Lauren Blakely - The Thrill of It

She begins a low prayer, inaudible to anyone else, but crystal clear to me.

It’s the Catholic prayer of purity. “Jesus, lover of chastity. Mary Mother, most pure, and Joseph, chaste guardian of the Virgin,” she says, the icicles in her voice stabbing at the last word.

I roll my eyes and bob my head as she continues on, substituting “begging you to plead with God for me” to “begging you to plead with God for Harley.” She finishes with “Have mercy on her,” though she doesn’t mean a word of what she’s saying. There is no mercy for me from her. Well, unless I told my mom everything. And telling her anything or everything is the one thing I will never do. Never as in never-ever-ever.

Rule Number Two: Know your own lines.

I’m stuck here. Protecting my mother. I have to protect her.

“Ah,” she says with a hearty sigh and a hugely false smile. “I feel so much better, don’t you? Cleaner, right?”

“Like I just took a bath in holy water.”

She glares at me. “You jest in God’s house?”

I nod. “I do. I do jest in God’s house. Frequently, in fact.”

“I’ll take the pages now.” She holds out her long-fingered hand to me, her wedding band with its sapphire and diamonds reflecting across the stained glass windows.

I dig into a side pocket in my purse and hand her a thumb drive.

She takes it, looking at it with disdain. It’s part of the routine: I give her a thumb drive every time and every time she regards it like a diseased object. “Hmm. You couldn’t bother to print it out?”

“I don’t have a printer.”

She snorts, then slips it into her vast purple purse. “I want this book done soon. One more month at the most. You need to work on the next chapters. And make them tawdry. Make them sordid. Make them as lurid as they can be.” I inhale sharply. This woman is sick. “Then, give her the redemption she doesn’t deserve,” Miranda adds in her cool, calculating voice.

I stand up, eager to play even a lowly two of clubs in the form of leaving first. “I’m late for my British lit class.”

“You can expect a followup from me sometime this week.”

“Sometime, like anytime?”

She shrugs smugly. “Perhaps any day of the week.”

Rule Number Three: Know when to bluff.

“If you don’t tell me the day, I’ll tell my mom everything.” She may hold most of the cards, but the thing about blackmail is everyone has something to lose. Including Miranda. I don’t want my mom to know about the book she’s forcing me to write anonymously, but she doesn’t want my mom to know she’s making me write it either.

She purses her lips. “I’ll email you.”

“I can’t wait.”

As I scoot out of the pew, she grabs my wrist and her pink nails dig into my skin. I fantasize about brandishing my field hockey stick and whacking her upside the head. There’d be a brilliant gash across her forehead. Blood would ooze into her blue eyes and leave a sticky trail in her blond hair.

“Don’t. Sass. Me,” she says in a low hiss, determined to have the last word.

I yank my wrist from her, clamp my lips together and let her have what she wants. My silence.

I leave, but I don’t go to British lit, because I don’t have classes today. I have a dinner at my mom’s house. It is date night with a new man, and so she needs me there. She always needs me. And I need her.

Page 3…

It’s been my mom and me as long as I can remember. I don’t remember much about my dad, so this story won’t be about him. All my memories are of my mom, starting with how unhappy she was after my dad walked out when I was six.

My mom was miserable for more than a year. She cried late at night, deep tears that could fill rivers and overrun their banks. She thought I was asleep, blissfully in dream land and unaware of her pain. But I heard her phone calls with friends, her “what did I do wrong” pleas, and her desperate, endless self-doubt. She missed the bastard, against her better judgement.

She tried to hold it together during the days, but I’d still find her crying in her cereal, or wandering aimlessly around the apartment, sniffling, and missing, and hurting.

“Don’t cry, mom,” I’d tell her, and she’d wrap me in a tight embrace.

“I won’t, darling. I have you to make me happy.”

After endless days and nights like that, she started to heal, to let go, and eventually the sobfests died down.

Then she was ready to start over. To carve out her new happy.

Dave was the first after my dad. I was in third grade, and Dave spent many nights at our house. He had a son one year older than me. Sometimes, when Dave visited in the evenings, my mom told us to play together. She and Dave wanted to chat and have some time alone.

“I’m happy again,” she’d whisper to me before she closed the door to her room. “Isn’t it great to see me happy?”

“Yes, mom.”

“You’ll play with Dave’s son. That would make me so happy right now.”

His son was nine, I was eight. We played Monopoly.

Technically, I count Dave’s son as the first time my mom set me up with someone. Not that anything happened with him. But that’s how it all started, and this is the story of how I became a high-priced virgin call girl by the time I was a senior in high school. Kick back, grab a glass of wine, and prepare for the sordid, salacious tale of how I became Layla.

(Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Innocent? Ha. As if anyone is.)

Trey

Elevators were my downfall.

But I can handle them better now.

The doors open with a soft metallic moan and I step inside the mirrored elevator in the Lexington Avenue office building. The lift shoots me up six floors to my shrink’s office.

Dr. Michele Milo.

I head into the lobby. It’s empty and that’s good because I’d rather not see who else is fucked in the head or the heart. I walk to her office and tap on the door.

“Good afternoon, Trey,” she says in the calm voice I’m used to. I’m pretty sure shrinks don’t have any other voices. It must be part of shrink training – how to speak in a serenely modulated tone all the time. Never waver. Never vary. I wonder if shrinks are all peaceful and even on the inside too. Unflappable, never bothered by the shit life serves up.

I can’t even imagine what that would be like.

Like living inside a Valium, maybe.

“Hey.”

I flop down on her couch. She’s been my shrink for six months, and granted, she’s totally my type – maybe a little young since I think she’s in her late twenties – but I’ve never had a single dirty thought about her. Not one. Maybe that means I’m getting better. Maybe I’m not so hooked on older women. Maybe I’m breaking my addiction.

“So,” she begins, clasping her hands together. “How is everything going for you this week?”

I shrug. “It’s fine. The school year is almost over.”

“And your plans for the summer? No Regrets full time?”

I nod.

“How are your parents about that?”

I roll my eyes. My parents. My perfectly plastic, perfectly put together, perfectly empty parents. They wish I were going to school to be a doctor. Yeah, like that’ll ever happen. “Guess how they are with that,” I say sarcastically. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Whatever you want to talk about, Trey. This is your time.”

I look away, at the plants on her windowsill, at the books on her shelves. Books with names like Real Choices, It’s Not Love–It’s Addiction, Healthier Lives. All the shit I need to be. I stare at her walls and the framed abstract art. Red squares, yellow brushstrokes, blue lines all mixed together. I’m glad she doesn’t have those stupid inspirational pictures I’m tired of seeing at SLAA.

She waits for me to speak.

“Harley,” I say in a low voice. I always want to talk about her.

“You want to talk about Harley.” It’s not a question; it’s a statement.

“Sure,” I offer in the most casual, offhand way I can muster.

“Harley, the girl you spent one night with and have now become best friends through a love and sex addicts support group,” she states, but there’s no judgement in her voice.

I cross my arms. “You think it’s dangerous that I’m friends with her.”

Michele shakes her head. “No. I think it’s worth exploring how and why you’re actively focused on recovering from your addictive behavior and you spend most of your time with someone who also has that goal in mind. And yet she also happens to be a young woman with whom you’ve been intimate.”

“You think we can’t be friends because we almost slept together?”

She shakes her head. “No. I think you can be friends. I also think the situation is complicated and unusual, Trey. Because you’ve gone from feeling as if your life was spiraling out of control and deciding to go to SLAA, to meeting Harley, to becoming close friends and sharing both the details of your past and your recovery with her. Is that a correct assessment of the last six months?”

“Yeah,” I say tentatively, and I have the feeling of being subtly cross-examined even though I know that’s not Michele’s style.

“And yet, you and your parents don’t talk about what brought you to SLAA. You don’t share it with friends. You don’t share it anywhere but here and with Harley.”

My jaw tightens and my shoulders tense. “I feel like you’re calling me out on something.”