Perhaps I want to be seen too—not as the fantasy I sell, but by someone who accepts me for the man I am. I won’t be an escort forever. It’s a means to an end for now.
I think of the dedication Sora wrote me in her bookLovely.
Cheers to the journey.
Maybe she’s different…maybe she doesn’t mind a journey if the end destination is something real.
chapter 17
Sora
“I’m impressed by your handyman skills,” I say, watching Forrest finish meticulously applying painter’s tape along the baseboards of what will soon be Dakota’s bedroom. “If I were doing this alone, it would’ve been a disaster. I didn’t plan on taping anything.”
Forrest glances up at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You mean you wouldn’t have taped the trim, or put plastic down on the hardwood floors before slathering purple paint all over the place? What could possibly go wrong?”
“In my defense, I’ve never painted a room before. It’s not something I was ever taught.” I adjust the bandana keeping my hair back from my forehead.
“Let me guess, your dad also never taught you to change a tire.”
I snort in laughter. “That’s hilarious. I don’t even think my dad can change a tire. I was born and raised in Manhattan. We never had cars. Drivers, sure. But not cars.”
“Ah, rich-girl problems.” He smooths down a section of tape with practiced precision.
“Not exactly. We had a driver because my mom didn’t like to take the subway alone, or bring a bunch of strange taxi drivers around a newborn baby. My dad was never around to help, so having a personal driver was one of the few luxuries she allotted. Otherwise, we always lived well below our means, even after Dad’s fame exploded.” I dip my roller in the paint tray, watching the globs drip off the brush.
“That’s too much paint, Sora. Like this.” Forrest puts his hand over mine and guides the brush against the clean, ribbed part of the tray, taking off the excess. “Hear that sound now? Just a little sticky—that’s perfect for your best adhesion. Now, this paint has built-in primer, otherwise you would’ve needed a base coat. But now you can go straight to the wall. Long, smooth strokes.”
“I got it now,” I whisper, staring at his hand over mine. I don’t flinch or pull away like I normally do. This time I let myself enjoy the warmth of his palm over the back of my hand until he releases me, proceeding to fill his own paint tray with purple paint.
“How long should the strokes be?” I pause with my brush about two inches from the wall, wondering what in the hell possessed me to think I could pull this off with no experience.
“Just do whatever you like, cookie girl.” He holds up his roller brush. “I’ll come around and clean up after you.”
“I’ll take ‘cookie girl’ over ‘little conch shell,’” I mutter to myself, pressing the purple color into the clean white wall.
Forrest chuckles lightly to himself. “Speaking of your Korean name, what’s your mom like? You seem to be a lot closer to her than your dad.”
“Don’t tell Daphne, but Mom’s my best friend.”
“What’d she say when you told her I was moving in with my daughter?”
I release a deep exhale. “I haven’t told her.” Since Mom’s stomach bug on my birthday a couple weeks ago, I’ve made excuse after excuse about a reschedule. Mom thinks I’m deep in the writing cave. Truth is, I haven’t written one word.
I’ve been distracted.
“What about your dad?” I ask, changing the subject as I carefully roll paint onto the wall. “Is that where you learned all this home-improvement stuff?”
“Yeah. Ranch life,” he says, applying paint with efficient, even strokes that make my amateur attempts look pathetic. “Growing up, if something broke, you fixed it yourself. My dad wasn’t the type to call in professionals unless it was absolutely necessary. Plumbing, electrical, building fences, raising and painting barns—I’ve done it all. Other kids played sports or started bands, but I worked after school and on weekends.”
“That must have been hard as a kid.”
“I must’ve thought that at the time. But now, I’m grateful.” He shrugs, moving to another section of wall. “But it taught me to be self-sufficient. My dad worked me hard, but he was always right there beside me, showing us how to do things properly. He never asked me to do something he wouldn’t do himself.”
I study his profile as he works, noting the softness that enters his expression when he talks about his father. “You really admire him, don’t you?”
“He’s old-school. A good, simple man. Honest, hardworking. When everyone else in my life judged me for walking away from law, he just asked if I was sure about my decision. When I said yes, that was the end of it. He’s supported me ever since.”
“Even with your current job choice?”
