35
1008 Words
He’s dead serious. He even sounds worried, like he’s warning me.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because when it’s in pain, an animal hides. And, if cornered and feeling threatened, it lashes out. Your friend is doing both.”
My lungs constrict, making it harder to breathe. “I know.”
“So here’s my piece of big-brotherly advice. Do with it what you will.”
I listen hard, my heart beating a little faster.
“Wait.”
I frown at the phone. “What do you mean, wait? He’s not going to change—”
“Not for him to change.”
“What then?”
“For him to decide what he wants more: his pain, or you.”
I drink my wine, swiping angrily at the moisture in the corner of my eye.
“And in the meantime, live your life. I’m not saying sit by the phone and pine away. I’m just saying that it might take him a minute or two to come around. You can’t push it. But the way you two looked at each other . . . I don’t think you should throw the idea out the window just yet. So just wait. Leave him alone. Let’s see what he does if he doesn’t feel cornered.”
Because this little pep talk is giving me too much hope, I blurt, “He’s into prostitutes. Like, really into them. They’re all he dates.”
Jamie calmly asks, “Male or female?”
“Female! Geez!”
“I’m just trying to get my facts straight, don’t get all excited.”
“Excuse me, but why don’t you seem more disturbed? He pays for sex.”
“Because no man in the history of the world has ever done that.”
Exasperated, I say, “Jamie, come on!”
“Would it shock you to know I’ve done the same?”
My brows shoot so far up my forehead they almost fly off. “Yes, as a matter of fact it would. When? More importantly, why?”
There’s a shrug in his voice. “Because I was horny, and lonely, and I could.”
I decide not to ask for details. “I’m sorry, I just don’t get it. The whole thing seems so seedy and pathetic to me.”
“Well, you’re not a man.”
I groan. “That’s such a sexist statement.”
“When did you become so judgmental, anyway?”
“Hello, it’s illegal? And dangerous? And totally gross?”
“How would you know it’s gross? Maybe it’s the hottest s*x you’ll ever have, but you’re so busy looking down your nose at it, you’ll never know.”
My eyes bug out. “You’re advocating your little sister hire a gigolo to get some firsthand experience in the area, is that it?”
He goes all practical on me. “Well, if you do, I know this guy in LA—”
“Please stop talking now.”
“Look, I admit it’s . . . not mainstream.”
Suddenly, I’m angry. “No, Jamie, that’s not it at all. This has nothing to do with me being narrow-minded or judgmental. It’s wrong. I’m sorry if it makes me sound like a church lady, but screwing someone for money is wrong.”
“Why aren’t you mad at the prostitutes, then? They’re the ones taking his money. If there were no prostitutes, men couldn’t visit them.”
I almost curse at him. “You’re such a lawyer.”
He shoots right back, “And you’re too quick to point fingers. Nothing in this world is black or white. Nothing. I don’t know much about this A.J. of yours, but if he only can be with a woman who he pays, there’s something to that. And besides, if that’s really the case, this entire conversation is moot.” He adds, “Unless you’re willing to send him an invoice, that is.”
I mutter, “I’m sure they get paid up front. You don’t want that much money in receivables.”
“Really?” He sounds interested. “How much are we talkin’? Two, three grand?”
“Try five.”
He whistles. “Damn. And I thought Dad charged a lot per hour. He’d freak out if he knew a hooker had thirty-five hundred bucks on his going hourly rate.”
It’s my turn to be shocked. “Dad charges his clients fifteen hundred dollars per hour?”
Jamie laughs. “Only for old clients. For new ones he charges twenty-five hundred.”
Holy guacamole. I honestly had no idea. “That doesn’t even seem like it should be legal!”
His voice turns wry. “You weren’t complaining when it was paying to put you through USC. Or padding your trust fund. Or financing that graduation trip you took to Paris with all your girlfriends—”
“Point made. No need to rub it in.”
“All right. I know I’m being a little hard on you, but I just want you to keep an open mind. At the very least . . . try to have compassion. You never know what it’s like to be someone else until you’ve lived what he’s lived.”
“Walk a mile in his shoes, that whole bit?”
“Exactly. And don’t sound so snarky, it’s true.”
Annoyed with Jamie, with the conversation, with life in general, I stand and go to the living room window. Outside it’s growing dark. Cars flash by with their headlights on, in traffic even at this hour, on the weekend. The streetlights are winking on.
“When will you be in LA again?”
“I don’t know. I’m giving Mom and Dad a little room to breathe after your dramatic announcement at dinner. I think they might finally be realizing their son is never going to marry Bunny Anderson’s very homely, very rich daughter.”
“Are you angry with me for that?”
- Writer
