Page 26 of Look, Don't Touch

“Yes, I didn’t mean to minimize your aunt’s giving. We appreciate that too. So much. It will feed our guys for several days and ease the tightness in the budget.”

“I think you missed the part where I said I didn’t donate.”

“Um…” He draws a deep breath. “Let me look again to quadruple check, but I think you’re wrong.”

And I think I’d know if I volunteered one million of my dollars that I don’t have.

“It’s right here. A donation to The Veterans Residence of Long Island for one million dollars has been made in the name of Matthew Banett.” He positively squeals the dollar amount. “The name of the donor is input as Dr. Hailey Fitzpatrick.”

“I…I don’t know how that’s possible, Daniel. I don’t have a million dollars to my name. I certainly can’t give away what I don’t have.”

“I…Uh…I don’t know what to tell you. The funds were already transferred into the general account for TVR.” He clears his throat and rustles some papers. “The donation was made online like most. I suppose the donor can input anyone’s name in the box for the donor.”

The note is still clutched in my hand. There’s more to it. I hadn’t paid much attention earlier. The dollar amount threw me for a loop.

“Thanks, Daniel, and congratulations.”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t help Matt more.”

“Me too.” I hang up and drop my phone onto the table with a kathunk.

Then I read the card again. I read every word aloud, so I don’t miss a thing.

A donation to The Veterans Residence of Long Island for one million dollars has been made in the name of Matthew Banett.

I swallow and continue.

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart. - Helen Keller

“How often do you pleasure yourself?”

I’ve asked this question hundreds of times. It’s never made my palms sweat before. I wipe them on my oversized cream sweater dress. I’m certain it’s because I feel guilty about crying in front of him at our last session, ignoring his trauma, and canceling last week.

“Daily.”

A zip of awareness caresses my intimate parts. I recross my tall leather boots at the ankle, glare at the clouds, and ignore the zing to the best of my ability. “That’s healthy and great for your hormonal balance.”

I swallow heavily, as though I don’t believe my bull. “About how many hours of sleep do you get a day?”

There’s a shuffle behind me. He's rearranging in his seat, I suppose. I don’t know because I’m still facing the window. I can’t blame him for not placing trust in me yet. After all, I’m a veritable stranger to him.

He’s not answering, and I find it interesting as hell. Most people clam up on the subject of masturbation, not sleep.

“On average, Mr. Judge?”

“Four hours,” he relents with a generous exhale. “Six on a good night.”

“Are those hours typically concurrent?”

“No.”

“How often do you exercise?”

“Daily.”

He’s closed off, and I hate it. All the progress we’d made is lost. I push forward. “Every day?”

“Yes.” He sighs. “Sometimes more than once, if I can’t sleep.”

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