Page 81 of Our Sadie

Shit.

Yet, it’s stuff like this that makes me understand something I never would’ve thought would happen. Despite wanting to be back in Boston, I like being here. It doesn’t feel like prostitution, like I’m getting paid to be some client’s plaything. Sadie doesn’t objectify us. She enjoys us. And we enjoy her.

And I’m doing more than enjoy her, too. I appreciate that she’s doing so much better. That she’s healing. It’s been great watching her transform into someone she wants to be. I’m here for it.

I’m here for her.

And the four of us... I don’t know. I like hanging out not just with Sadie but with the others, too. Even if we have noisy and opposing opinions about hockey, basketball, and football. Even if we’re still competing for points with Sadie but in a totally different way. I think they’ve become my buddies somehow.

Isn’t that wild?

As for Sadie, there’s been no meltdowns, no sleepwalking, and no more tirades. She’s had some restless nights, but she hasn’t wandered around again, at least not beyond our bedroom. She also hasn’t scared us in the middle of the night by having loud arguments with her deceased mom. So, that’s a plus.

But there’s an elephant in the room that no one’s discussing.

The contract. The terms of our agreement to come here aren’t the terms we’ve been living by. Even though none of us ever signed anything to make a change. I may not be a lawyer or anything, but I can’t help wondering where that leaves us.

How does Sadie see this going? Will she honor the contract anyway? Is she considering not hiring just one but all of us?

Or am I being a presumptuous asshole to even think that?

I’ve received every single payment from Elegance so far automatically and on time. And since I’ve been here with Sadie, she’s been more generous than she’s had to be. But this is still her ballgame and her course to plot. It all comes down to this...

Will she continue what we’ve started here in New Hampshire back in Massachusetts?

That’s the question we—all of us—deserve to have answered.

Yet I haven’t brought it up with her. And to my knowledge, none of the rest of us have, either.

TWENTY-SEVEN: Hope

ZACHARY

“So, do the doctors have treatment plans for your mom?” Jerome asks me on one of the rare occasions when we’re all in our triangular common room. As often as we spend nights with Sadie in her wing, we do occasionally gravitate back to our spaces to conduct the more mundane activities like showers without sex or snatching a quick wardrobe change.

In my hands is the thank you card my parents sent me after they received the gift basket, one that in the past Mom would’ve handled from start to finish. This time, though, the addresses on the outside are labels, and the writing on the inside of the card are all in Dad’s hand except for two words.

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