Perfect Match

by Alexis Alvarez

  She looks at me but doesn’t ask for an introduction; instead, she stands next to Gabriel and entwines their fingers. “I booked our usual resort for next weekend,” she murmurs into his ear, and only then does she put her glance on me. “I’m Arielle,” she announces, extending her hand like a favor. Her smile is warm, but I’m not 100% sure that it goes all the way to her eyes. It sort of looks like it does. Maybe it does?

  Nope. It does not. She just gave me a tiny smirk as she looked me up and down, and that’s all I need to know about her. “I’m Shai.” I don’t bother with “nice to meet you,” because—honestly—it isn’t.

  “Shai is going to work with Michael on a temporary basis,” Gabriel says. “She’s a therapist with Frazier.” He gives me a smile. Arielle’s eyes follow, and her hand tightens on his forearm. Her nails are perfect.

  “Oh! How wonderful!” Her voice sounds so genuine. “You’re such a thoughtful father, always getting him the things he needs. Like this massive playdate opportunity, with kids of the donors. I admire that about you.” She smiles up at him and touches his cheek. “I’m so glad we’ll get the chance to have a private getaway. You definitely need to relax after all the hard work you put in at home. Recharge.”

  He doesn’t respond to that, but checks his watch. “Lindsay, can you please take Shai to get the info packet? Arielle, let’s head back now. I need to catch Masterson before your award.” He turns to me. “Thank you, Shai. I appreciate your willingness to work with my son.”

  He takes my hand again and nods, and even though Arielle is draped along him, a Prada anaconda, my heart hammers a tune out in my chest, a few sudden notes of surprise and desire, at the touch. I keep my expression even as I smile and walk away.

  At the top of the staircase I look back at him, and flush—he’s watching me. I duck my head, then straighten up. I give him a small wave with the fingers of my right hand, and smile. Then I do the airplane crashing motion that Michael did.

  Arielle is talking into his ear, but he’s still looking at me. Before I turn, I see him tilt his head toward me and give me a quick one-wave motion with his hand. And I think I see the briefest hint of a smile.

  The sun is bright and cheerful, making everything look warmer than the fifteen degrees that’s trickled into town overnight, extending thin needy fingers into the cracks and crevices of the streets, wrapping me in a barbed wire embrace between the buttons of my jacket and sending wasabi-sharp gusts up my nose when I breathe in.

  I get into my car and shiver while I pump the gas a few times and turn the key. My old Nissan Sentra, Marissa, is an ancient sage of a Grandma, but she’s still safe and reliable, and as she shudders awake, I see the gusts of exhaust sweeping away, feathers vanishing. Then the wind changes and acrid exhaust comes back in my direction, so I ease the foot off the pedal and allow the car to idle down the battered side street.

  Chicago is fierce in the winters, and she’s just getting started. Piles of dead brown leaves cling heavy and sodden to the curbs, random arrangements that formed from winds and neighbors and then drowned in cold rain. I imagine how the street will look once the snowdrifts come. My neighbor Bryce will put out that candy-cane striped red and white wooden chair to reserve the spot he shovels out with care, and then crotchety Mrs. Moel will move it so her husband can park there himself.

  The drive back to Gabriel’s house takes forty minutes and it’s a different world. His home, an entire renovated brownstone, is located in Lincoln Park, an exclusive neighborhood not far from Lake Michigan. During my short research on Gabriel, I saw that a house on the next street sold for over six million dollars. Street parking is tight, though, and that makes me smile. People can afford the most luxurious places in the city, but they’re still bound by the same urban limitations as everyone.

  I ring the bell and my heart speeds. Is Gabriel going to answer? I steel myself for his face, his attitude. And those sexy eyes.

  Instead, a woman in her sixties greets me; she’s plump and her eyes are sharp, appraising. “Shai,” she says, before I get a chance. “I’m Natalie, the Baystocks’ housekeeper. I do a lot of things with Michael.” Her smile is warm, if a bit reserved. “Gabriel is waiting for you in his office. I’ll take you.”

  I follow her quick pace over the tiled entryway. Instead of going to that large front room that was filled with donors last time, or down the hallway with the art pieces, she leads me the other way.

  We go over a carpet that’s thick and soft and makes me terrified that dirt lingered on my shoes, and I catch glimpses of art lit by soft wall lights, glass cases with exquisite shapes and colors inside. Then we’re in a hallway, warm soft wood that makes me want to bend down and stroke it, and now we’re inside his office. I see pictures, a large window, and a shelf full of books—business and poetry.

  He’s behind a desk piled with papers and for some reason my eye is caught by a beautiful hourglass full of blue sand so fine that it looks like water. It’s all run out.

  “Shai,” he says, standing, and gives me his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  Natalie nods her head. “Call if you need anything,” she murmurs, and closes the door behind her. As I glance around, getting my bearings, I realize I recognize his music.

  Tramuta in lazzi lo spasmo ed il pianto in una smorfia il singhiozzo e ‘l dolor, Ah!

  “You like Pagliacci?” I ask before I know the words are coming, surprised that someone else loves my favorite song.

  He raises his eyebrows. “You do?”

  “I love opera. This is a dark song, though. Pavarotti really hits it. I usually only listen to this when I want to embrace some kind of immense sadness.” As the voice rolls over us, somehow turning into something three-dimensional and alive in the room, vibrating our bodies with reverberations of loss and beauty, I feel like it’s something nearly too intimate to share.

  “What do you know about immense sadness?” His voice is taut.

  I shrug. “Everyone has bad days. Sometimes you have to let it grow and swell to its maximum to let it burst and disappear. The music can help.” A memory starts to swell in my mind with the music and I hastily push it back and blank it out. My eye twitches and I finger my scar.

  “Some sadnesses are too big for music to touch.” His voice is sharp, his eyes following my finger, and I put my hand back down. He touches a button on the sleek stereo system and silence pours out, just before the resolution, and I wince at the unfulfilled notes lingering in the air.

  I nod. “Yeah.” And what I don’t tell him, but what I know for myself, is this: Some sadnesses are so powerful that you simply can’t release them; you have to push them down hard, lock them away, and never let them out. Radioactive poison in drums buried deep in your mind, and if you build the barrels right, they don’t leak. This is against everything you learn and teach in therapy, but it’s how I survive. I don’t tell people I’m a hypocrite; it doesn’t matter, in the end, as long as I help them get better.

  I take a breath to refocus. “I’m excited to work with Michael. You said a temporary hire. Let’s talk about what that means. I brought a printout of my email, and you can recommend changes.”

  “Sit down.” He nods at a chair opposite his desk. “Please,” he adds, when I hesitate, and puts his hands up. “Let’s review your proposal.”

  I take out a neatly stapled packet and a folder. “I’ve included my resume and letters of recommendation from previous clients and from Allison.” He makes a noise of impatience and I continue, “Just so you have them, for your records.”

  He cuts in. “I already have those and I reviewed them last week before we spoke. I would never have offered you anything if I didn’t check your credentials. I admire Allison. She and Michael’s surgeon recommended you specifically. Dr. Avery Chandler.”

  “She’s the best.” I hear the admiration in my voice. “Dr. Chandler is one of Chicago’s best peds cancer specialists. I’ve worked with several of her patients.” Of course Gabriel has the best doctor
for his son. Clearly, with his wealth and influence—although Dr. Chandler only takes specific cases, and she never bases it on anything financial. If she took Michael on as a patient, then it means she believed she could help him.

  “I’m only hiring you because I’m at the end of my options.” His voice is bitter. “I don’t think therapy works—how could it? I mean, it’s like blowing on a broken arm. Here, feel better.”

  “Then, why?” I’m so curious. I lean in, wanting to understand more, to unlock the hurt in his eyes and find out how to make it better.

  “My son is struggling, he doesn’t want to even talk to me these days. He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, but he’s squandering that gift. So—I don’t even know where to start.”

  I keep my voice low and melodious. “Tell me a little about his history. I read the documents, but just to clarify—he’s in remission, yes?”

  “Yes.” This makes Gabriel relax, at least a little; some of the tension drains from his shoulders and his smile is genuine. “Yes. The first surgery removed the tumor from his lungs, and he was cancer-free for three years. His last surgery was a rough one. He had a distant recurrence; another tumor grew in his brain. They got it all, but he had some doses of chemo afterwards. He’s still on several medications, but he’s weaning off steroids right now.”

  “And do they think, do they know how long his current remission will last?” It’s a scary question, but I need to know.

  “You never really know, of course. But at this point she doesn’t think it will recur. Dr. Chandler has him come in for regular scans and tests, but he’s completely cancer-free right now. NED—that’s No Evidence of Disease.”

  “I’m so glad.” It makes me happy, ecstatic, to hear that Michael’s recovery is going so well. “He’s having trouble right now, emotionally?”

  Gabriel sighs. “He’s morbid and inappropriate, and he offends everyone. He refuses to return to school. He never wants to leave the house. And he is chronically rude to my—to Arielle. He’s can’t handle the fact that I’m with someone other than his mother. Obviously I want him to be… happy again. And to be able to fit back into life, you know? I never thought therapy was much use, but it’s worth a try.” He gives a small chuckle. “We got family counseling many times over the past few years and he hated it, even though I tried so many experts. But…”

  “But?” I raise my eyebrows.

  He smiles. “I’m willing to try again. With you. At least you can help him get his homework done. You seemed to have some kind of magic touch the other night. I can’t even seem to manage that.”

  He looks me in the eyes, and I feel the force of his personality, and his sexuality as well. This man is literally one of the most handsome people I’ve ever come across, and it’s not just his physique and his chiseled cheeks, his lashes, his lips—it’s his confidence. His intellect. It shows in his gaze, in the way he narrows his eyes. It sounds out in his words. It comes through his skin, I think, and wafts to me on the invisible currents in the room.

  There’s a divot in his chin and I want to put my finger there. His lips are expressive and I want to touch them, too. His shirt is just tight enough, just loose enough to show muscles under the crisp white starch, and I want to run my palms over his biceps, squeeze, lean in.

  As we look at each other, I see the expression in his face turn from professional to calculating, and a gleam appears in his eye. He’s suddenly a predator, and when his eyes peruse me, moving over my curves, I feel hot, weak, silly. I’m letting my imagination get overactive because I have a crush on him—well, not him; I don’t know him. But I have a crush on what I think he might be; a crush on how he looks and acts; a crush on the person I want as my secret lover in my mind, the lover who looks just. Like. This.

  I blink and focus. “Magic touch?” I try not to think about his touch, how that would feel on my skin. Stop. I’m not here for that, and neither is he. Focus.

  He nods. “When you talked to him about the essay. He actually wrote it that night, and do you know, it was one of the most fantastic things—” He breaks off, and I watch, mesmerized, as he swallows, my eyes tracking the movements of his tendons.

  I look back at his eyes. “I’m glad I was able to help. I think he’s got a lot of anger built up, and I can help him find the right ways to express that as we work it off.”

  “Anger. Yes, I suppose he does.” Gabriel sighs, then looks down, flips a pen in his fingers. It’s expensive looking, silver. I wonder if it’s a Mont Blanc. I read a book once where the rich main character used Mont Blanc pens, and ever since then—even though I have no idea what a real Mont Blanc pen looks like—rich-looking pens summon that word, along with images of Swiss mountains and chalets and sexy Bond men in suits. “He is angry, Shai. At me, at the universe. It started when his mother died, and got worse since…”

  I pull my mind back. “How long has it been since…”

  “Michael’s mother died three years ago. It was a car accident, a drunk driver.” He shuffles my papers, waits a second before looking back up at me. “He’s almost ten now. He’s forgotten so much about her. I think that makes him… scared.” His lips are tight, and I imagine how that must feel, that the woman he loved—the mother of his child—is nothing but a pale shadow in his son’s mind.

  I keep my voice soft. “That’s something I can work on with him. But Gabriel, for this to be successful, I’ll need to work with you, too. Usually? When a child feels this much fear, anger and resentment, the behavior of the parent is just as critical. There may be signals that you put out inadvertently that cue Michael into this behavior. It’s hard for any child to accept a parent dating, and if he’s recovering from illness and struggling to remember his mom, that makes it harder. You may need some different techniques and tactics to talk to him about this and help him understand that you’re not disrespecting his mother, you’re not asking him to become something he’s not, and you’re not telling him he’s not enough for you. I can provide advice on how to recognize his triggers so you can adjust your own behavior.”

  “This is not about me.” He stands up and his face twists. “It’s about my son. My behavior is not in question here. You will not be psychoanalyzing me, Shai. You will not be giving me any well-intentioned instructions on how to connect or reach out or adapt. You’re working with him and him alone. You try your best to help him be happy again. I just want him to be happy.”

  “I understand.” I stop and force myself to count to three. Lots of parents vacillate between anger and fear themselves, and take it out on the therapist. You can’t take it personally, nor can you allow yourself to react. You’re there to help them as much as the child. “Let me tell you more about my proposal.” He’s silent, so I continue. “I’d like to meet with Michael three times a week for at least twelve weeks as a start.”

  “So often?” He wrinkles his brow.

  “In our team, we recommend an intensive program to make fast progress. What’s different about our therapy program is that we tailor ourselves to each individual. Since we know Michael prefers to stay in the house, Allison and I propose that I can meet with him here, if you prefer, until we get him past that hurdle.”

  “Tailor to us,” he repeats slowly, and nods. “House calls. Not every practice does that.”

  I nod. “I know. With your approval, we can even do specific sessions on location. A child who is working through animal fear, for example, may one day wish to try visiting the zoo with the therapist in a safe and controlled fashion.”

  “Michael used to love the lakefront park that leads up to the beach.” He walks to the window and gazes out, his eyes far away. “Montrose. We’d spend hours there together. I’d like you to get him there again, if you can.”

  “Next time I’ll bring all the appropriate information and release forms to sign.”

  He comes back to his desk and sits across from me again. “Send it sooner. I want him better fast.” His voice is even, but his fingers flex on the
wooden surface.

  “Would you like me to schedule a time for the three of us to visit Montrose Beach Park, maybe after the first two weeks of therapy? I know he’s scared to leave the house, but we can work up to it.”

  His eyes darken. “It’s not so much that he’s scared to leave. He just mostly… refuses. Especially if I ask. Sometimes Natalie takes him places, but she’s—she’s a great housekeeper and cook, but it’s not her job and she’s got enough on her plate. We’ve been through ten nannies and as many babysitters. He just doesn’t take to a lot of people, lately. I even asked Lindsay if she could help out more—you met her at the gala and Michael sort of accepts her—but she’s starting college fulltime again and can’t.”

  “I see.” I think about this. “So we can wait on Montrose, then?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t want to make him wait any longer. You take him alone, first, if he likes you. I already ran a background check on your driver’s license and I’ll add you on my insurance as an additional driver for my Lexus SUV. You can practice with it before you take him.”

  My eyes widen. “You did—okay. You did what, exactly?”

  He shrugs. “Allison gave me your documents and I ran a DMV and criminal check.” He doesn’t even look guilty. “You passed.”

  “Of course I did. You know I have the fingerprint card. I’ve been background checked extensively and it’s updated regularly.” It’s hard to keep the irritation from my voice. “There was no need to redo the check.”

  “I like to do my own checking.” He meets my eyes, not backing down.

  I breathe out. “Gabriel, I appreciate your concern for Michael’s safety, and I assure you that I share the concern as well. However, next time, please let me know before you’d like to request any information like that. Otherwise I won’t be able to work with you and Michael at all. For this to work, we need to develop trust. Okay?” I phrase it as a question, but it’s more of a flat statement.