Page 9 of Look, Don't Touch

“Oh, and I’m charging you a five-hundred-dollar fee every time you use my first name, Mr. Judge. I told you how you may address me, and my first name was not among the options.”

“I’m a very rich man, Hailey.”

That toast turns to flambé, and I can’t exactly tell if it’s from anger or arousal. That’s not true. I know exactly what it’s from, but also, I know it’s way out of bounds. Ignoring it is the only avenue.

“Your riches just bought me a new pair of shoes. I don’t need any more shoes. I’m running out of closet space. Keep your money, Mr. Judge, and call me Dr. Fitzpatrick.” I pull my shoulders back and continue. “All of those hormones our body makes naturally. They’re brought about by many different things. Listening to your favorite music. Exercise. Sunshine. Dancing. Laughter. A healthy diet. Sleep. Socializing with those close to us. Gratitude. And the ultimate, physical touch.”

“All but one can’t be that bad. It’s a ninety on a test. Way above passing,” he insists.

“You dance?” I can’t stop the rude question from popping out of my mouth or the disbelief used to express it. First, I shouldn’t assume things about clients. I should gather facts and the things they tell me to make informed deductions. Second, I shouldn’t voice my surprise when they open up.

“Fast songs, not slow, and only when I absolutely have to,” he explains.

“Half credit.”

“Still an eighty-five. Still passing.”

“You don’t strike me as a man willing to settle for eighty-five percent.” My phone vibrates against my leg. I don’t look. I’m too busy waiting for a crafty retort. When it doesn’t come, I move on. “Your ultimate goal is not physical touch specifically. It’s learning to develop trust in yourself and others that will allow you to express your affection by giving and receiving physical touch and investing in your relationships.”

He gifts me with a heavy breath.

The dragon.

“Often, the issue isn’t the actual problem. It’s only a symptom. We’ll follow the issues to their roots and pick them apart. Discomfort is to be expected. Nothing worth having ever comes easily. As we work, that discomfort should become farther and farther apart and the severity less and less. I need you to communicate your thoughts and feelings to work through things. Know that whatever you tell me in this room won’t leave it unless my or your physical health is at stake. Where’d you grow up, Mr. Judge?”

“Didn’t the background check tell you?”

There’s the bite I remember. It took a little longer to show itself today. That’s something.

“The background checks I run are for my safety. They only ensure that you are who you say you are, and who you are isn’t a convicted rapist or murderer. Though, it’s not foolproof. Plenty of people guilty of a crime have never been convicted. However, I don’t dig into my clients’ pasts. I require that they fill in the blanks for me.”

“Who do you find worse, rapists or murderers?” His haunted voice grows thinner and heavier at the same time.

If he’d kicked me in the chest, it might have hurt a little less.

I breathe deeply, in through my nose and out through my mouth, quietly. So quietly. It’s my issue, not his. I mask it in the guise of thinking.

“Rapists,” I finally choke out.

“Why?”

“Their victims have to live with the damage. A murderer’s victim is dead. They don’t have to deal with anything.”

“The victim’s family does.”

“Yes, they do.” I pinch the side of my hand to keep my emotions in check. He does not know me. He does not know my past. This is not about me. “Where did you grow up?”

“New York. New York with the Guggenheim in my backyard.”

Upper East Side. Richie Rich from the get-go.

Money. It’s the root of most evil and a lot of narcissism. It can make normally shitty parents absentee in most cases. I imagine Arlo Judge as a little kid in a big empty house with no more than a butler, cook, and driver decades older than him and not giving a fuck about him unless he stirred up trouble.

Just like that, I jumped to conclusions, which isn’t like me and isn’t a good sign. I’m struggling to remain objective with this man, and I don’t know why.

“What kind of home did you live in?”

“What do you mean?”

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