Page 42 of Hold On to Me
And that almost-fist undoes me more than the scars did, more than his breathing and his heat and the map of old violence on his skin, because the scars are history, they happened to him and healed and he carries them, but the fist is happeningnow,in real time, inmyroom, because of whatmyhands are doing. Because I touched a part of him that hurt, and I was gentle with it, and he couldn't keep his body from responding, and oh chops, oh chops, I need to move on right now or I'm going to do something catastrophically unprofessional like press my palm flat againstthe scar and justholdit there until his fist unclenches, and that is NOT in the treatment plan, that is the opposite of the treatment plan, the treatment plan does not includecradling the burn scars of a billionaire who owns your workplace—-
I move on.
I WORK HIS BACK, HISshoulders, his neck, his arms. Ninety minutes. Somewhere around the forty-minute mark I stop counting and start just listening, the way Madame Gilles taught me, and that's worse because listening means feeling and feeling means I notice things I absolutely shouldn't be noticing, like the way the muscles along his spine release a fraction when I slow down, or the way his body tracks my hands even when I lift them between strokes, this tiny micro-tension running through him, an awareness, like his skin is askingwhere did you go.
I should not be noticing that.
I should definitely, definitely not be cataloguing that under "Things That Make Star's Heart Do Backflips" in my mental filing system, and yet here I am, filing away, because apparently my filing system has gone rogue and is now accepting entries it was never authorised to store.
When I reach for his left hand to begin the hand and forearm work, he moves it. Not a flinch. A withdrawal, smooth and complete, tucking it close to his body before I've even made contact.
"Not the hands," he murmurs.
His voice. Low and rough around the edges, the first words he's spoken since I entered the room, and they travel through melike warm water poured down my spine, and my fingers actually stutter on his shoulder for a half-second before training kicks in and I recover, and I'm praying, I'm praying to whoever is in charge of maintaining a therapist's dignity, that he didn't feel that half-second hesitation, because if he felt it then he knows that his voice just short-circuited my nervous system and that is NOT the professional impression I'm going for here.
"Of course," I manage, and my voice comes out level, which proves that miracles are real and I'm currently living inside one. "Is there anywhere else you'd like me to avoid?"
A pause. His ribs expand once. Then: "No."
Great. Wonderful. Good talk. That's our entire conversation so far: four words from him, nineteen from me, and my pulse is behaving like I've just sprinted up twelve decks. Excellent professional conduct all around.
I finish the closing sequence. Long strokes from shoulders to lower back, gradually lightening pressure, the touch equivalent of lowering the volume until there's nothing left but warmth and then nothing at all. My fingers trail off the last point of contact and I step back.
And I stand there. One second. Two. His shoulders, his scarred back, the hands he won't let me touch, and Madame Gilles's voice in my head, saying what she said once when I asked her why some clients refused hand work:The hands are the most intimate part of the body, Étoile. More than the face. More than the throat. The hands are how we reach for things. Some people cannot bear to have that witnessed.
I wanted to reach for his. Not professionally. Not to work the tendons or release the locked knuckles. I just wanted to hold hishand, which is so wildly inappropriate and so completely unlike me that I need a moment to be horrified at myself before I open my mouth and say, in a perfectly calm and perfectly normal voice:
"I'll step out while you dress. Take your time. There's water on the side table."
I leave the room. Close the door behind me. Press my back to the corridor wall and slide down about two inches before I catch myself, because I am NOT going to have a crisis in the hallway, I am NOT going to dissolve into a puddle outside my own treatment room, I am a professional with a certificate and Madame Gilles's highest practical scores in nine years and I am going to stand here and breathe and wait for my client to get dressed and I am going to be completely, utterly, boringly fine.
The heat of his skin is still in my palms. The texture of the long scar is still mapped across my thumbs. And my hands are tingling and my face is burning and I just spent ninety minutes touching a man covered in scars who won't let anyone near his hands and whose body is so starved for contact that his fingers curled when I was gentle with a burn on his lower back, and I'm supposed to do this again on Thursday, and the Thursday after that, and every Thursday, weekly, recurring, and oh chops, add to planner: Thursday 8 PM, have complete emotional crisis, duration 90 minutes, recurring.
Seven AM restock. Eight-thirty, Mrs. Dumont. Don't think about the fist. Ten o'clock open. Don't think about his breathing. Eleven-fifteen—-
It's not just another back. It'shisback. And I'm an idiot.
THE DOOR OPENS.
He's dressed. Dark shirt. His hair is slightly disordered from the face cradle, darker at the temples where the oil from my hands transferred, and I am aggressively, violently not going to think about the fact that he's carrying cedarwood out of my room on his skin. I'm not. I'm so not thinking about it that I'm thinking about not thinking about it, which is still thinking about it, which means I've already failed, and it's been three seconds.
He's taller standing up. I keep forgetting this. Somehow, on the table, he was manageable. A body. A client. A collection of muscle groups and scar tissue that I can categorise and treat and remain professionally detached about. Standing, he fills the room the way he filled the corridor four days ago, and all the categories collapse and he's just... him. Taking up all the air. Wearing a dark shirt with oil at his temples. Smelling like cedarwood and clean skin and my own professional ruin.
I've poured his water. Frosted glass, cucumber wedge, spa protocol. I hold it out, because this is what therapists do, we hand our clients water, this is normal, this is fine.
He takes it.
His fingers close around the glass where mine were. Not beside, not above.Where mine were.His grip fitting over the shape of mine, thumb settling into the condensation my thumb left, and I don't know if he's doing this on purpose, I don't know if this is just how he picks up a glass or if he's deliberately placing his hand in the exact imprint of mine, but the room gets very small and very warm and my heart is doing something that's probably medically inadvisable and I need him to drink this water and leave before I say or do something that gets me fired.
He drinks. Sets the glass down. And those eyes find me, the iron ones, cooler than the rest of him. Everything warm about this man lives in his body and everything guarded lives in his face. He gives me nothing. Not a smile, not a thank you, not the polite murmur that most clients offer at the end of a session, and I'm standing here with my hands clasped behind my back so he can't see that they're still trembling, waiting for him to say something or leave or both, preferably both, and preferably soon, because my composure has about forty-five seconds left in it.
"Thursday," he tells me. "Same time."
"It's already in the schedule," I reply, and my voice comes out so professionally level that I almost believe I'm a real adult with a real handle on her emotions. "Weekly."
He nods. Once. And then he walks past me, and the air he displaces carries warmth and clean soap and cedarwood on his skin and I hold my breath until he's through the door because if I breathe him in one more time I will make a sound and it will not be a professional sound.
Gone.
