The mental image floors me. “I feel like you’d be the first girl to make a Lamborghini seem trashy.”
She bows. “Thank you.”
A pause, then: “So who would you pick? If you could pick anyone?”
I think of Kent, shirtless in the kitchen making pancakes, blue eyes still sleepy and soft. Of the way he hugged me last winter break, his hand warm on the back of my head, the quiet power in his arms. The memory of Thanksgiving, the electricity of that touch.
I deflect with a grin. “The hot barista from earlier. If he can pull shots, he can probably pull other things.”
Kayleigh throws a sugar packet at me, missing by a mile. “You’re such a liar,” she says, laughing.
We both dissolve for a minute, the old rhythm coming back, the world outside the window getting darker and colder but not touching us here.
When the laughter ebbs, Kayleigh gets serious again. “You’re really going to do it tonight, aren’t you? The massage?”
I nod, feeling the blood in my cheeks, but this time there’s no uncertainty. “Yeah. I am.”
She tilts her head. “You sure?”
I meet her eyes, and it’s like everything else drops away. “I’m sure,” I say, and I mean it.
There’s a long silence, but it’s not awkward. It feels like a breath held between two heartbeats.
Eventually we pull on our coats, brace ourselves against the wind, and step outside. The cold hits me like a slap, but I barely feel it. My head is buzzing, my hands steady. For the first time in days, I feel like I know exactly what I’m about to do.
As we say goodbye, Kayleigh gives me a tight, hard hug. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”
“I will,” I promise, and this time I know I will.
I watch her walk away, hood up, boots crunching the grit on the sidewalk, and then I turn for home, the air sharp in my lungs. The lights from the streetlamps catch in the ice along the curb, turning every puddle gold. My phone buzzes—a calendar reminder: 8:30 pm, “Appointment.” I slide it back into my pocket and keep walking, my breath fogging in the dark.
Tonight, I cross a line, and for once, I’m not looking back.
5
THE "MEDICAL MASSAGES” BEGIN
KENT
The office is colder than the rest of the house, a holdover from when I used to smoke cigars here, before Jeannine banned even the memory of tobacco from my pores. The air smells faintly of dust and spines—leather-bound journals, my own medical monographs, a handful of rare books I keep for the feel of them in my hands, the way their bindings groan when opened. Every surface is matte and dark: the shelves are black walnut, the rug a faded jewel pattern. At the center of the room, positioned like an altar, is the massage table.
I assembled it this afternoon, under the pretext of preparing for Mary Kate’s first treatment. The instructions said “10-minute assembly,” but it took me twenty, my fingers too clumsy from thinking of her. She’s been in my head since breakfast. Ever since I met her, to be honest, even when it was wrong.
Now, it’s almost eight-thirty. I sit at my desk, facing the table, a sheet of patient charts fanned out before me but unread. The desk lamp burns low, painting the room in sepia. I’m wearing a loose henley, gray, the sleeves shoved to my elbows, and black sweatpants that are clean and soft. My posture is relaxed—atleast it looks that way—but my jaw is locked and my knuckles have gone white against the arm of the chair. Every fifteen seconds I tap my knee, a percussion of impatience, until I force myself to stop.
The bottles of oil are arranged on the credenza: neat, precise. I chose sandalwood for tonight—strong, almost medicinal, with a thread of something sweet under the surface. The oil is warm, waiting in a small ceramic bowl next to a folded white towel. I double-checked the temperature twice, afraid of it being too cold, or worse, too hot.
I stare at the table, imagining her hands, and the pulse in my groin intensifies. I haven’t touched myself all day, not since the shower this morning, and the restraint is a kind of punishment. My cock presses hard against the inside of the sweatpants, obvious and unsubtle, but I make no move to hide it. If anything, the anticipation is its own species of pleasure, more electric with every minute that passes.
The house is silent, insulated by the storm windows and the thick walls. Occasionally, I hear the furnace whir to life, or the creak of the oak stairs settling under their own weight. I close my eyes, listening for her footfalls, and when the sound finally comes—soft, measured, approaching from the hallway—I feel my entire body tighten.
The knock is barely audible, more a feather-touch than a request for entry. I open my eyes and stand, careful to move slowly, to preserve the illusion of control. My erection strains as I walk to the door, and I imagine for a second that she’ll see it and recoil, or laugh, or say nothing at all and let it haunt the air.
I open the door. Mary Kate stands on the threshold, a shadow of uncertainty around her, but she holds herself upright, shoulderssquared. She wears a simple heathered tee and faded jeans, the kind that ride low on her hips, and her feet are bare, toenails painted a dusty rose. Her hair is loose and golden, falling in soft waves to the middle of her back. She’s not wearing makeup, or if she is, it’s invisible, and her skin is fresh and a little pink from the cold.
Her eyes find my face, linger a half-second longer than necessary, then dart away—toward the table, the rug, the closed bottle of oil. I notice her hands, fingers curled tight around the phone in her palm, knuckles pale. For a second, her lower lip catches between her teeth, as if she’s biting back a question, and then she releases it, exhaling slow.
“Hi Kent,” she says.
