Turbulence

by E. J. Noyes

  “Oh, yes. Just some car troubles. I’m going to catch a cab.”

  She frowned slightly. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her to join me, but before I could she gestured toward the doors. “Can I walk you out?”

  What would be the harm? It’s not like anything could happen between here and just outside the doors. “Sure. I’d like that.”

  Audrey grasped the strap of my laptop bag, her fingers brushing mine. “Can I carry this for you?”

  My hand stilled. “You can but, uh you don’t need to. It’s not necessary, I mean I can carry it myself.”

  She studied me, smiling again as though she was amused by my waffling. “I know. Bag carrying is definitely not included in my contractual duties. But I have a free hand, so why not?”

  I weighed up pros and cons, and released the bag. “Thank you.”

  We walked together silently, stopping a little way outside the exit. Audrey stared down the street then back at me. “I’d offer you a ride home but I only have a motorcycle and one helmet, and you don’t have any gear.” She looked legitimately upset about it, and it was quite possibly one of the cutest things I’d seen.

  “You have a bike?” Great question, Isabelle. She just said she did, but she didn’t seem the type. I was beginning to look and sound really fucking dumb. It was like she sucked all my IQ points out of my ears whenever she looked at me. Or sent blood from my brain to other, greedier parts of my body. Parts that were picturing her on a motorcycle, her long legs gripping it. Leather-clad. Controlling the rumbling machine. I made a mental note to explore the fantasy at a later, more appropriate time.

  “I do. A Triumph Speedmaster. How did you think I get to work? Or did you think I flew my plane to go fly your plane?” Her eyes creased with glee.

  “You have a plane of your own?” Keep it up, Isabelle and someone is going to make a dumb blonde joke.

  She nodded. “It’s only a small light sport aircraft, and the bank still owns a third of it, but yes.” Audrey fiddled with her backpack, seeming suddenly shy. “I just really like flying.”

  “Wow, that’s so…” I searched for a word. “Interesting.” I imagined someone standing beside me giving me a slow clap. Bravo. Great conversationalist.

  “It can be.” Audrey stood close enough to be considered impolite under normal circumstances, but right now it wasn’t close enough. She turned to face me, mouth slightly open as though she was going to say more.

  I looked up at her, grasping her arm gently. “Something wrong?” The muscle in her forearm flexed under my fingers.

  “No. I forgot what I was going to say.” She held my gaze for a moment, flicked hers down to my mouth then looked away.

  The laugh I forced was weak, more of a strained chuckle. “I know what you mean.” Consciously, I forced myself to let go of her forearm. Mark always says I’m a grabber, something I tried to suppress around Audrey but it was getting harder.

  “I meant what I said the other night, Isabelle.” Her eyebrows were jammed down, expression serious. “I don’t care if it’s only for one more night, once a week or every night until you’ve had enough. I want you and I’m not going to stop saying it until you tell me to stop.”

  I ran my tongue over my lower lip and moved fractionally closer. “I don’t want you to stop.”

  Her eyes widened. “No? Good, becau—”

  A taxi pulled up to the curb, effectively cutting off whatever delicious and potentially dangerous thing she was about to say. Nice fucking timing. Audrey stepped around me, opened the door and gestured for me to climb into the backseat. I ignored every instinct to throw myself at her and kiss her, and slid in.

  Audrey passed me my laptop. “I’ll see you later. Try to get some rest, in case you happen to engage in any unexpected bursts of activity over the weekend.” She smirked, closed the door and walked off, leaving me to stare after her.

  The cab driver sighed. “Miss?”

  I startled. “Hmm? Pardon?”

  “Where to?”

  “Oh…uh…” That’s right, you have to tell cab drivers where you want to go. I blinked and turned to face forward again. “Tribeca thank you.”

  I leaned back against the seat, letting out a long breath. It was painfully obvious that Audrey was baiting me, patiently waiting until I cracked. And crack I would, like a shitty set of gel nails from a two-dollar manicure place.

  * * *

  The next day I had an appointment with my therapist, Dr. Baker. She was dressed in what I’d come to think of as her uniform, a brightly-colored loose-flowing tunic paired with chunky jewelry—usually a memento from one of her many vacations. Her honey-blond hair was always up in a loose French twist, held in place with an elaborate clasp.

  I’d always thought part of the reason I’d lasted so long with our sessions was that she was the perfect mixture of sweetheart and hardass. Dr. Baker had a way of fixing me with her large brown eyes that made me feel like I had no choice but to answer, and no matter what I said, it’d be okay.

  As I always did on entering her office, I took a moment to glance around and see if anything was different. She had a habit of shifting her many plants and paintings around, almost as though she loathed spending her days in an unchanging space. To break up the beige walls she’d swapped the dwarf potted lemon with the ficus and added another painting, a cliff landscape.

  Once I’d settled opposite her, she opened a fresh pad of paper and stared expectantly over the top of her glasses. I guess I looked like I had a lot to say. Poker face failure. The only thing I wanted to talk about was what happened with Audrey. And talk I did, for almost forty minutes, fidgeting with the weird statuette thing she had sitting on the side table.

  Dr. Baker spoke cautiously like I was a horse about to spook. “Let me see if I’ve got this right. You had a one-night stand with an employee who you didn’t know was your employee.”

  I twirled the ornament between my fingertips, staring at its garish colors. “Yes.”

  “And she’s indicated that she’d like to continue a sexual relationship with you?”

  “Mhmm.”

  “Okay. So, Isabelle, consent and legality aside, you’re interested in what she’s proposed but concerned?”

  At times like this, I couldn’t believe I paid her three hundred and fifty an hour for her to parrot what I said. I nodded and tried not to look incredulous. I probably failed. “Yes.”

  She scribbled. “Where do you think this vacillation comes from?”

  Vacillation, good one. I’d have to add it to my list of buzzwords. “I’m not sure.”

  Dr. Baker raised an eyebrow. After seven years, the woman knew when to call my bluff. “Let’s go with the negative thoughts about the situation.”

  I laughed drily. “Oh, they’re the same as always. She could fuck anyone she wanted. What could she want from me aside from money, etcetera ad nauseum.”

  “But, you’ve said it yourself. You both seemed to enjoy the sex. Isn’t it possible that really is all she wants?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then this is only about sex and not a romantic relationship. You made a mutual connection with her on that level before she knew anything about you. If there’s nothing outside of sex, what’s the problem?”

  I set the statuette down. It really was ugly. “I don’t want to have to sign HR paperwork just so I can see her.”

  Dr. Baker removed her glasses, spinning them around slowly by the arm. “The paperwork you mention is fairly standard in this situation? It’s not something designed especially to inconvenience you, Isabelle. Using the relationship declaration document as an excuse feels like a pulling away strategy.” Buzz phrase number two. “Forget about the waiver and let’s think about the deeper issue here.”

  The deeper issue was that my whole life was full of paperwork and contracts. Why couldn’t I just have something without this sort of shit getting in the way? I chewed the inside of my lower lip, thinking on what she’d said. She was right of cour
se—I was being a baby. Shoving thoughts of the declaration aside, I focused on what really frightened me. If there was no relationship outside of sex, what was there to worry about? Rejection. Deception. Being used. The thought of any of those was unbearable, especially after what Steph had done.

  After her father refused to back her latest likely-doomed-to-fail business, Steph turned to me for a loan. When I’d told her no, because it was not a sound investment, she just dumped then badmouthed me. Classy. I wondered what she’d have done if I’d told her what I really thought—I agreed with her father, and the string of commercial ventures in her wake, that she was terrible at running a company.

  It wasn’t that I was stingy, or hated spending money. It was the opposite. I enjoyed giving and did so frequently, and in large amounts. I’d backed a few small start-up ventures—people who actually knew what they were doing, unlike Steph. It was the thought of being seen as nothing more than an endless ATM I couldn’t stand. Stop it, Isabelle. What can Audrey take from you?

  My therapist held both hands up, stopping my runaway inner monologue. “All I’m saying is, while you’ve obviously thought this through, I think you’re not giving both sides a fair stake in the argument.”

  “Maybe.” I was a few steps away from petulant teenager.

  “This is obviously causing you anguish, and that anguish needs to be addressed. You’ve got the control here, Isabelle. It’s on you to keep the relationship in the zone where you want it. It’s time to stop this self-sabotage.” And there we had buzz phrase number three. She glanced at the clock. “Let’s pick this up next week. In the meantime, I’d like you to think hard about the underlying feelings at play here.”

  Thanks, Doc.

  Slouched in the backseat while Penny drove me home, I thought more about what my therapist had said. Pretty much the same thing she’d been saying for years. The only way I would be able to form a meaningful, long-lasting relationship would be if I let go, stopped making excuses and learned to trust. I was in control. People couldn’t take unless I gave. Repeat until it sticks. She was right, and I was tired of being alone. It’d been a sparse decade of unsatisfying relationships. It was up to me.

  I knew exactly what my problem was, because we’d discussed it at length many times. Apparently, the reason I had so many trust issues was because of my daddy. I hadn’t seen or heard a peep from him in over thirty years. I fact, I barely remembered him. He’d decided that he just wasn’t cut out for family life and skipped out on Mama and me. Not good enough for my daddy, so not good enough for anyone else. Sometimes I really hated my subconscious.

  When I began to make a name for myself, I fantasized about him coming to find me. Reconnecting, having daddy-daughter days and all that shit. I mentioned it casually to Mark and he made an off-the-cuff and unintentionally hurtful remark about my father only finding me because he wanted to share in some of my money. The thought had stuck with me ever since and of course, warped into a misguided negative thought process about all my intimate relationships being based on a lie.

  Once home, I indulged in my post-therapy routine. I opened a bottle of wine and typed my name into a search engine. Really, it wasn’t narcissistic. I just wanted to know if anyone was saying anything mean about me. My reasoning was that I’d already been emotionally eviscerated at therapy so why not get everything out of the way at once?

  Dressed in threadbare gray sweats, a baggy Wonder Woman tee and Ugg boots, I lounged on the couch. A few months back, I’d been asked if I would do an interview, one of those annoying “Glamour businesswomen relaxing at home” things where the accompanying spread shows a perfectly clean house, and someone fully made up and dressed up posing in their kitchen.

  I’d laughed and politely declined, telling the journalist exactly what I changed into the moment I got home. He’d tried to charm me until I dragged out Bitch Isabelle to tell him I had no intention of turning my safe haven into a bullshit image to sell his magazine.

  There were pictures from the gala Saturday night up on a few sites. Some of me talking with patrons, laughing and looking like I was enjoying myself. One of me midspeech, gesturing emphatically and another of Mark and me side by side. If nothing else, we made an attractive faux-couple. Him tall, light brown hair and swampy hazel eyes. Me, not tall and very blond and blue-eyed. I swear it was natural blond. Well…ninety percent. Okay fine. Eighty percent.

  I read the captions. Isabelle Rhodes, patron of WHSF, gave an impassioned speech about the importance of… I scrolled …wearing a stunning…business partner, Mark Hall…

  As I stared at the pictures, I found myself inserting Audrey in Mark’s place. She was darker than him, both hair and eyes. Obviously far more attractive. We would photograph nicely together. I topped up my glass and started reading the comments, mentally correcting spelling, grammar and text speak.

  Whos this woman. Hows some money manager relevent?

  Great speech tho saw it on you tube.

  Hot AF!!!!

  Thought she was a dyke. Who’s the guy?!

  Bitch can afford to donate! U kno what that dress costs? Hey, I need a new car U kno.

  Unimpressive, except for the ‘Hot as fuck’ comment. I backtracked and opened another site, this one a gossip column. I searched and scrolled and tried to ferret myself out but there was nothing juicy. Relieved, I tossed the tablet onto the couch, tucked my feet up and finished the glass of wine.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday after work, I was on a mission. A Say Yes to Audrey mission. I was tired of trying to keep myself from thinking about her, from wondering about all the what-ifs. Most of all, I kept thinking about what my therapist said about being spiteful to myself by using the waiver as an excuse. The decision had been cemented that morning as I lay in bed, after a self-induced orgasm with my arousal still coating my fingers. I needed to get laid. Regularly. Preferably by Audrey.

  Before I made the call, I ran to try and work off some nervous energy and masturbated in the shower to work off some sexual energy. The tee I put on after showering was one of my favorites, like a friend who never tired of seeing me. Steph hated this shirt. Maybe it was the holes. Maybe she hated the Dandy Warhols. Maybe she just hated me. I never found out and realized with relief that I was long past caring.

  But I needed some advice before I called Audrey. Mark was out of the question so, slumped onto the couch with a cup of tea, I called my best friend from college. We’d roomed together at Cornell and stayed in touch as much as we could with ridiculously busy lives.

  When Nat answered, she sounded out of breath. “Rhodes! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Did I interrupt something…or someone?” I teased.

  “Ha! I wish. Jill’s still at work. I’m out for a run.”

  “Damn your west coast weather.”

  She huffed. “You know I hate California.”

  True. Nat was from Alaska and one of the few people I knew who lived for bleak, snowy weather and genuinely hated summer. We spent a couple of minutes catching up, Nat grumbling about how much of a shit her boss was, before I launched into the main reason for my call. “Need your advice with something.”

  “Well it can’t be business advice, I saw R and H’s increase in last quarter’s earnings. Also saw your name up on the NYC women’s list again.”

  “Yeah, business is great.” I sipped my tea. “It’s about a woman.”

  “Oh? Do tell.” Her breathing had steadied and I could imagine her strolling back to her Bay Area Queen Anne.

  In a couple of long breaths, I recounted the whole story for her—from the circumstances of meeting Audrey, the mindboggling sex, all the way through to Mark’s reactions and now my confusion. Nat whistled through her teeth. “Well, Rhodes. You never did do anything halfway.”

  I groaned. “I know.”

  “This could just be because I’ve got a wedding looming and I’m feeling like I want to be frivolous while I can, but I say fucking go for it. Call her. Dates, sex, whate
ver. There’s nothing wrong with some casual entertainment.”

  “Yeah…I guess you’re right.” I set my mug down. “Speaking of weddings, how’re the plans going?”

  “Surprisingly well. Jill’s very calm about it all. I keep telling her to just give me my suit, show me where to stand and what to say, and I’ll be there with bells on.”

  “You delicious butch, you.”

  “Hey! I’m giving my opinions when asked, but seriously who cares if we have white or cream tablecloths?” Nat laughed. “You are coming right? Invites go out next month. March eleventh.”

  My throat tightened. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything, babe.”

  “Good. Remember, it’ll be plus one so if you want to bring this pilot…”

  “Didn’t you hear anything I just said, Nat? Casual.”

  “I did. But keep it in mind.” I could picture her teasing grin.

  “Just me,” I said firmly.

  “Okay then, Rhodes. Whatever you say.”

  After we’d said our goodbyes and promised to talk soon, I wandered out onto my balcony with my tea, turning Audrey’s card over. It was time to face up to what I wanted, and what I wanted was for her to beg me to let her come. There was nothing wrong with that.

  As the phone rang I felt a sudden nervousness I hadn’t felt in quite some time. Before I could place my finger on exactly what it was, she answered, “This is Audrey.”

  “Audrey? It’s Isabelle…Rhodes.” My voice had always been a little high-pitched but when I uttered that sentence I sounded like a child.

  There was surprise in her voice. “Ms. Rhodes, Isabelle. What a pleasure.” Then concern. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh yes, everything’s fine. I was just sitting here, uh, cleaning my purse and your card fell out.”

  She made a low, throaty musing sound. “Is that so? And my card picked up your phone and dialed the number on it all of its own accord?”