Sighing, I offer, “I’m sorry. That was horribly impolite. I’m feeling a bit twitchy about all of this.”
“Understandable,” he says kindly. “Give me just a minute to get caught up on your chart, and we can get started.”
I tap my toes to the beat of some unidentifiable pop song I heard on the bus ride over, and he reads silently. He seems like a nice enough guy. A bit dude-bro, to be honest. The sleeves of his oxford are rolled up, his tie is too loose and he’s wearing cargo pants. He’s buff enough for me to assume that he spends his time between patients using all the equipment in the pit to get in extra workouts.
“So,” he says when he finishes reading, “this has been going on for about two years? Can you tell me a little bit about what was happening in your life then?”
I frown at him. “Why?”
“Because,” he explains slowly, “if I know what might have triggered the disorder, it can help me customize your treatment.”
My face forms into an awkward smile. “Uh, well. I was going through a really busy time, starting up a business, and so, well, you know, it’d been a while for my boyfriend and me, intimacy-wise, and when we tried, it didn’t work. A few weeks later I went to the doc, she said vaginismus, and here we are.”
He starts writing notes in my file and casually asks, “What’s your business?”
“Oh, um, it’s a bakery? A cupcake shop. Cup My Cakes.”
His eyes light up. “Is that the shop Shannon Brimley owns?”
“Yes!” I reply, excited to be talking about something that isn’t my vagina. “We started it together. She’s my best friend.” A horrid thought pops into my head. “Wait. Are you...were you her vagina therapist, too? Because I know she went to one when she had vaginismus. And I’m sorry, while she and I are the best of pals and share everything, I don’t think I can share vagina therapists with her.”
David makes a little popping noise as his mouth falls slightly open. “No. No, I wasn’t her therapist. Our kids go to the same school. She always brings awesome snacks for the PTA meetings. And you guys have really good cupcakes.”
I slap my hand over my mouth. “Jesus. So I just outed my friend for having broken junk to the PTA?”
His eyes go wide as he focuses on my file again. “It’s totally fine. So, after your diagnosis—”
“Her vagina isn’t broken anymore!” I insist. “That was like, seven years ago. As far as I know, her bits are in tip-top shape now.”
He doesn’t look up from the folder, but takes a deep breath. “I’m very glad to hear that.” Closing his eyes, he repeats, “After your diagnosis, what kinds of treatments did you try?”
Shannon is going to flat-out kill me dead. “Uh, well, nothing, really. Dr. Snow gave me some pamphlets and stuff I could try by myself and with my boyfriend, but things didn’t go particularly well, and I never got around to the rest of the therapies.”
Now he looks up. “Never got around to them?”
My brain is preoccupied with images of Shannon shoving my head into a preheated oven. “Yeah, you know. Things were super stressful with the shop, and our relationship was already a bit strained. Plus it was all so...awkward. Ryan offered to help at first, do the exercises and whatnot, but it all felt too bizarre to him, I guess.” My foot starts involuntarily tapping the pop song again as I push images of Shannon with a chef’s knife out of my head. “I feel really bad, though. You know, this kind of thing can be really hard on a relationship. Especially one that’s not going great to begin with.”
My stomach fills with the heavy sense of guilt, mixed with a hint of vulnerability, and resentment I don’t understand. “I even told Ryan he could sleep with other people until the problem sorted itself out, but I don’t know if he is. I mean, I know he’s got a date, but maybe they won’t actually sleep together. That could happen, right?”
David looks rather stunned. “This is...this is not really the kind of information I need to design a treatment plan for you.”
Feeling exposed, and wondering why in the good goddamn I just shared all that with him in the first place, I indignantly say, “But you’re a therapist!”
“I’m not that kind of therapist.”
This is going really well.
I clench my hands into fists and release them a few times. “Look, I’m sorry. This is all very uncomfortable for me.”
He sighs. “Why don’t we get the exam out of the way now? I can let you get changed and be back in a minute—”
“I knew it!” I yelp, pointing at the gown on the tray. “Can I not keep my pants on for one doctor’s visit!?”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Oh, who asked you?” I snap. I’ve lost any grip on social constructs, and I know I’m being an ass-wagon, but I can’t reel the humiliation in enough to stop. Every horrible thing that flies from my mouth just fuels the panic. “Look, I did the exam with Dr. Snow. I’m sure she wrote notes. I’m not doing another one.”
He drops his head back and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I need to assess the severity of your condition so I can give you a proper treatment plan.”
“Well, you can assess it with my pants on.” I sit up straight. There is nothing I want more in the world than to flee from this room immediately. “And it’s vaginismus. It’s like blinking involuntarily when something gets too close to your eye.”
He gives up and sets the file down on the little table by the curtain. “I... I know what the disorder is, Miss Carmichael.” He leans forward and puts his fingers on his temples. “Okay, how about this? Let’s go over equipment and we can discuss techniques. I’ll try to do a generalized plan that you can alter to fit your needs, okay?”
I cross my legs at the knees and exhale with a haughty sound. I don’t think I’ve ever made a haughty noise in my life. What the hell is wrong with me?
“That would be fine,” I say.
My brain is now flashing with images of Shannon and David taking turns chasing me with brûlée torches.
He shakes his head ever so slightly and walks over to the tray. Carefully removing the backless gown and setting it on the exam table, he wheels the tray over near me.
If I were to walk into a dungeon made explicitly for torture, I can say with absolute certainty that this tray would be in there.
It looks like a larger, more horrifying version of what sits next to you at the dentist’s office. Everything is sitting on a large piece of blue gauze lined with plastic. Dilators of varying sizes, clinical-looking bottles of lubricant, and very scary silver devices.
There’s not a sparkling purple item in the lot, and it all smells of chemical disinfectants.
My legs pop up of their own accord, and I bump into the tray as I stand. A dilator goes flying and lands with a loud metallic crash.
“I’m sorry,” I say, smoothing down my shirt, silently begging my heart to stop trying to beat out of my chest. “Cramp in my leg. Sorry.”
David bends down to get the fallen implement, and looks like he’s definitely had enough of me. “It’s fine. Now, this is what you’ll need to buy for your own use, or we can loan things out as needed.”
“Nope!” I trill. “I’m good. Got it all. Totally set. In fact, I think we’re good here.”
“But we haven’t discussed a treatment plan!”
I grab my purse off the back of my chair. “And see, I think you were so efficient, I’ve got a handle on things from here. I’ll check in again if there are any problems. Thank you so much for your time.”
Before he can say anything else, I scuttle past him and yank the curtain open. I’m stopped dead in my desperate retreat by a sight I am almost certain I’m hallucinating.
Walking through the therapy pavilion, not ten feet away, is Ben freaking Cleary.
I fight several instincts at once. To dive
back behind the curtain. To drop to the floor and army-crawl my way out of here. To run like the coward I am.
“Kat?” he calls. Too late. I’ve been spotted.
“Oh, hey!” I say, managing to keep the shrillness out of my voice far better than I expected. “How’s it going?”
Ben smiles, seeming a little confused, and walks over, a boy of maybe fourteen in tow. “What are you doing here?”
“What?” I ask, trying to think of an appropriate excuse. I notice his tie has tiny Spider-Mans slinging webs all over it. “I was just in the area.” I grab my phone and pretend to read something terribly important. “And actually, I’m running late, so I’ll see you later!”
He looks more confused than ever. “In the area... Wait... Were you looking for me?”
I lower my phone and stare at him. “Why would I be looking for you here?”
Speaking very slowly, he says, “Because I work here.”
My eyes go from Ben to the teen, who is now looking at his own phone, clearly bored as hell. I flash back to our date and rewind to the conversation we had about jobs. We talked about my job, but we got distracted by Ben’s Hail Mary before I could ask about his job. And though he’s been coming into the shop for months to get cupcakes for his coworkers, it never occurred to me to ask him what he and those coworkers do.
Oh my god. David mentioned our cupcakes. What if Ben is the one who brings him those cakes?
“You’re...” I try to swallow, but there’s no moisture in my throat. “You’re a physical therapist?”
The curtain whooshes open farther behind me, and David appears. “Miss Carmichael, you should take these notes with you. They give you some treatment options and some guides to different resources you can find online to assist with the process. Of course, if you need anything, you can give us a call. I, or maybe one of the other therapists, will help however you’ll let us.”
I bite my lower lip as hard as I can and turn to face him. “David. You have absolutely no chill.”
I yank the stack of papers out of his hand, turn back to Ben, plaster on the most horrifying smile I’ve ever mustered and say, “Well. This has been fun. Nice seeing you, Ben, but I have to get out of here immediately.”
Before anyone can say anything else, I turn and haul ass out of the gymnasium, leaving my dignity behind.
12
“You look like hell,” Butter says as I stuff my bag under the desk and tie on my apron.
“Great, that’s helpful,” I grumble. “Cheers.”
“You all right there, Pumpkin?” Shannon inquires delicately. “How was the appointment?”
“It was fan-fucking-tastic,” I say, pulling the strings a little too tight. I take a deep breath, undo the knots and start over. “For example, did you guys know Ben Cleary is a physical therapist?”
The echoing gasps that burst through our kitchen are the only acceptable response.
“Shut up,” Butter says, looking like she doesn’t know whether to sob or laugh or both. “Was...was he yours?”
“No,” I say, finally getting my apron on straight. “If Ben had been my therapist, all you’d see is a Kat-shaped pile of ashes here. No, as I was leaving the appointment from hell, I ran into him.”
“Did he know why you were there?”
I shrug. “I don’t think so? But he probably figured it out. I was in one of the little side rooms where I assume they put all the broken vaginas.”
“Oh my god,” Shannon wheezes. “Is he a vagina therapist?”
I freeze in place. “Holy shit. Is he? I mean, the guy I saw did say that kind of therapy is something they’re trained for.”
Shannon tucks a rag into the pocket of her apron. “Well, if you’re going to start dating a guy and your special is broken, you can’t do much better than a vagina therapist.”
I stare at Shannon for a minute and gulp. “Uh, by the way. My therapist knows you. His name is David, and he says he’s on the PTA with you.”
Shannon perks up. “Oh, David Larson? You must have gone over to Community North. That’s fun. Tell him I said hi next time.”
I’m gaping at her. “There won’t be a next time. I’m not going back there!”
“Why not?”
“Because aside from the basic fact that I don’t need his help, there’s the tiny issue of my accidentally telling him you also had to go to a special therapist...”
Butter literally almost falls over. She grabs onto her station for support. Liz resumes manically piping buttercream on a large pink cake.
“You told David Larson I had to see a vagina therapist?”
I casually look for escape routes. “It just sort of...happened.”
All of us are frozen, waiting for Shannon to react.
But she doesn’t. She barely shrugs and says, “Eh. No biggie. It’s not like it’s a secret I have a vagina.”
“Wow,” I marvel. “You really don’t have any shame left, do you?”
“Not a drop.”
I walk over to wash up, thankful I won’t be dying at Shannon’s hands today.
“So, what did Ben say?” Butter asks, diving right back in.
“Gah!” I snap, surprising even myself. “What about that even? What am I supposed to do about him? What about Ryan? What about the dates he’s going on? What was I thinking, asking Ben out in the first place? I mean, I can’t go out with him again, right? But you know what? I want to.” Until this very second, I haven’t even realized how true that is. I want to see Ben again. I want to feel what I felt on that first date. My thoughts come out in a real-time ramble. “Oh god, I want to. I want to throw him down on this workstation and do very inappropriate things to his jawline, because have you seen that damn thing?”
“So...do that? Although, not in here. Health codes,” Shannon offers.
“I can’t do that!” I shout, walking over to my station and plopping down on my rickety old stool. “I’m supposed to be having sex with Ryan, not Ben, and I can’t even do that! Hell, I can’t even handle the weird purple glittery thing yet! How am I supposed to have actual sex?”
“I picked that one out,” Butter says proudly.
Shannon chimes in. “Well, if Ryan is out sleeping with other people, so can you. And if you start dating Ben, you can explain it to him. I’m sure he would understand. You can have, like...therapy sex with him. I mean, physical therapist Ben would probably know exactly what to do, you know?”
“Yes, there’s a conversation I’d just love to have on our second date. ‘Do you feel like Chinese food or maybe Thai? Oh, and by the way, I was at your place of business because the warranty on my vagina expired, and it’s currently out of order, but would you mind using some of your professional expertise to walk my lady bits down the yellow brick road, so I can have sex with my currently estranged long-term boyfriend and we can get back together?’” I slump down on my stool as the reality hits me. “And besides, I wouldn’t want to have therapy sex with Ben. I’d want to have sex sex with Ben. Like wild, monkey, jawline-biting, holy-fuck-I-haven’t-been-laid-in-two-years sex with Ben. Therapy sex is not the romp I’m wanting to have, okay?”
From our front room, a pitiful little ding rings out. My entire body freezes. I reflexively check my hands to make sure there are no dildos clutched within them.
Butter bends backward to look out through the door and slaps her hand over her mouth. She looks back at me with panic in her eyes. Shannon runs for the front room. Liz stands frozen in place, her trauma from the day of dildo deliveries all too fresh.
“Oh, hi there, Ben Cleary!” Shannon shouts from the counter.
My head drops onto my chest. “No way,” I mutter into my boobs. “There’s just no way. Butter, tell me there’s no possible way he’s standing out there, because I’m about to cry some real Jesus t
ears right here.”
“Jesus has left this shop, baby.”
I pull in a deep breath, lift my head high and walk through the door.
Shannon is standing at the display case, wiping down the already pristine glass with the fervor of a madwoman. Ben is staring at a red velvet cupcake in the display like it’s the Holy Grail of cuppies and avoiding my gaze.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now, Cleary?” I ask.
Shannon scrubs the window harder. Ben looks up, eyes wide. His words come out in a torrent. “I’m so sorry. I was going to ask you to dinner this morning when I came for coffee, but you weren’t in and they said you’d be back before lunch, and then I was confused by seeing you at the hospital, so I thought I’d come back to ask you now, and I figured it would be ironic and you’d think it was funny. I swear to you I will never again come back into this shop after I come for coffee, not ever, not for any reason, not even if I leave my wallet or my dying mother in here, I promise.”
“Why would your dying mother be in our cupcake shop, Ben?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
“Is your mother really dying?”
“No.”
I wave at the air. “Well, there’s a silver lining to the day. Good for your mom.”
He looks desperately from me to Shannon and back again. “I don’t know what to say right now.”
I shake my head, and my hands land on my hips. “Shannon?” She freezes mid-scrub.
“Yeah?”
“I’ve got this.”
She says nothing, but scuttles out in a blur of curly blond hair, apron strings and muttered swear words. I can actually hear the flailing and gasping and panicking in the back room.
“At least they have the good damn sense to whisper,” I say, smacking myself in the forehead.
Ben looks down uncomfortably at his Spider-Man tie and pulls at it. “I don’t know what to do here,” he says. “Should I apologize again? Because I can do that.”
I flop my hands into my apron pockets. “Do you know what I like about you, Ben?”
The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky Page 8