Page 33 of Look, Don't Touch

“And?” I press.

“And… the account number and the name of the bank it transferred from?” His long beard threatens to hit his desk. It pairs nicely with his long hair pulled back in a ponytail. I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off. “I can’t tell you that information.”

“The donation came from me. Are you telling me I can’t know my account number?” I try.

“If it’s your account number, you’d know it already. Besides, you already said it wasn’t from you.” His gaze slides back to my aunt.

I pivot. “What if it’s from my stalker?”

“Do you have one?” he says, not bothering to look at me.

No.

“I don’t know. But I could find out if you’d tell me what I want to know.” I sit forward. Still, he doesn’t look at me. I’m tempted to remind him that he’s married.

“Where do I know you from?” Daniel asks my aunt.

She smiles a kind smile. The woman loves to get recognized. “Vogue? Vanity Fair? Fashion Week? A guest judge on America’s Next Top Model?”

He slaps his desk and points at her. “Maxim. Fire over fifty.” His gaze slides to me, then back to her, and the color blanches from his face. He’s put two and two together, and it equals ejaculation. He saw my aunt in Maxim. He probably jerked off to her pictures. He probably thinks she’s my mother.

Almost as soon as he blanches, his cheeks go beet red. It’s a sight to behold, watching such a burly man blush.

He clears his throat and sits straight. “Are you going to head to the mess hall or interrogate me all night?” His cheeks flush anew. “That didn’t…” He scrunches his lips together. “Please.” He gestures toward the door. “Go."

I stand irritated but also entertained. Nat scurries away without a parting shot, but I can’t help myself. At the door, I stop and look back over my shoulder. “I’m sure you can find the pics online still. Want me to lock and close the door for you on my way out?”

His groan is deep as he buries his face in his hands.

Between screwing with him and saying hello to familiar faces, the night serving hundreds of meals to men and women who gave so much more is enough to take the usual edge off. For a while.

I feel like I’m back in the year of doom. Today, four of my five clients requested virtual meetings because of sickness, theirs, or someone close to them. It’s damn depressing. The only client who could hope to drag me out of it also requested a virtual meeting. I flip my laptop the bird, as though it’s at fault.

A few seconds later, the call goes live to two black windows where our video images should be, as he requested.

“Are you sick?” My question is blunt and borders on rude. Up until yesterday, we were all set for our usual Friday meeting. I’m worried he’s distancing himself on purpose. So worried, I didn’t sleep well last night.

Only one thing gets in the way of my sleep. Crave. I’ve worked long and hard to make it so. It took a solid decade of therapy, a whole host of behavioral and emotional interventions, and time.

They say time heals. I don’t know if I believe it. There’s been so much time. Too much and not enough all at once. I can hardly believe it’s been nineteen years since I lost them.

“Are you worried about me, Hailey?” His signature voice is so far away but also closer than normal. An odd dichotomy makes me fidget with the pen on my desk.

I should demand that he stop calling me by my first name. Put my foot down. But the familiarity feels nice. And that’s a bad sign. A terrible sign.

“Answer my question.” Somehow, I manage to soften my tone.

“No, I’m not sick. I’m in Budapest for work. I tried to postpone until the weekend, but it couldn’t be avoided. I apologize for the late notice.”

Relief that he’s not trying to avoid our meeting should relax my shoulders, which are up by my ears, but I’m stuck on how far away he is. He’s on the other side of the world. Something dark tugs at my belly. Certainly, it has to do with Nat and the notion that she passed on the opportunity to live on the other side of the world.

Before I realize it, I’m doodling on the notepad beside my computer. “No apology necessary. I should probably be the one apologizing. What time is it there?”

“It’s only eleven.”

“Only eleven?”

“Sleep isn’t my ally, remember?”

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