“You did ‘third’ twice. And the way that ends is usually with terrific sex. Which, knowing your attitude toward pleasure, should be right up your alley. See what I did there?”
“Let’s leave my alley out of this. My alley isn’t getting any unless some double-A batteries are involved,” I groaned.
“You could be. If you’d let yourself enjoy something.”
“I enjoy lots of things. Macy’s sugar cookies are incredible. I like yoga—well, I don’t like yoga, but I do yoga to be less stressed out. I enjoy my work. I enjoy time with my friends, when they’re not giving me shit and trying to convince me to hook up with a really inappropriate guy.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that you’re no fun. For a brash, mouthy broad living her best life, you’re moping around like some sad little marshmallow.”
“I am not a marshmallow.”
“You are. You’re gooey inside. You act tough on the outside but—”
“Marshmallows aren’t tough on the outside. They’re made of sugar and gelatin. Which I think comes from pig hooves or something gross,” I said. “I am not mushy sweet pig hoof juice.”
“You are so weird. I love you, but you are so freaking weird. Just go for it with Tyler. It’s bound to be more fun than beating yourself up about liking him.”
“I don’t like him. I’m just attracted to him like a stupid teenager with no self-control.”
“Listen to you,” she giggled, “You are as bad as I was. I know, I know, it would never work because of REASONS.”
“It’s actually not funny. I know you had a tricky situation because of him shutting down the plant, but it’s not like it—”
“Closed my entire business down? Um, yeah. It did. And imagine how it looked to people, me hooking up with the guy who ruined the town. Like I was a really stupid slut.”
“I never thought that,” I said. “Never.”
“I know that. Because you know me. Point being, anyone who knows you will realize you didn’t take this lightly, that you made every possible step to protect your ethics, not be his counselor and everything. But that he must be important to you, because you’re giving up what you’ve worked for, and you’re doing it so easily.”
“None of this is easy,” I grumbled, not liking that she had a point. “And I’d look like those women who go on Dr. Phil and talk about how they couldn’t keep their hands off the teenager who mowed the yard and ended up in jail but really it was true love. That makes me want to puke.”
“Totally different. Those are sexual predators. You and Tyler are consenting adults. I assume that you’re both gagging for it. So there’s no Dr. Phil fodder here. Quit catastrophizing. I’m a veteran of this kind of thing, and believe it or not, you’re not the center of everybody’s world. Just make you happy, and forget everything else,” Maggie said.
“You are the best. But you’re too easy on me,” I said.
“No, you’re too hard on yourself. You’re allowed to be attracted to brutally hot men.”
“So you’re saying your brother-in-law is hot?” I teased.
“He is my husband’s TWIN BROTHER, Layla,” she laughed. “If I didn’t think he was attractive that would mean I didn’t think Jeremiah was either. Now, I prefer Jeremiah who actually talks instead of grunting and walking off carrying a fucking boulder or whatever. It’s like the twelve labors of Hercules out there.” She laughed.
But she got me thinking. About how hard Tyler worked, how it was basically all he did. Maybe he isn’t hiding from anything. Maybe he’s trying to make up for something.
“Thank you, babe. I’ll talk to you later.”
“What, you gotta run?” she teased.
“Shut up,” I said.
I felt so much better after talking to her. Not only did she understand because she’d been there with forbidden love. No, not love, forbidden attraction, dammit. Where did the word love come in there? That was not on the agenda. I’d help the guy to the best of my ability as a counselor and keep my wits about me. No more kissing or touching or anything. Just calm, focused conversation about his PTSD and strategies to help him cope with it.
The next morning, I put on the workout clothes I usually wore to yoga, leggings, sports bra and tank top in a swirly purple and gray pattern. I told myself it was stupid when I curled my eyelashes and put on mascara to go for a run. It didn’t matter how I looked. I wasn’t trying to attract him. I was putting on mascara for me, so I’d feel fierce, right? Nothing at all to do with him.
I felt good after talking to Maggie the night before, and I was ready and waiting at the fountain a little early. I had a bottle of water, my sunglasses, my cool, professional attitude in place. Then he jogged up. He didn’t drive and park like I did. No, he freaking jogged from the vineyard like two and a half, maybe three miles away.
Tyler was shirtless. He showed up in just running shorts and sneakers. All that bronzed skin, all those muscles on full display, with a sheen of sweat on his back. And Jesus H. Christ, how had I not noticed the other day that the man had tattoos? I wanted to trace them with my fingers, taste them against my tongue.
“You okay?” he said, stopping at the water fountain for a drink. I watched the ropelike muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.
I wanted to dunk my head in the fountain until I cooled off. I cleared my throat.
“I’m good. You ready to go?” I clipped my water bottle on and we started out.
“You know,” I said. “It’s sort of chilly this morning.”
“I didn’t notice. I mean, it’s cool for summer, I guess, but you’ll warm up once you get your blood pumping,” he said.
My brain was still exploding from the fact he didn’t have a shirt on. I managed an easy jog, knowing that he reined in his long strides to keep pace with me.
“Physical exercise is a great way to help cope with PTSD,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s the one I use the most.”
“It’s a good physical outlet. It’s a nice strategy to have in your toolbox. Have you tried journaling? It can be very helpful too.”
“Not much of a writer,” he said,
“Some of my patients have seen success with art therapy,” I said. “And you don’t have to be good at drawing. It’s much more self-led and organic than a how-to lesson. I have a colleague who does pro-bono art therapy for veterans on the weekends. I could give you her number.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Doesn’t sound like my scene.”
“What is your scene?” I asked, starting to huff from just jogging, “Exercise and work? It would be beneficial to have other outlets for stress and anxiety.”
“What do you do for stress?” he said.
“Well, not running!” I laughed, panting. “I do yoga. I make sure to have a night out with my friends at least once a week—keeps me from getting too much in my own head. Do you socialize much?”
“I see my brother at work,” he said easily, obnoxiously not out of breath at all.
“Do you find that socializing or meeting new people makes you anxious?” I asked.