Shay returned the dress to its rightful tomb. “I’m the Pussy Whisperer. I know these things.”
Athena loaded empty coffee cups, water glasses, and plates from Brinton’s bookshelves onto the tray. “Honey, please don’t say pussy before ten a.m.,” she called out, gliding through the door.
Shay exhaled dramatically. “It’s not my fault somebody started that hashtag for me. Anyway, as a Master of the Vaginal Arts, it’s my job to help women feel safer in their bodies. And I know a little consensual humping can work wonders. Great for stress relief and helps you feel more connected to your body.”
“Funny, on most days, I feeltooconnected to my body,” Brinton said, still swaddled in cotton.
Shay’s hands planted on her perfectly curved hips. “You, girl, need some fresh energy. When’s the last time you wenton a date? And please don’t say that hemorrhoidal ex-boyfriend.”
Eli was a software engineer. They worked in the same building—he was three floors up at a startup app that matched singles based on which subway line they hated most. He checked all the boxes: tall and attractive, with short brown hair and penetrating brown eyes. Midwestern-friendly, though he worked hard to ditch his accent now that he’d “escaped.”
Eli was the first guy she dated who she told about her anxiety, and he seemed understanding at first. But after two years, he’d roll his eyes when she begged him to cancel plans if she needed to recover from a panic attack. They argued quietly in the darkened corners of rooftop parties and bars when she pleaded with him to leave early. He never went with her.
And when the lightning-hot stabs of an anxiety-induced migraine sliced through every nerve in her body, he said running out for Pedialyte drained him and that he didn’t sign up to care for a sick child.
Brinton flipped the quilt off her face and eyed Shay. “I don’t want a date. Or a booty call, a sneaky link, or a Netflix-and-chill.”
“‘Netflix and chill’? Ew, be more old. I dare you.” Shay clicked her tongue as she rummaged through Brinton’s closet.
It was pointless because a guy would find some reason to reject her once he saw her hideous emotional scars. Therefore, a relationship—or love—wasn’t realistic for someone like her.
“What about the country singer? You still talk to him?” Athena asked, returning to the room with a stack of fluffy white towels. “I think he was flirting with you during that interview.”
“Yes, the country singer,” Shay squealed. “He caught you in his arms like the juicy-booty damsel you are. You should slide into his DMs and refresh his memory with a titty-gram.”
One thing about Shay: she didn’t waste time with subtlety. At sixteen, when she came out as a lesbian, she sat the family down for a PowerPoint presentation on why, in her experience, teenage boys were simply the worst. In summary, they possessed the emotional maturity of a walnut, wielded Axe body spray like a weapon, and didn’t look at all like Rihanna.
“First off, they call him the Heartbreak Prince,” Brinton said, counting on her outstretched fingers. “He’s a walking red flag. And second, he used me as a punchline in his awkward-ass acceptance speech, like I’m not a real person with a life outside of our mortifying five minutes together. Nah, I’m good.”
She scooted off the bed and met her mother at the door, grabbing the towels from Athena’s hands. A cream business card with a name and phone number typed in neat serif font sat on top.
“Today’s a new day, I can feel it,” Brinton said. She wasn’t quite convinced, but if it’d get her family off her back, she’d take it. “I just need the right opportunity.”
Athena kissed her cheek. “If you change your mind about therapy, call her.”
Brinton had the decency to wait for her mother to leave before she opened her top dresser drawer and dropped the card inside, beneath a dusty stack of pamphlets extolling the power of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
“Be for real. You’re a little curious to see what he’s packing in those Levi’s,” Shay trilled as she twerked against the edge of Brinton’s mattress.
Brinton turned her back so she wouldn’t laugh. “I’d rather walk naked through Times Square than ever see Jamie Crawford Jr. again.”
CHAPTER THREE
Afew hours later, in Nashville, Jamie sat at a sterile conference room table with half a dozen record label executives. The cavalcade of batshit ideas had only gotten worse.
“Let’s cut a deal with Chevy; for every new Silverado sold, we throw in a deluxe copy of the album for free,” barked a man with a thick auburn mustache and ruddy cheeks.
“What, you wanna sell our boy like an economy pack of Costco socks?” asked another. His scraggly blond ponytail whipped as he shook his head. “I got a guy at an erectile dysfunction pill manufacturer who’s dying to talk sponsorships. Check out the slogan.”
Ponytail dragged his hand across the air wistfully, as if unveiling a Sunset Boulevard billboard. “Pop one for hours of fun.”
“Forget brand deals,” said a third man with sleep-deprived eyes. “Jamie Jr. ought to endorse a politician. Somebody who gets people fired up and engaged. Somebody like?—”
Jamie held up a hand to stop him. “I’m not endorsinganybody, or shilling trucks, or anything else.” He didn’t need to popanythingto have a good time. He excelled at falling into bed with the wrong person, at the wrong time.
“Well, son, we gotta go with something,” Mustache grumbled. “We ran the numbers for the new album, and first-week sales projections are down two-percent compared to your debut.”
“Is that bad?” Jamie asked. He was no mathematician, but a two-percent dip sounded trivial. Allegedly, his job was to focus on the music.
