Page 19 of Touch of Class

“Be honest,” Robin prodded, seemingly in no hurry to rush things along. “You’re just ready to go home and play with T-Cup’s hair, aren’t you?”

Brooke’s shrug told Gillian her best friend had been called out. “A valid possibility. Though if anyone makes a mothering joke, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Robin held up her hands in surrender. “I’m so blissed out I can’t even think of a witty response.”

“And I’d never do anything to exacerbate my own discomfort.” Gillian surrendered to the path of least resistance since she’d obviously not be getting any backup from her colleagues tonight.

“Good call.” Tegan turned to Daphne. “Unless there’s anything else you think we should know to help us become better neighbors?”

Daphne sighed, and her whole body went a little slack. “The fact that you asked that, or asked any of the things you have, means so much to me. If we can bring a sense of openness and curiosity to all our interactions, we’ll foster a fantastic working environment.”

Gillian’s jaw tightened as she glanced around to see if anyone else felt the same way about being lumped into someone else’s work environment.

Thinking of Daphne as a neighbor pushed her boundaries as far as she dared, but considering her as some sort of partner, especially while she cradled Robin’s head between her knees, ratcheted up Gillian’s unease to the point where she could no longer bite her tongue. “Our business comes with legal and ethical concerns about privacy and holding sacred the spaces we create with individuals. Those constraints don’t lend themselves to a larger collective office environment.”

Robin gave her a look of confusion, then turned to include Brooke and Tegan, who both raised their eyebrows in some sort of telepathic exchange of questions.

Gillian’s cheeks warmed as she realized she’d once again fallen back on professional speak rather than addressing her concerns head-on. She didn’t blame her friends for not knowing how to react, but she couldn’t quite drop her guard enough to speak plainly around Daphne.

She liked her job, she clung to her work, and she didn’t want to compromise her guiding principles because some touchy-feely pseudosociology Earth Mother moved in across the hall. What was wrong with maintaining professional standards?

Or was she trying to maintain something else?

She may not love discomfort, but she didn’t think of herself as a coward or lacking in self-awareness, so with a deep breath and a slow release, Gillian checked in with her gut, trying to coax her most genuine response to the surface.

Was it fear? Embarrassment? Concern? “I guess, first and foremost, I’d like to know what we’re supposed to tell our clients is happening in the room with the big bed, so it doesn’t undermine the gravity or seriousness we’ve tried to build around our existing practice.”

“Ah.” Daphne nodded knowingly, as though Gillian had confirmed some deeply held suspicion. “Obviously, you can formulate any answer that feels authentic, but I’d suggest a brief summation along the lines of, ‘Human’s need touch. Period. Barring conditions like sensory disorders, regular physical connection is a fundamental requirement of healthy development, and most of us get that need met through existing relationships with parents, partners, or friends. However, there are a myriad of reasons people either don’t receive, or cannot allow themselves to accept, platonic touch. That’s where I come in.’”

It was said evenly, clearly, concisely, and logically enough that Gillian couldn’t exactly argue with any of the specific promises, which meant the heavy, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach wasn’t based in the foundational logic, and she certainly didn’t want to examine anything beyond that with an audience, so she nodded curtly. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Brooke nudged gently.

She sighed and lifted her hands slightly before letting them fall limp back to her sides. “If that’s the party line, I’ll practice delivering it before next week.”

Robin grimaced before sitting up. “Do you want to talk about anything else?”

“No,” she said quickly, then corrected her tone. “I need to wrap my head around things. I’m sure I’ll have more to say when I’ve had adequate time to process.”

Tegan glanced at Daphne almost apologetically. “She has a very big brain, lots of stuff in there.”

“I know,” Daphne said, a hint of her trademark amusement creeping back in. “I’m familiar with her quiet mental machinations.”

Gillian rolled her eyes. “What a lovely note to end on.”

Daphne laughed. “Go ahead and make a list or a spreadsheet of concerns, and when you’re ready, we’ll have all the conversations.”

“Yeah.” Robin hopped off the bed. “She’s going to be right across the hall. We can talk about all the things whenever we want!”

“Great,” Gillian said with forced enthusiasm, then made herself add, “I appreciate the grace,” when what she wanted to say was she’d rather rip out her own cuticles with her teeth than make nights like tonight a regular occurrence.

Six

Daphne parked on the street and walked up the driveway to the large Victorian that didn’t quite feel like home yet. Most of the house was dark, but as she started to climb the stairs to the second-story apartment, a single lamplight in the living room below caught her eye. Squinting into the dimness, she grinned at the sight of Hugh in his buffalo plaid robe and the fuzzy bear slippers Izzy had given him last Christmas.

As if sensing the wave of affection surging toward him, he glanced up and grinned. Then, with a tilt of his head, he issued an invitation she’d rarely been able to refuse.

She slipped quietly inside and stepped lightly across floorboards whose squeaks and groans she hadn’t had time to learn. “Is Izzy asleep?”