I’ve looked over your profile and feel you’d be a good fit. I’ve read the terms carefully, and I’ll happily pay your fee, plus expenses. My parents will be arriving next Tuesday, the 9th. Let me know if you’re agreeable and we can make arrangements.
Cheers,
Kieran
I click over to Kieran’s profile and my eyes widen. When he said he was a student, I expected someone in his late teens, maybe early twenties, but according to his profile Kieran is twenty-nine—a year younger than I am. I click on his tiny avatar and my eyes widen further. Holy hotness! He appears to be average height and build, but it’s his light blue eyes, boyish smile, and wavy dark brown hair that make my breath catch and my heart rev into second gear.
I tend to steer clear of guys my own age who are seeking a companion. The logical part of my brain says I’m a professional who prides herself on remaining so, but the other part of my brain—the part that reminds me I haven’t had sex in months and Kieran is just my type—sends up a red flag. This would be a bad idea. Averybad idea.
There’s a little green circle in the corner of Kieran’s profile picture, which means he’s currently online. Rather than replying to his email, I click on the messenger icon and pull up a chat box. My fingers linger over the keyboard as I formulate a response. Time to show my brain I’m perfectly capable of keeping things professional.
Hi Kieran, it’s Meredith. I just got your email and noticed you’re online, so wanted to get back to you as quickly as possible. While I sympathize with your situation, I’m not sure I’m the best fit for your request. I can, however, recommend two other local companions who often work with students at the college.
I reread the message, cringing harder with each sentence. My aim at professionalism sounds more like a formal business rejection. Although, to be fair, I suppose that’s what this is. Lip curled, I hit send.
The little ‘read’ notification appears next to my message a few seconds later, followed by the three bouncing dots that tell me Kieran is responding. They bounce, disappear, then bounce again. My heart starts to imitate those jumping dots, hopping around in anticipation of his response.
Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, Meredith. I appreciate the offer to recommend someone else, but now I’m rethinking the whole thing. It wouldn’t be fair to subject a stranger to my family, even if that stranger was getting paid. Thanks anyway.
Well, crap. Now I feel bad. I really do need to keep things professional, though. I have rules, and I’ve only ever broken them for Kitty, not that she knows that. I’m sure if I examined my feelings a little closer, I’d see it’s not entirely about Kieran being a hottie; I don’t deal well with family issues. It’s become a bit of a sore spot since my mom’s diagnosis and rapid decline. We were the best of friends, and now…now I’m a complete stranger to her. I’d give anything for five lucid minutes with her.
I’m sorry, I type. My fingers stall on the keyboard. This guy is a stranger and I don’t owe him an explanation, yet something compels me to explain. I sit up straighter, inhaling a slow, deep breath.If you change your mind, please let me know and I’ll recommend other companions to you. Regardless, I hope the meeting with your family goes better than expected.
It won’t,he replies almost immediately.But I appreciate the thought. Take care, Meredith.
You too, Kieran. Good night.
I close the messenger window and flop back in my chair, rubbing my eyes. I’m about to get up and go find something to eat other than cookies when I notice the stack of mail near the edge of my desk. Celia must have put it there. I flip through—bill, bill, postcard from my friend Piper’s bookstore reminding me about the next book club meeting…and something from Birch Hill. I rip it open, nearly tearing the letter inside in my haste.
My heart sinks into my stomach as I skim the words. I force myself to read it again, slower this time, hoping I’ve misunderstood what the head of Birch Hill has written. My mom was always good about saving and investing. She said she’d be set in her retirement, but neither of us ever expected she’d end up living in a place like Birch Hill. She did as much research as she could while she was still able, and made sure her savings, plus her insurance, along with a subsidy from a private charitable group would be enough to keep her in Birch Hill.
But according to this letter, it was recently discovered that the director of the charitable group had been embezzling from the company. Almost all the money is gone, and the group has been shut down while legal measures are taken.
My mind spins as I think of Mom’s bank account and investments. As her power of attorney, I know the exact amount she has available, how much the facility costs each month, and what is paid for by insurance and subsidies—the subsidies she’s no longer getting. Being familiar with bureaucratic bullshit, I can imagine the fight ahead of me to secure additional funding. In the meantime, that money has to be supplemented somehow or my mom will have to leave Birch Hill.
I can’t let that happen, which means I’ll have to make up the difference myself. I can’t ask for more rent money from Celia. And I can’t ask for a raise from Hugh and Ivy; they’re already overly generous with my salary, and in normal circumstances it’s more than enough. That means I’ll have to pick up extra clients from Human Touch Companions.
I pull the website back up and click on Kieran’s profile again. Relief surges through me when I see he’s still online. Before I can change my mind, I reopen the messenger window.
Hi Kieran, it’s Meredith again. I’ve been thinking about your request and I was wondering if you’re still interested in having me accompany you to meet your family?
The green check mark appears under my message. I wait for the bouncing dots, but they don’t appear. Crap. I’m about to give up and close the window when a reply pops up.
I was hoping you’d change your mind. You’re a lifesaver.
I don’t know about that, but I sure could use alifesaver of my own right now.
