“That was the plan,” Cypress replied, “but I’ll probably be gone long before you wake up.”
“What time do you get up?”
“Four-thirty usually. Five if I’m being naughty and letting myself sleep in.”
“Ugh, God.” Tom groaned. “Yeah, I’ll still be fast asleep.” He took another sip of wine. “Wow. I’m still just… wow.”
“I’ll accept that as a very positive review,” Cypress said, clinking their glasses together. “There’s something I want you to do for me.”
Anything, Tom almost said. He hit the brakes on that dangerous invitation, asking instead, “What?”
“I’m going to text you something when I leave tomorrow,” Cypress replied, “and I want you to repeat it three times while looking in the mirror.”
“It better not be Candyman,” Tom said flatly.
Cypress laughed, shaking his head as he explained, “No. It’s going to be an affirmation. You’ll see. I want you to start taking better care of yourself.” He tapped Tom’s head. “It starts here.”
“I’m fine. Really. I don’t need to do that.”
Cypress stared at him, clearly unconvinced. “Tom, you almost broke down in tears the second you got into subspace.”
“And that is?”
“When that beautiful brain of yours shuts down during a scene. Once you’ve submitted to me, your body releases a bunch of lovely chemicals to relax you and can make you feel like you’re floating. It’s easier to tolerate pain, and it’s generally quite euphoric. But it can also leave you feeling very vulnerable emotionally, and you, Tom, got some serious damage.”
“Hey, I’m not damaged,” Tom protested, but he didn’t sound so sure.
“You have a really big heart,” Cypress soothed, setting his wine glass aside so he could take Tom’s hand. “I know that by how you talk about what you do for a living. You put a lot of love into all the people you take care of.
“But you need to take care of yourself first.”
“But I do.”
“Is that how you ended up selling embalming fluid?” Cypress drawled. “Because you’re putting yourself first?”
Tom said nothing, looking away.
“When was the last time you took a day off?” Cypress challenged. “Went on vacation? Took yourself out to the movies?”
Tom couldn’t honestly remember. He’d worked through his last birthday, all the big holidays, and the last movie he saw he’d rented through his cable.
“Caring about what you do makes you good at your job,” Cypress went on, “but caring so much is dragging you down, too.”
“I don’t know any other way to do it,” Tom said quietly.
“I’m going to help you.” Cypress squeezed Tom’s hand. “Trust me.”
“And saying stuff in a mirror is really gonna do something?”
“You’ll see,” Cypress teased.
“Well, what about you?” Tom finished his wine, leaning over Cypress to set the empty glass on the bedside.
“Me?”
“You work like a crazy person, too.”
“But my job doesn’t involve seeing people whose faces have been eaten by small dogs,” Cypress pointed out. “The trauma level as a florist peaks at getting pricked by thorns or being cussed out by angry husbands if their wives’ flowers are late.”
