“What?” Her eyebrows shoot up.
“I mean, I like it,” I rush on. “It feels good. I just… never get there.”
She stares at me for a beat, then reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“Oh, honey.”
She leans in and whispers like she’s sharing a spell. “You have to show them what you want. Take it. Make them help you get there.”
My face burns.
From then on, it’s secrets. Small ones. Then bigger ones.
And then one rainy afternoon, when my head is pounding and all I want is to go home and crawl under a blanket, Sage says, “Come over.”
“I don’t feel great,” I tell her.
“I’ll make you tea,” she says gently. “You’ll feel better. I promise.”
So I do.
I take the T over, umbrella dripping, and when I check the address my stomach dips. The building is rough—cardboard boxes stacked by the door, the heavy smell of fried oil and soy sauce hanging in the air.
Chinese takeout. It’s on the outskirts of Allston, but in a very commercial neighborhood. Only a few block from the upscale brownstones and close to the T.
Then around the side, a narrow staircase. At the top, a red door with a crooked number.
I knock.
Sage opens it like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Come in!”
The apartment is chaos. Clothes everywhere. Heels piled by the door. Handbags—some unmistakably designer—tossed over chairs.
“Sage,” I say slowly, pointing. “Is that Gucci?”
She laughs. “Oh, honey. Canal Street? I New York City? Looks real, doesn’t it?”
I blink. “None of it’s real?”
“None,” she says cheerfully. “Baby, I fake it till I make it. We should go sometime. I’ll take you to Canal Street. They have secret backrooms and tons of ripped off designer goods.”
It smells good inside—candles everywhere, sweet and warm, masking whatever’s underneath. She claps her hands.
“I rented a movie. Face masks. Spa night.”
And suddenly we’re on the couch, green goop drying on our faces, feet tucked under blankets. She rubs oil into my temples, slow and practiced, brushes my hair until the ache in my head melts away.
“There,” she murmurs. “See? I told you you’d feel better, sweetie.”
She brings me chamomile tea.
I feel… cared for.
Like a doll someone’s tending to.
No one’s ever done this for me. Not even my boyfriend.
