Forbidden Prince

by Zoey Oliver

  “Well some of us are taking the modern world back home, Joe. Some of us are practically cutting edge!”

  I put my hands up to show that I am innocent.

  “Okay, jeez, fine,” I grumble. “You’re a missionary from the future. We get it.”

  “Wait, I want to hear more about this old-fashioned stuff,” Hannah interrupts, trying to relieve the tension in the air. “What else do you have? I mean, you guys have cars and stuff, right?”

  “Oh, for the last year at least,” I chuckle. “And I hear we’re getting another phone line this year.”

  “Dr. Warner still gives lady treatments,” Didi interrupts, her eyes sparkling.

  I shoot her a warning look, flaring my nostrils.

  “What are you talking about?” Desi asks, apparently intrigued by my stiffening body language. “What’s a lady treatment?”

  Didi grins, her cheeks dimpling. She stares right at me with evil delight dancing in her eyes.

  “Oh, you don’t know what a lady treatment is? You guys never heard of that?”

  “I have a doctor for my lady parts,” Hannah shrugs. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  Didi purses her lips suggestively. “Does your doctor… Give you the treatment? As in, to completion?”

  Hannah shakes her head, her eyes vacant.

  “Didi, stop,” I sigh irritably.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Desi insists.

  Didi shrugs, drawing the conversation out. She looks down and brushes a few stray salt crystals from the lettuce fringe of her midnight-blue silk blouse.

  “It’s some Victorian medical stuff… Just weirdness,” I interrupt breezily. “I’m sure he doesn’t even do it anymore. In fact, those are just rumors, really. Just small-town gossip stuff.”

  “That is not gossip,” Didi shoots back snidely. “And it is not just some old-fashioned thing… It’s a real thing, with real benefits. It’s something even your mother enjoyed, Joe. So there.”

  I feel my cheeks get hot instantly. My instinct is to gulp down more of my drink, but I don’t think that’s really going to help.

  “Somehow I doubt that,” I retort, but the words come out all meek and transparent.

  “Wait… I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Desi fusses, sloshing another serving of margarita into her glass and then raising the pitcher over her head until she catches the bartender’s attention. “What is a lady treatment? Is this a real thing?”

  “Back in Victorian days,” Didi starts, sitting up straight and brushing the tabletop with her fingertips like she’s giving an academic lecture, “doctors used to think that women got… backed up, you might say. And so they devised a treatment to, you know, release them.”

  “Are we talking about pooping?” Hannah gasps.

  Desi smacks her lightly on the arm. “Don’t be stupid,” she hisses. “If we were talking about pooping, Didi would’ve said pooping. And besides, men poop. We’re talking about… lady issues? As in—”

  “Orgasms,” Didi nods excitedly. “Your doctor would give you an orgasm.”

  “No way!” Hannah exclaims. “Like your doctor-doctor? Your real doctor would get you off?”

  “Totally!” Didi answers. “In fact, that’s how vibrators were invented! They’re medical equipment!”

  “Holy shit,” Desi marvels, shaking her head in disbelief. “I cannot imagine Dr. Epstein rubbing one out for me. I don’t think I would want him to even try. How would I look Mrs. Epstein in the face ever again?”

  “It’s therapy,” Didi insists. “They really believed that women had to release all that pressure inside them, you know? And if you couldn’t do it yourself, or if your husband couldn’t do it for you… Well, somebody had to do it! Who better than the doctor?”

  “That’s amazing,” Hannah sighs. “I wouldn’t have minded that. It took me three years to figure out how to come. It would’ve been nice to have some training.”

  “It’s practically a public service,” Didi nods.

  “It’s practically malpractice,” I observe into the top of my glass. I meant to say it quietly, or maybe in my head, but when I hear Didi’s intake of breath I know I said it out loud.

  “Well, some of us beg to differ. And nobody’s complaining,” Didi shrugs.

  “Yeah, is that legal?” Hannah asks.

  “Who even knows?” I reply. “It’s just going to disappear in the next generation anyway. Just one of those small-town things that everybody learns how to live without.”

  “Some of us live without it all the time,” Didi adds sarcastically. “Some of us could actually think about using those services. Maybe work out some of that blockage, don’t you think?”

  I narrow my eyes and shoot her a warning look. “Some of us are just fine.”

  “Seriously, you guys,” Desi drawls, “what is going on here? What are you even talking about?”

  Didi turns away so she doesn’t see me silently begging her to shut up.

  “Joe just doesn’t like anything about where we came from,” she answers, skating over the thing that she is threatening to say. I breathe a sigh of relief, acknowledging that she just let me off the hook.

  “I just like Manhattan,” I explain. “If I wanted to stay in Florida, I would’ve. But I like it here.”

  “You can’t outrun your roots, Joe,” she lectures me. “You’re still the same country control freak you always were, even if you like to pretend you aren’t. Look at you… You even dress like a country girl. You just pretend that it’s some kind of vintage pinup ideal.”

  Automatically my fingers drift up toward my hair as if to push it back into place.

  “I love the way you dress, Joe,” Hannah says, rushing to my defense.

  “This isn’t a control-freak thing or a country thing,” I pout. “I just like to dress like this. Is that so wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it, is what I’m saying,” she replies. “You should just stop pretending that you’re something you’re not. Loosen up.”

  “I’m fine!” I insist, finally starting to lose my patience. “Why are you even picking on me? Just leave me alone, Didi.”

  “Yeah, you are a little bit of a control freak, though,” Desi sighs, her nose wrinkled. “But I do love the outfits.”

  “Maybe you should just come with me back home?” Didi suggests. “Get Dr. Warner to give you a lady treatment. Loosen you right up!”

  “You know what... it actually is getting really late,” I shrug, grinding my teeth and pushing my drink away from me. “I have to get to the gallery in the morning—”

  “Because did you guys know that Joe has never had an orgasm? That’s probably it.”

  Silence falls across the table. Somehow my heart seems to both stop and speed up at the same time.

  “Like, that’s why you’re such a control freak. Or maybe being a control freak keeps you from being able to come? I don’t know. Kind of a chicken and egg thing.”

  “Didi, I think you’re drunk,” Hannah mutters, her eyes downcast.

  Great, even Hannah is humiliated for me, I think to myself. Wow. Just wow.

  “What… You guys didn’t know that?” Didi says innocently. “It’s no big deal… Lots of people don’t know how to come. I’m just saying that maybe Dr. Warner—”

  Desi grimaces and blows me a pantomime kiss as I force myself to get up from the table and put my heavy oilskin trench back on. Suddenly it feels very conspicuous, and not like something I would even want to wear.

  “I’ll see you at the gallery tomorrow afternoon,” Desi says in a low, sympathetic voice.

  “Hey, you can’t leave!” Didi announces, too loudly. “You promised me that we would hang out and drink. You promised!”

  I don’t even know what to say to her. I just back away and leave her sitting there with her mouth hanging open, too awkward to even respond. As I stomp toward the exit, I ignore the pain of the blisters that have definitely formed in my shoe, and
head back out into the rain.

  Chapter Three

  Joe

  The loading dock is flooded with morning sun as the delivery guys haul the giant wooden crate on skids. I just stand off to the side with my arms folded, supposedly supervising but really just trying to stay out of the way. My main function is to witness anything that might go wrong, so I can make statements to the insurance company.

  Last night’s rain floats up from the alley in clouds, catching the sunlight and turning to golden mist. If it weren’t for the fact this is a filthy alley in midtown Manhattan, it could easily be mistaken for a setting in a painting. Fairies or heroes could step out from these brick doorways. Maybe a cherub should float by on one of these clouds.

  “Just sign here,” one of the guys says to me, holding out a clipboard and a pen.

  I gesture toward the gallery door with my elbow, not even bothering to uncross my arms.

  “I can’t sign for that until it’s on the floor, sorry,” I shrug.

  He raises his eyebrows briefly, then sort of tips his head to one side as though trying to catch my eye. I’m not in the mood. I’m sure he’s handsome enough—I caught sight of him under one of those glorious shafts of sunlight just a couple of minutes ago—but I seriously cannot even consider forcing myself to return eye contact with him right now. It’s probably not safe… for either of us.

  “Yeah… Okay,” he finally mutters. “Hank! We gotta drag this into the gallery!”

  I shuffle behind them, taking slow steps on my feet which still ache from last night. Today I’ve got on a pair of soft ballet flats, but it’s still pretty tough to walk around the blisters I gave myself in the rain. Normally I would think those peep-toe heels were totally worth it, but today…

  And again, I’m flooded with that sick feeling of shame and humiliation. Didi was totally out of line. I can’t believe she would turn on me like that, but I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve known that she was tipsy when I got there, and I should’ve seen that evil glint in her eye.

  Her mom used to get that same glint when she would start on the Jack Daniels before we got home from school. More than once we came in the front door, still laughing or griping about something from our school day, when Didi’s mom would show up in the hallway. She’d be leaning heavily against the doorjamb with that glint in her eye, ready to call us out on what we were wearing, how we were talking, pretty much anything about us.

  So I should’ve seen it coming, but I didn’t. I did promise her that we would go out, and stupidly, I promised to get drunk. But I assumed that was just sort of a joke. I didn’t realize she was going to hold it over my head all night.

  And I certainly didn’t realize what was coming.

  No, I’ve never had an orgasm. It’s not something I generally tell people, although it’s not something I’m particularly ashamed about either. I’ve had sex before. I’ve had pretty decent sex, I think. And I suspect that this earth-shattering experience she tends to go on and on about is exaggerated just to make me feel bad.

  Maybe I’m just not made that way. I’ve read studies that say that a full third of women don’t have orgasms. Walking down the street, it doesn’t look like a third of women are hobbling around like unsatisfied zombies or anything. Somehow they manage to run corporations and families. Maybe Didi is just kind of a jerk.

  I love her, but man, she really goes for the throat sometimes.

  “I’m an asshole,” comes a quiet voice behind me.

  My stomach instantly tightens, filling with acid. I hesitate for a moment and coach myself to just be nice, don’t say anything I will regret because she’s leaving, and we will figure out a way to sort this all out when she comes back.

  But when I finally force myself to turn around, I am taken aback. She smiles sheepishly at me and shrugs her shoulders over the padded supports of a pair of crutches. Looking down, I see the cast that extends from just over her knee to her red-painted toenails.

  “My leg,” she explains.

  “You broke your leg? As in, your actual leg?”

  “Yeah…” she winces. “Sort of had an incident with a very tall curb and a very drunk Didi.”

  “Jesus… That sucks,” I reply, trying to assemble this new information alongside my perfectly justifiable anger.

  Somehow, every time I start out angry at her I always end up feeling sorry for her.

  “It does suck… But I’ll be okay. Are we still okay?”

  She looks up at me, practically batting her eyelashes. Her expression is sincere and full of remorse, but it’s not like I’ve never seen that before.

  “Whatever,” I sigh. “You were just drunk.”

  “Yeah, but what I said… I mean I should never—”

  I hold up a hand to silence her. I don’t want to hear the words again.

  “Okay, fine,” she mumbles, defeated. “Just know that I really am sorry.”

  “Didi?” comes a voice from the gallery door.

  We both stand up a little straighter as Martha Adler enters the loading dock. Sharp as a dart in a form-fitting, matte-black dress, she sweeps her gaze over Didi from top to bottom with one eyebrow arched almost to her hairline.

  “I’m totally fine!” Didi chirps unconvincingly. “I just needed to grab my other portfolio from the office.”

  Martha’s lips disappear into a straight line. “You are not totally fine. You are broken.”

  “It’s just a fracture,” Didi explains.

  I can see the light blue veins around her eyes and wonder if she got to sleep at all last night.

  “I suppose I could find some office work for you to do here,” Martha continues, not really addressing Didi directly at all. “In the back, of course. One of the offices.”

  “Wait, what?” Didi asks, confused. “I have a flight to catch, Martha. I’ve got an Uber in like ten minutes.”

  Martha swings her gaze to me, pinning me in place like a butterfly on a specimen board.

  “You’ll need to go,” she announces.

  My mouth goes dry. “Go?” I repeat pointlessly.

  “Didi will have your tickets ready at the airport,” Martha says, pressing her lips and blinking several times with her long, magnetic eyelashes casting just a slight breeze. “All the renovation should be done… Shipments are all scheduled. Just finish what Didi already started.”

  “Wait! I’m ready!” Didi objects. “I can go! It’s fine!”

  But Martha’s already gone, back into the gallery with her stiletto heels clacking on the concrete floor like abbreviated gunfire reports.

  “Jesus Christ,” Didi whimpers, looking around frantically.

  I can feel how upset she is, but I can’t seem to bring myself to focus my attention on her. Martha just announced that I’m going to the exact place I just said I didn’t want to go. Willowdale, Florida. My hometown.

  Didi sniffles dramatically.

  “Okay, so… Just tell the Uber driver to go by your place and pick up your clothes. Just pack fast. The flight leaves at noon, so I suppose you technically have plenty of time. You can do it, but hurry.”

  I grind my teeth, trying to keep all the words safely inside my mouth. I can’t say anything right now. Not anything at all.

  “It’s the old hat shop, you remember it? All you have to do is get the paintings hung and hold the opening, okay? Maybe… a couple other things. A few. I’ll email you details about the budget and stuff. You should have a company credit card already, right?”

  My head is swirling. I can’t believe this is happening.

  “Joe?” she repeats, but her voice seems to be getting farther away. “Are you listening to me? You have a company card and everything? Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Yes, I understand what she’s saying. I can’t believe it, but every word is understood.

  I’m going home, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Chapter Four

  Sturgill

  As soon as I wake up, my cell ph
one starts buzzing at me. I set it up this way on purpose so I could get everything I need in the most efficient way: awake, coffee, schedule downloading as I blast out a quick sun salutation and a couple hundred sit-ups. In minutes I’m upright and heading downstairs, ready for another day.

  Harriet flutters around the kitchen like a mayfly, muttering to herself and sweeping up as she goes. After forty years working for my family, she knows every millimeter of this house better than anyone. She leaves a steaming cup of extra-strong black coffee in the middle of the white marble countertop and flutters away, her skirt barely visible as she hurries through the back doorway just as I’m coming in.

  “Thank you, Harriet!” I call out just like five thousand times before. I’m not sure she can hear me. She never responds, but it would be bad manners not to acknowledge her efforts.

  Scrolling through the schedule that the appointment service sent to my phone, I gulp down half the coffee while getting in a few more standing stomach crunches for good measure. Nothing really unusual on the schedule for today. A few vaccinations that my nurse can handle. Prenatal checkup with Mrs. Cooper. Diabetes check on Mr. Rollins.

  Great. Perfect day for a run.

  The sun is glorious, shooting down through the banyan tree branches and landing on the wide lawn. I can already hear Hector’s tractor starting up, temporarily drowning out the noises of crickets and cicadas. He keeps the grounds absolutely spotless, the perfect counterpoint to Harriet and her work on the house. I’ve always marveled at the effortless symmetry of the relationship: inside and outside, interlocking efforts like puzzle pieces. Both utterly dedicated, both unsurpassed in their excellence.

  The sound of my heels on the concrete drive immediately centers me. I begin my run at an easy pace, happy to enjoy the surging sense of wellness that immediately floods my body. I enjoy all kinds of activities, but running is the pinnacle in my mind. It’s the time where I feel everything working together with almost mechanical smoothness. I don’t even wear headphones because I want to hear my breath.

  I run down the drive and along the tree-covered path to the street, trying not to grin like an idiot. It’s almost criminal how fun this is. No one can see me, but it still wouldn’t be something I’d want my patients to witness. A lot of them like to think of me the way they thought of my father: serious, steadfast, committed, reliable. A big goofy grin on my face doesn’t necessarily go along with that image.