon, faint acrid cigarette smoke clinging to cotton. Other scents, too faint to identify. The smells of a man who’s gone through the day after a shower, life smell, city smell.
“So. How’s this work, Cinderella?” He pinches the handle of my teacup in a big thumb and forefinger, lifts the cup, and examines the contents. “Tea, huh? Got any more? I could use a cup of tea. Or something stronger, if you’ve got it.”
I take the welcome excuse to move away, to find somewhere I might find my breath, my equilibrium. “I have tea, or scotch.”
“What kind of scotch?”
“Laphroaig. Single malt, eighteenth year.”
“Ah. The good shit.” He moves to take my spot on the couch, my teacup still in hand. “I wouldn’t mind a tipple, then,” he says with a lilting fake accent, eyes twinkling.
“How would you like it?” I ask this faced away now, decanter in hand, tumbler turned upright.
“Neat, please.”
I pour a single finger, and then some instinct has me add a second. Replace the crystal stopper. Turn, and watch as Logan puts his lips to my teacup, his lips matched to the pale red imprints of my lips left by my lipstick. Tips back the teacup, drinks my tea, replaces the cup in the saucer. Why does that cause me to shiver, from bones to flesh, scalp to toes?
I hand him his scotch, and his fingers brush mine. My skin burns where his touched me. Tingles. I withdraw my hand, curl it into a fist. Still it shakes, scorched by a momentary glancing touch.
I cannot turn away, cannot look away as he now lifts the tumbler to his lips, and I cannot help but watch as he tilts the glass, the thick amber liquid slipping between his lips, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
I feel a jealousy for the scotch, touching those lips.
And then I feel stupid for thinking such a ridiculous thing.
I blush.
Me. Blushing.
I duck my head to cover my embarrassment, but then he’s laughing as he swallows and sets the tumbler down. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I’m standing in front of the couch, to the side of the coffee table. Close, but a polite, appropriate distance away. Yet he is able to reach up, brush my cheek with his thumb. “You’re blushing.”
“No.”
He laughs again. Stands up, crowds me. “You are. I can tell. Why are you blushing, Cinderella?”
“I’m not blushing. And my name isn’t Cinderella.”
“You are, and I’ve decided it fits. I like it.”
“You’ve decided.” There’s a sharpness to my tone.
So close. Too close. A foot remains between our bodies, but it’s too close. The air fairly crackles between us.
He grins, a cocky tilt of his lips. “I’m just teasing, X.”
“Why Cinderella?” I hear myself ask.
“Well . . . you showed up, all belle of the ball, mysterious and sexy as hell. Everyone wanted to know who you were. You left in such a rush, you all but left a glass slipper behind. You wouldn’t tell me your name. And that dress?” He lets out a deep breath and shakes his head, as if overcome. “That dress. Jesus.” He shrugs. “Seemed like a fairy tale to me.”
“I see.” I move away, stride to the window, and I feel his gaze on me as I walk.
Do my hips always sway so much when I walk? Do my thighs always brush so deliciously against each other with each step?
I watch a man and his wife walk hand in hand together, thirteen stories down. I cannot think to invent a story for them. I can almost see myself down there, walking hand in hand with a blond man. Neither of us talks. We just walk, fingers twined, moving in sync. I don’t know where we go, the blond man and I. It doesn’t matter; we’re just going, and we’re going together.