by Tawna Fenske
I’m not his type. He made it abundantly clear how he feels about psychologists, and who can blame him? Between an ex-wife seeking divorce following months of private therapy, and then couples’ counseling that didn’t go how he’d hoped, Griffin Walsh has good reasons to feel mistrustful of psychologists.
Having dinner at his house is just an opportunity to foster social interaction among members of the Juniper Ridge community. So why am I obsessing about what to wear?
Because you’re a professional.
Also, he’s hot.
I hate myself for these conflicting thoughts, but that doesn’t stop me from pulling a v-neck sweater off my shelf and eyeing it for sex appeal.
Which is silly, since he isn’t interested in me in that way. What was it he said again?
“I didn’t mean that to sound sexual.”
Exactly. He made his intent clear, and I’m the one who lunged at him like some sex-starved vixen.
With that pep talk out of the way, I kick aside my yoga pants and scan my closet for something appropriate. Skirts, jeans, dresses—nothing feels right.
I’ve just stripped off my top when the doorbell rings. Grabbing a hoodie off my dresser, I stuff my arms into the sleeves and yank the zipper to my neck. Palming my boobs to keep jostling to a minimum, I sprint from the bedroom to the living room. As I fling open the door, I’m startled to find both of my sisters on the steps.
“Hey.”
They don’t hear me. Probably because Lauren’s shouting about production schedules while Lana chirps even louder about publicity. Neither seems to notice I’m here.
I clear my throat. “Can I help you?”
Lana turns and blinks at me. “Whoa.” She flicks a glance at Lauren. “We’re opening the door topless now. Did I not get the memo?”
“Damn, girl.” Lauren waves a hand at my midsection. “I don’t know who you’re expecting, but I hope he appreciates this.”
I glance down, and sure enough, my zipper’s busted. It’s hooked at the bottom and closed tight at my throat. In between, it’s a gaping valley of pale, naked flesh. I’m not even wearing a bra, so the effect is extra-awful.
“Shut up.” Not a very thoughtful response, but the best I can do on short notice. I grip the sides of the hoodie and pull it tight over my middle as I step away from the door. “I meant to get it repaired, but I forgot, and I’m having a hard time figuring out what to wear to dinner, so I panicked.”
That’s way more info than they needed, but Lana latches on like a chipper piglet seizing the choicest nipple. “I’d like to attend a dinner where that’s the dress code.”
I sigh and turn toward my bedroom. I’m hoping they’ll follow, though I have no expectations. My older sister and baby sister are chattering away, a conversation that requires no input from me. Something about this week’s shooting schedule, and I try to think of a way to contribute. Something that won’t seem like useless interjection from the needy middle child.
“Did you get my email with the Myers-Briggs personality test results for the latest batch of new-hires?” I turn to make sure they heard me, but Lauren’s voice is like a bullhorn. Pretty sure they’d miss my commentary if I shouted through a megaphone, so I turn and continue my march to the bedroom.
At least they’re following, their shoulders pressed tight together like co-joined twins. They’ve been like this from the day Lana was born, since Lauren declared it her duty to guard and protect our new baby sister. I admire their bond, I do. Their closeness is healthy and endearing and not at all deserving of envy or resentment or—
“Ow.”
The sting in my palms makes me look down to see I’m digging deep crescents with my nails. I order my fingers to relax as I shuffle into my closet.
I’m beginning to think my sisters have forgotten I’m here when Lana’s voice rings out from the bedroom.
“We can help you dress.” There’s a squeak of bedsprings and I turn to see her bouncing down on my mattress with a smile. “If you want.”
Lauren eases onto the bed beside her. “Not that there’s anything wrong with what you’re wearing.”
I sigh and turn to face rows of neatly hung shirts and slacks. “I’m making this much harder than it needs to be.”
“Depends on who you’re meeting.” Lana snickers. “If making something hard is the goal, you’re nailing it with all that flesh.”
“Not helpful.” Also mildly mortifying. As I flip through rows of bland-colored tops, I’m grateful they haven’t asked who I’m dining with. “What brings you by, anyway?”
I turn to see Lauren leaning against my headboard with Lana flopped diagonally across the mattress, chin braced on Lauren’s outstretched shins. They glance at each other with matching flickers of confusion.
“Why are we here again?” Lana asks.
Lauren snaps her fingers. “The mixer.” She lifts her gaze to mine, silvery green eyes flashing with excitement. “We thought it might be fun to stage some kind of mixer with all the new community members. A party or something, maybe at the brewery.”
The word “brewery” sends a flush through my skin. I pray they can’t see it as I pull a gray top off a hanger, then discard it when I spot a tea stain on the sleeve.
“A mixer, huh?” Maybe I should have kept more clothing from my Shrink to the Stars days. A party dress or two, or something for a platonic-yet-flirty dinner.
“We wanted your blessing,” Lana continues, and for a moment, I think she’s talking about clothes. “For the mixer. We weren’t sure if there might be some moral-ethical-psychological-HR sorta risks involved with doing it.”
“At a brewery,” Lauren adds, finishing Lana’s thought. “With alcohol involved, we thought—”
“It should be fine.” I pull a black top off a hanger. No stains, but also not much pizazz. I’m definitely overthinking this. “I’ll contact the OLCC—the Oregon Liquor Control Commission—to make sure there aren’t any issues from their end, but it should be fine from a mental health standpoint.”
Lana frowns. “So no landmines you can think of?”
“Nope.” It’s annoying how much I love her request for input. That my sisters seek my expertise sometimes. “Griffin Walsh is a smart guy, so he’ll be a stickler for things like IDs and not overserving people.”
His name tastes like dark chocolate on my tongue, and I’m positive my sisters hear it in my voice. But they’ve gone back to chattering about production, and not for the first time, I’m relieved to be ignored. I tug the useless zipper, struggling to free myself from the damn hoodie.
“Hold up, hold up.” Lauren’s voice has me turning to see her studying me with a producer’s critical eye. “Who’s the date with?”
“It’s not a date.” Reluctant to strip off my armor, I hesitate. Then I yank the hoodie off anyway because I refuse to be self-conscious about feminine body ideals, and besides, I’m running late.
Lana cocks her head. “But it’s dinner with a guy, right?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it a date.” I sigh, not seeing any way around this. “Griffin. Griffin Walsh. I’m meeting with the new brewery manager to answer some questions about his daughter.”
There, that sounds nice and innocuous. Not a violation of patient privacy, either, since neither is my patient, and I’ve revealed nothing about Griffin and Soph’s issues.
Lana pounces anyway. “Seriously?” She makes a big show of fanning herself. “Griffin’s a hottie. Divorced dad, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” Lauren answers for me with a grin. “Viewers are going to eat him up. He’s got great camera presence. Gabe and I were talking about fixing him up with Tasha in the hair salon or maybe Amy the police chief or what about—”
“So, this dinner.” I blurt the words way too loudly, then snatch something off a hanger without looking at it. “Is this okay?”
Lauren stares like I’ve just thrown my bra at her. “A leather jacket?”
Lana bounces off the bed before I ca
n shove it back on the rack. “Wait, no—this could be good. You’d wear a red bra underneath and leave it unzipped down to here with—”
“No.” I shove the jacket back on the rack, wishing like hell I’d grabbed something else. “No fashion choices that reveal underwear. I don’t even have sexy underwear.” I burned it all the day Shrink to the Stars was cancelled after four episodes, but my sisters don’t need to know that.
Lauren slides gracefully off the edge of my mattress. “You could always go commando if you’re lacking sexy underwear.”
Closing my eyes, I tell myself to count to ten. Also, not to kill my sisters. It’s not their fault we’re so completely different. They’re confident and sexy and comfortable in their own skin, while I’m…well, not.
When I open my eyes, Lauren’s holding a shimmery blue top I vaguely recall wearing to last year’s daytime Emmys. “How about this?”
“Oooh, yes!” Lana grabs a pair of dark-washed jeans off the shelf beside the door. “With jeans and black boots.”
“I don’t have black boots,” I point out.
Lana looks at Lauren. “What about those Louboutins you got on our girls’ trip to New York last year?”
Lauren’s nodding before I can point out I wasn’t part of any girls’ trip. “Yeah. Middle shelf in my closet. Can you go grab them while I help with her makeup?”
As Lana strides out the door, I start to protest that I don’t need help or makeup.
But the truth is that I could use both. Besides, I’m out of practice with this. I know the basics of applying lipstick and mascara, but the trickier stuff I’ve always left to professionals.
Lauren studies me with a critical eye as I wriggle into the jeans and top. “Very nice,” she says. “You look good with a little more meat on your bones.”
“Uh—thanks?”
“It’s a compliment.” She grabs my arm and drags me toward the bathroom. “We were all living like emaciated praying mantises in Hollywood. It’s about fucking time we eat a cheeseburger or twelve.”
“Can’t argue with that.” To be honest, I never guessed my sisters shared my irritation with Hollywood beauty standards. They seemed like such naturals in that environment.
“What time are you due for dinner?” She flips down the toilet lid and gestures for me to sit.
I hesitate, then obey. “Six thirty. Why?”
“We don’t have time to go crazy with your hair, but I can at least do your face.” She studies my complexion, tipping my face from side to side. “When’s the last time you had a brow wax?”
I resist the urge to glare. “I’m reclaiming my identity.”
“You’re reclaiming a position on the International Unibrow Squad.” She rummages in my drawer and comes up with a pair of tweezers. “Hold still.”
“Ow!”
I reach for my brow as she goes in for another pluck, but Lauren slaps my hand away. “Relax, I’m good at this. It’ll just take a second.”
I consider arguing, but the truth is that I don’t mind. How long has it been since I did any sort of bonding with my sisters? With a sigh, I settle in and let Lauren go to work.
Should I make small talk? I can’t think of one damn thing to say as she finishes my left eyebrow and goes to work on the right.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Nick Armbrust looks like the top candidate to build the new cabins.”
Her arm stiffens, and she stops plucking. “Great.”
All right, bad idea. I presumed she might want to talk with her psychologist sister about the challenges of working closely with her ex. Apparently not.
“Do you have a brown eyeliner?” She rummages through my drawer, coming up with a black one. “This will work. Close your eyes.”
I follow her direction, holding my breath for good measure. The bang of the front door signals Lana’s return, and moments later she swoops into the room bearing boots.
“Here we go.” She sets them on the counter next to Lauren, then boosts herself up beside them. “I grabbed your Burberry scarf, too, since you said I could borrow it for filming tomorrow.”
Lauren finishes lining my left eye and moves to the right. “If you get food on it, I’ll use it to tie you up and drag you behind my car.”
They keep bantering as Lauren finishes up my makeup and goes to work on my hair. I’m here, I’m part of this experience, and I’m even at the center of it in a way.
But not for the first time, I feel like I’m on the outside looking in.
It’s six-twenty-eight when I find myself on Griffin Walsh’s front porch. The upside of running Human Resources for our self-contained community is that I never need directions to anyone’s home. I assigned this cabin to Griffin, choosing a two-bedroom unit close to the brewery. The sun is sinking below the ridgeline as I inhale some slowly warming spring breeze, watching for the clock to strike six thirty so I’m not the jerk who shows up early.
The door flies open, and I nearly drop the box I’m gripping.
“Whoa there.” Griffin swoops in and catches it while I set down the bottle of wine I’ve brought. “Is this your crochet stuff?”
“Some of it.” Guilt grabs me by the ankle as I recall the conversation with my sisters as I headed out the door to come here.
“What’s in the box?” Lana chirped as she and Lauren walked me down the path leading away from my cabin.
“Nothing.” I gripped the cardboard tighter, looking straight ahead. “I picked out some self-help books for Griffin.”
Technically, not a lie. I did give Griffin self-help books. As he leads me into the dining room, I see them spread out on the table with Soph holding my dog-eared copy of “101 Conversation Starters to Try with Your Teen Daughter.”
She looks up and flashes a bright smile. “Hey, Mari.” She frowns. “Wait. Do I call you Dr. Judson?”
“Mari would be perfect.” I set the box of crocheted goods on the table and extract the box of brownies I grabbed at the café. “How’s the book?”
She shrugs and flips it closed, not bothering to mark her spot. “Okay, I guess. They make it sound so hard.”
“Talking to girls, you mean?”
“Yeah, I guess. I mean it’s not like teenage girls are monsters or something.”
“They can be.” I throw her a wink so she knows I’m teasing, though it’s technically true. “Your dad mentioned you’re interested in knitting. Want to see some crochet stuff?”
Soph cocks her head. “That’s like knitting?”
“Sort of. Knitting requires two long needles, and there’s just one in crocheting. The stitches form a V shape in knitting, but they’re more like knots in crocheting.” I shrug. “I had a much better knack for the crocheting.”
A small smile tugs her mouth. “That sounds kinda cool.”
I open the box, feeling oddly nervous. I don’t usually show these to people, and I’m not sure what’s prompting me to do it now. “This was one of my first projects. A guinea pig named Fur Potato.”
I hand the lumpy brown creature to Soph, who takes it with a reverence generally reserved for spiritual icons. “I love the little ears.”
“That’s why I picked the pattern.”
Fishing back into the box, I pull out a rabbit and a shark. “Bun Affleck and Swim Shady.” I hand them over, setting aside a potholder and a crocheted hat, since Soph is clearly more taken by the animals. “I did these ones when I was in grad school.”
“Whoa.” Soph giggles and flips up the polka-dotted skirt on a crocheted gorilla I made during commercial breaks on Shrink to the Stars. “Nice detail.”
I wince and glance at Griffin. He’s got his back to us, stirring a steaming pot on the stove, so he didn’t witness me showing crochet porn to his kid. “I wanted her to be anatomically correct,” I offer as I take back the gorilla and tuck her in the box. “Here’s one that would be a good beginner project.” I hand over the crocheted sheep, surprised by the rush of nostalgia rippling through me.
Soph see
ms disappointed not to find genitals on this one. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Gender-fluid.” I watch Griff’s shoulders for tension, hopeful I’m not introducing his kid to unwelcome terminology. “Their name is Ewe Grant, and I crocheted it a couple years ago.”
I don’t add that the project got me through a challenging time. After years of swearing I wanted nothing to do with life in front of the camera, I finally made a go of it with Shrink to the Stars. For a few glorious months, I was part of the Judson legacy. The bright lights, the cameras, the unfamiliar feeling of fitting in with my family.
And then, the ratings rolled in.
Soph’s watching my face like she knows there’s more to this sheep than cute button eyes and a wooly butt. “Cool,” she says at last, tucking the creature back in the box. “You think you could teach me sometime?”
“Of course.” I nudge the box toward her. “See if there’s anything that catches your eye. I’m going to see if your dad needs help, okay?”
Griffin turns from the stove and lifts an eyebrow at his daughter. “What a good example Mari’s setting. Jumping in and helping without being asked?”
His tone is teasing, but he lets the words linger. With a dramatic sigh, Soph gets to her feet. “Mind if I take these to the den while I set the table?”
“Atta girl.” Griffin grins and turns back to the stove as I wander over, trying not to think about how hot that was. Good parenting as an aphrodisiac. Who knew that was a thing?
I sidle up to Griffin, lacing my fingers together in front of me so I don’t do something stupid like touch his back. “What can I do? Need me to fold napkins?”
He looks up from stirring the pot, his blue eyes socking me right in the gut. “We’ve only got the paper kind of napkins. You’re welcome to fold them into origami swans if you like.”
“Sadly, my domestic skills don’t cover that.” I peer into the pot and try not to drool. “That smells amazing. What is it?”
“My famous broccoli beer cheese soup.” He glances up. “Don’t worry, the alcohol burns off in the cooking process. I’m not getting my kid drunk.”
“It never crossed my mind.” I pick up a plastic-wrapped block of cheddar lying next to a cheese grater. “Need me to shred this?”
