about twenty years old.
“Nice name tag.”
Ugh. I meant to take it off. But while the remark is teasing, the smile on his face is unmistakably flirtatious. I wonder if my rendez-vous last night is making him see me in a different light.
“We could have done this over the phone,” I tell him, dropping into a chair. I’m not really complaining. I’m happy to see him.
“No way,” he says. “Last night merits a face-to-face.”
“We could have talked about it tonight during the coffee break.”
“I’m not a patient man,” he says, smiling lazily. “So how’d it go? From the way you’re glowing, I’d guess pretty damn well.”
Now it’s my turn to smile. I play with the plastic lid on my coffee. And then, the question that I keep trying to quell but can’t. “Who was he?”
“Oh no. We’re not going there,” Justin says. And I see immediately he means it.
“Why not?”
Justin sits back in his chair, playing the lid on his paper cup. “I didn’t tell him who you are, he doesn’t want you know who he is. It’s not about that.”
“I know it’s not about that. But, how do you know him?”
Justin smiles. He looks really mischievous.
“Don’t get mad.”
“Oh, my god, Justin. What?”
“Before I went to AA, I spent time hanging out at Sex Addicts Anonymous.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
I search his face for some sign that he’s teasing me. I don’t find one.
“You are such an asshole!”
“What? He’s a good guy.”
I feel sick. I don’t know why — nothing about what happened last night has changed. What did I think — a nice, wholesome, regular guy was going to miraculously show up for an anonymous hotel tryst? But still.
“You might get off on hooking up with people who have issues. But don’t drag me into that,” I say.
“Oh, like you don’t have issues, Claire? You think the fact that you have zero sex makes you better than the people who need lots of it? You’re just the flip side of the same fucked-up coin.”
I look at him, shocked into silence. But not for long.
“Okay, fine,” I say slowly. “So I’m fucked up. And the AA people are fucked up. And the sex anonymous people are fucked up. But you know what? You’re the worst. You troll amongst us for your own amusement, like some kind of sick tourist.”
He looks stricken. Then his face settles into something neutral and detached.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought I was helping.”
“Really? Because you have insisted all along that you’re helping yourself in some way. But you refuse to tell me the truth about how or why. And I don’t need your help.”
He stands, looking at me with unmistakable wistfulness.
“I’m really sorry you feel that way. Good luck, Claire.”
Chapter 17
Walking back into the store, I tell myself to calm down. I don’t need him. It’s better this way. Let him find someone else to toy with, to turn into his source of amusement.
Aimee is at my counter. Taking care of my customers.
This is not good.
She rings up a two women, packing their purchases into shopping bags, not even glancing at me as I move behind the counter to stand beside her.
“Enjoy your new color,” she smiles sweetly at them, then turns to me with dagger eyes.
“Where have you been?”
“I took my break,” I say, looking at the clock. I’ve barely been gone twenty minutes, the allotted time.
“Why would you take a break at the busiest time of day?” she hisses, impressively managing to yell and be quiet at the same time.
“It’s not usually busy at this hour,” I tell her. “And it was dead all morning.”
“You know, Claire, with all of your appointments the past month,” she says appointments as if the word has air quotes around it — as if they may or may not be real. “I would at least hope you’d make an effort to make up the time by
“Nice name tag.”
Ugh. I meant to take it off. But while the remark is teasing, the smile on his face is unmistakably flirtatious. I wonder if my rendez-vous last night is making him see me in a different light.
“We could have done this over the phone,” I tell him, dropping into a chair. I’m not really complaining. I’m happy to see him.
“No way,” he says. “Last night merits a face-to-face.”
“We could have talked about it tonight during the coffee break.”
“I’m not a patient man,” he says, smiling lazily. “So how’d it go? From the way you’re glowing, I’d guess pretty damn well.”
Now it’s my turn to smile. I play with the plastic lid on my coffee. And then, the question that I keep trying to quell but can’t. “Who was he?”
“Oh no. We’re not going there,” Justin says. And I see immediately he means it.
“Why not?”
Justin sits back in his chair, playing the lid on his paper cup. “I didn’t tell him who you are, he doesn’t want you know who he is. It’s not about that.”
“I know it’s not about that. But, how do you know him?”
Justin smiles. He looks really mischievous.
“Don’t get mad.”
“Oh, my god, Justin. What?”
“Before I went to AA, I spent time hanging out at Sex Addicts Anonymous.”
“That’s not even funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
I search his face for some sign that he’s teasing me. I don’t find one.
“You are such an asshole!”
“What? He’s a good guy.”
I feel sick. I don’t know why — nothing about what happened last night has changed. What did I think — a nice, wholesome, regular guy was going to miraculously show up for an anonymous hotel tryst? But still.
“You might get off on hooking up with people who have issues. But don’t drag me into that,” I say.
“Oh, like you don’t have issues, Claire? You think the fact that you have zero sex makes you better than the people who need lots of it? You’re just the flip side of the same fucked-up coin.”
I look at him, shocked into silence. But not for long.
“Okay, fine,” I say slowly. “So I’m fucked up. And the AA people are fucked up. And the sex anonymous people are fucked up. But you know what? You’re the worst. You troll amongst us for your own amusement, like some kind of sick tourist.”
He looks stricken. Then his face settles into something neutral and detached.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. I thought I was helping.”
“Really? Because you have insisted all along that you’re helping yourself in some way. But you refuse to tell me the truth about how or why. And I don’t need your help.”
He stands, looking at me with unmistakable wistfulness.
“I’m really sorry you feel that way. Good luck, Claire.”
Chapter 17
Walking back into the store, I tell myself to calm down. I don’t need him. It’s better this way. Let him find someone else to toy with, to turn into his source of amusement.
Aimee is at my counter. Taking care of my customers.
This is not good.
She rings up a two women, packing their purchases into shopping bags, not even glancing at me as I move behind the counter to stand beside her.
“Enjoy your new color,” she smiles sweetly at them, then turns to me with dagger eyes.
“Where have you been?”
“I took my break,” I say, looking at the clock. I’ve barely been gone twenty minutes, the allotted time.
“Why would you take a break at the busiest time of day?” she hisses, impressively managing to yell and be quiet at the same time.
“It’s not usually busy at this hour,” I tell her. “And it was dead all morning.”
“You know, Claire, with all of your appointments the past month,” she says appointments as if the word has air quotes around it — as if they may or may not be real. “I would at least hope you’d make an effort to make up the time by
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