by Kendall Ryan
My heart stops beating as her gaze tracks hotly down toward my erection. Without my permission, my right hand slips down my abs and under the elastic of my shorts. I don’t draw my length out, I just curl my fist around my rigid shaft and stroke, my bicep flexing with the effort. A deep groan pours out of me.
Layne swallows heavily, her eyes glued to the spot where my hand moves in long measured strokes.
It feels so fucking good—mostly because of the heated way she’s watching me. And two minutes later, I’m coming all over my hand and stomach. Layne lifts up on her elbow, and brings her mouth to mine, kissing me deeply as the pleasure rocks through me.
After I’m cleaned up and dressed in a new pair of shorts, I curl onto my side and gather Layne in close. She wouldn’t let me touch her tonight, but she doesn’t stop me from holding her. It’s something, I guess. I close my eyes, feeling pretty damn certain that sleep will be impossible tonight.
11
* * *
LAYNE
Present day
As I walk into the small, cozy waiting room, the glowing aromatherapy machine in the corner puffs a stream of vapor out into the air. I can’t quite place the smell—something herbal and soothing with a little lavender in it, maybe—but it instantly puts my mind a little more at ease as I sit on the edge of one of the overstuffed armchairs along the perimeter of the room. A large painting of a sunset over the ocean hangs on the wall across from me, and I zone out, staring at the sweeping strokes of red and orange that fade into subtle pinks and yellows.
It’s only my fourth session with my new therapist, but I have to say, it feels like it’s working. Whatever that means in this context. Sure, I’m still stressed and unsure about my life, but so far, just having someone else to dump all my anxieties on has made my future feel a little more manageable.
Plus, I’m absolutely obsessed with how warm and comforting Dr. Benson’s whole office is, from the Himalayan salt lamp on a side table near the door, to the plush cream-colored couch, to the soothing artwork on the walls. It’s like everything is designed to make you feel at ease—which, come to think of it, it probably is.
The door to Dr. Benson’s office opens, and the sweet older lady pops her head out, her silver chin-length hair hanging loosely around her gently lined face, her tortoise-shell horn-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose.
“Hi, Layne. It’s good to see you. Come on in.”
Adjusting my purse strap over my shoulder, I walk into her office, settling myself onto the couch as she takes her usual seat in the armchair across from me and reaches for the small notepad next to her.
“So, how are you doing today?” she asks with a smile, the lines around her mouth deepening.
“Oh, you know, I’m fine. Just the usual,” I say with a soft chuckle, crossing one leg over the other.
I’m still not sure why I insist on playing this game every week—the one where I say I’m fine and she presses me for more details. But after thirty-seven years of pretending everything’s fine, I’m not quite ready yet to spill my guts immediately upon seeing someone. Even if that someone is my therapist.
“Mm-hmm. And tell me more about the usual.” Dr. Benson cocks her head to the side, her pale blue eyes on mine.
I stare at her for a moment before sighing and pushing my fingers through my hair. “Well, things at work are as stressful as ever. I tried some of the prioritizing techniques you recommended last week, and they helped a little, but I still feel like I can’t quite get a handle on everything.”
She nods along as I speak, scribbling away on her notepad. “Okay, so you’re still struggling to feel in control at work. Is anything else bothering you? The usual sounds . . . ominous.” She smiles gently.
“I mean, there’s also the whole thirty-seven and still single as fuck thing. Sorry for cursing,” I quickly add, lowering my gaze to the carpet. Classy, Anderson.
“You don’t need to apologize. Swear words can help us relieve stress. If letting out a hearty fuck now and then makes you feel better, then by all means, let it out.”
I can’t help but giggle, my eyebrows shooting straight up to my hairline. Never in my life did I think I’d hear my sixty-five-year-old therapist say the phrase “hearty fuck,” let alone encourage me to use it too.
“All righty then, I’ll keep that in mind.” I grin at her.
“Where do you think your anxiety about being single at your age comes from?” she asks after a slight pause, her eyes trained on the notepad as she finishes whatever it is she’s writing.
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I just always thought I’d be settled down with kids by now. Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted a family of my own. And now I’m at that age, where every day that passes and I’m still single, the further and further away I get from making that dream a reality.”
“Have you considered raising a child on your own? Plenty of women your age do. There’s not nearly the same stigma about it as there once was.”
“Being a single mom was never something I wanted for myself. I can barely manage my work-life balance as it is. Besides, I already bought my dream home for myself instead of waiting around for Mr. Right. Don’t get me wrong, my house is amazing, and I don’t regret buying it for a second. But being in that space alone, no matter how perfect it might be, can make bad days worse sometimes, you know?”
“Mmm. And are you taking any steps to find someone?”
I snort. “Uh, taking steps feels like an understatement.”
Dr. Benson simply raises her eyebrows, prompting me to continue.
“I spend at least two hours a day reexamining what I’m looking for in a man. Practically every successful man over forty I meet, I see as a prospect, and do my best to win over while simultaneously slipping in casual-sounding questions about whether they’re single or if they want kids. I tried online dating for a while, but after too many awkward, stilted dates to count, I gave up on that front too. Although I did just hear about a new website that matches high-achieving singles over thirty-five, which, if I’m being honest, sounds depressing as hell. But, hey, I’m not in a position to be picky. I don’t know, I guess I’m just starting to think that I’m doomed to end up alone. Forever.”
Dr. Benson stares at me, her eyes wide and watching my face carefully, no longer glued to her notepad. She doesn’t say anything for a few beats, letting the weight of what I just shared hang in the air between us. “Is that all?” she finally asks, the sarcasm in her voice hard to miss.
“I know it sounds like a lot, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“How about having a little fun?”
“What do you mean?”
Dr. Benson smiles softly, setting her notepad to the side and leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. “Layne, it’s clear that finding a good match is very important to you. But I think that in taking your search so seriously, you’ve somehow managed to suck every ounce of fun out of dating.”
I look away, staring instead at the motivational poster on the wall of a turtle climbing up a hill, totally at a loss for how to respond. “I have fun,” I murmur defensively, crossing one leg over the other.
“When’s the last time you let loose? It sounds like you spend all day micromanaging every aspect of your life. Do you leave any room for the unexpected?”
“Well, I’d argue that every man I date who turns out to be a dud or an asshole is unexpected.”
“That may be,” she replies, leaning back in her chair and giving me a knowing look. “But all I’m saying is that it might do you some good to remember what it’s like to enjoy yourself again. All work and no play is a recipe for loneliness and depression, no matter how good you are at your job.”
Nodding slowly, I keep staring at the damn turtle poster on the wall, pressing my lips together as tears sting the corners of my eyes. Dammit, I hate it when she’s right.
“I don’t see how having fun is going to make anything better. It just seems like a was
te of time at this point.”
“It might not always feel like it, but you’re still young, with plenty of life ahead of you. Take it from me. Switching up your routine might be good for you. You never know what’s out there until you stop looking for it.”
With Dr. Benson’s parting words ringing in my head, we say our good-byes and I gather my things, my mind spinning during the whole drive home. It’s not like she’s never given me direct advice before, but damn, you know your life is depressing when your sixty-five-year-old therapist tells you to go out and get laid.
Okay, maybe she didn’t say anything about getting laid. But, let’s be real. It was implied.
When I get home, I flop down on the couch, racking my brain for something fun and unexpected that I could do tonight. The clubs I used to frequent in my twenties are out of the question. I highly doubt I’ll find my soul mate in the middle of a neon-lit dance floor, trying to escape the sweaty, unsolicited bodies rubbing up against my backside. The mere thought of it sends grossed-out chills down my spine.
For as much anxiety as my age gives me, I’m definitely glad to not be in that phase of my life anymore. Then again, here I am, trying to decide what bar to hit up and which outfit will best accentuate my curves while still holding everything in.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes, and I pick it up to find a text from Kristen, inviting me to drinks with the crew tonight. Well, inviting isn’t quite the right word. More like demanding.
For a second, I wonder if she’s working for Dr. Benson. The timing is just too perfect.
But before I can let myself go down that paranoid rabbit hole, I force myself to shake it off. It’s one thing to be single at my age. If I start suspecting that everyone trying to help me is out to get me, it’s a slippery slope to adopting twenty cats and never leaving my home again.
I shoot her a quick text letting her know that I’ll be there. She responds with a bunch of excited emojis, and I can practically hear her squealing with delight.
It’s not like I turn down all of her invitations to go out with our friends but it has been a while since I’ve had a fun night out. And that definitely includes going home with some rando from the bar.
With only a couple of hours before I need to leave, I figure I’d better start getting ready now. I used to love this part of going out, the hours spent primping and priming, making yourself as smooth and pretty as possible before going out for the night. Now, with my goals a bit more focused than they used to be, I’m inclined to take a more clinical approach to the whole process, optimizing the way I look and smell so I’m as desirable as possible without looking like a total one-night stand. I’m looking for a bit more longevity now that I’m no longer in my twenties.
This new process includes a lot of the same things as before—washing my body with a lightly scented bodywash, shaving practically every surface of my skin, exfoliating, using my best moisturizer, putting on my good underwear, blow-drying my hair and curling it into loose waves, and applying a fresh, slightly less natural than usual face of makeup. Heck, I even decide to match my bra to my panties—and by that, I mean they’re both black. I can’t remember the last time I bought a matching set of lingerie.
After dabbing a soft pink shade of lipstick onto my lips, I take a step back from the full-length mirror to take it all in.
I went with a knee-length, formfitting maroon dress I haven’t worn in years, which, honestly, fits way better than I remember. The fabric is tight and thick enough that I don’t feel like I need to wear any shapewear underneath, thank God. I’m all for the miracle of Spanx, but it’s nice to be able to breathe too.
Stepping into a pair of strappy black heels, I call an Uber, checking my texts to make sure Kristen hasn’t yelled at me for being late yet. Thankfully, she’s running a little late too, but she assures me that the group is already there.
I check my reflection one last time before walking out the door, silently pleased with how my dark waves fall around my cleavage—and how my ass looks in this dress, if I’m being honest. If I were a guy, I’d want to take the girl in the mirror home. She looks confident, refined, and sexy as hell. A sly smile sneaks across my lips as my phone dings, letting me know the Uber driver is here.
I give the girl in the mirror a wink before walking out the door. Who knows, maybe tonight is the night she’ll meet someone. Someone who’ll make her feel as sexy and desirable and worthy of her dreams as she wants to be.
After all, it’s doctor’s orders.
12
* * *
GRIFFIN
This bar is noisy as hell, but I can’t say that’s a bad thing. I have to lean down so Layne’s lips are brushing against my ear, just so I can hear her. And, fuck, if that isn’t fuel for every fantasy I keep returning to . . . you know the one. Of our naked bodies, finally entwined.
“You should really do therapy,” she yells before pulling another sip from the straw in her tequila sunrise.
Kristin and her new boyfriend are leaning over the bar, ordering their next round of drinks, while Layne and I kill some time at the old-fashioned jukebox. I lean against the metal and plastic along the side, browsing the songs for an oldie but goodie.
“What?” I ask, pretending not to hear her.
“You heard me,” she yells again.
The feel of her hot breath on my neck sends chills down my spine, straight to the growing tightness in my jeans. I close the space between us, so our faces are only inches apart. Her eyelids flutter at the proximity, and I meet her gaze with a smirk. I know I affect her, even if she pretends I don’t. Layne tries to pretend it didn’t, but something changed between us after that camping trip. It’s little things, like the way her gaze lingers on me too long, or how she pretends not to be affected when we’re standing close like this.
“What do you want to listen to?” I ask, tapping on the glass of the jukebox.
“You’re deflecting,” she says, but still leans over my arm to look at her options.
My fingers flex across the glass involuntarily as the fabric of her tight red dress brushes against my arm. “I like your dress. Did you learn that word from your therapist?” I ask her, my gaze wandering across her body.
Damn, dude. At least try to hide how hungry you are.
“No,” she says, turning to me with a laugh. “I know what deflecting means, thank you very much.” Her dark curls hang loosely on her shoulders, framing her breasts.
Impossibly, I drag my gaze up to hers. “Red is definitely your color.”
“It’s maroon, and I know.” She smiles at me shyly. Pulling at her purse, she removes a handful of quarters from its depths and slides them one by one into the coin slot.
I mentally kick myself for not paying for it myself. For being too busy soaking up how close we’re standing, how good she smells, how gracefully she moves . . .
“I felt inspired,” she says as she slides the last quarter into the machine, then pushes the buttons to make her selections.
“Because of therapy?” I ask.
“It was either wear the red dress, or accept my fate as a cat lady.”
“You don’t have any cats,” I say with a laugh.
“Not yet,” she says, pointing with a polished nail to punctuate her point.
I open my mouth to continue this dance that we’re so familiar with . . . the playful banter, the harmless flirting. But I press my lips together when the song starts playing over the speakers.
“I love this song.” She sighs happily as “Dancing in the Moonlight” by King Harvest covers us like a soft rain. Her face lights up as she begins singing along to the words of the first verse.
A grin stretches across my face as I watch Layne move to the music, her hands planted on either side of the jukebox, her hips swaying with the upbeat rhythm. On a whim, I take her hand, twirling her around and drawing her into me. We don’t miss a beat.
“It looked like you needed a better dance partner,” I say.
Layne beams
up at me, her inhibitions lowered, thanks to the help of a little liquid courage and a classic bop. We rock together, either unaware or uncaring that no one else in this crowded bar is dancing.
“Everybody’s feeling warm and bright . . .”
As I sing into her ear, she shudders pleasantly against me. Her hand slides from my bicep up onto my shoulder, firmly planting on the back of my neck. Her thumb caresses my nape, and my system floods with warmth and comfort.
She must be feeling this too. Right?
Layne rests her forehead against my shoulder and sighs. I adjust, lifting her chin so that our eyes meet with a look that asks what’s wrong?
She smiles, almost sadly. My lips turn down in concern, and she shakes her head.
“I just need some air,” she yells over the music.
My brow furrows. What just happened?
Layne detaches herself from me and makes her way to the exit. I want to follow her, but don’t know if she wants me to.
As she disappears through the doors, I do a quick scan of the crowd, looking for my sister. Sure enough, there she is, wrapped in the arms of her new guy, chatting with another couple at the bar. I pull my phone out and shoot her a quick text to let her know that Layne and I are grabbing some air.
I make my way through the throngs of people, reaching the door only moments after Layne. The night breeze wafts over my face and arms, relieving me of that stuffy, sticky bar feeling.
Layne leans against the brick wall of the neighboring furniture shop, absently scrolling through her phone. I pull my phone out again and shoot her a text.
You okay? I’m here if you wanna talk.
Layne reads the message, then looks over to the door where I’m standing. She sighs again, this time not in a sad way . . . in a different way. She beckons me to her with a nod of her head.
“Sorry for walking out like that,” she says as I approach her.
There’s something terribly fragile about this moment, like the air around us is wavering, and the light cast down from the streetlight is buzzing with something important to say.