Page 17 of Touch of Class

“Oh.” Gillian managed a smile. “You can thank Robin for putting that one in the back of my head, though I suppose landing on a mattress may’ve sparked something similar on its own.”

“Wait, did you think she was a sex worker?” Robin’s voice dripped with laughter. “I mean … actually, fair. Why do you have a bed over there, if not for, you know, bedding people? No judgment—we’re super sex positive.”

“Hence the condoms in the bathroom,” Tegan added.

“And the Planned Parenthood events,” Robin piled on.

Brooke cleared her throat. “I’d love to return to the initial question. If all our guesses were incorrect, instead of fixating on one wrong answer, perhaps you could give us the right one.”

Daphne sighed. “Probably, but only if you promise to tell me the fun guesses later.”

“Totally swear to it.” Robin leaned forward. “Now spill. Delayed gratification is not my strong suit.”

“Well …” Daphne drew out the word, this time more from enjoyment than trepidation. Save for their obvious admiration for Gillian, these women gave off only nonjudgmental vibes, and she didn’t hate having their attention on her. What’s more, this group that shared both an occupation and close connection to Gillian might provide Daphne with the best contrast or context for her earlier reaction. If they all went blank-faced and stoic, she’d know the expression was par for the collective vocation, but if they didn’t, Daphne would know where she stood with the woman sitting, patiently aloof, across the room. “I’m opening a snuggery.”

Everyone paused, polite smiles frozen, and, for a second, she worried they might’ve fritzed out in unison.

“Sorry.” Tegan shook her head as if she hadn’t quite heard. “Did you say you’re a smuggler?”

“No, I said ‘snuggery.’”

Robin nodded slowly, then said, “I don’t know what that means.”

“A snuggery is where people come for therapeutic human contact from hugs to full body holds, or repetitive touch. There are a lot of reasons people seek such services, but the short version is most humans need platonic touch within the confines of healthy and respected boundaries in order to thrive. Sadly, not everyone has that in their lives, which is why they pay me. I’m a professional cuddler.”

Brooke’s eyes went wide, but she managed a hint of a smile. “I see what Gillian meant about having so much to learn. Do you consent to questions, because you’ve certainly piqued my curiosity?”

“Answering questions is my favorite.” Daphne pointedly refused to look at Gillian. “Curiosity and openness are gateways to growth.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Tegan said excitedly. “How’d you get into this or find clients? What are the rules? Do you have a governing body for the profession? Has there been research on … everything?”

Daphne grinned, overwhelmed in the best way, before Robin hopped off the desk.

“Sure, sure, research, theory, best practices, blah blah blah, but what about a demonstration?”

Daphne warmed at the rush of enthusiasm. These women were everything she wanted in colleagues or neighbors or even friends. While they ran across a spectrum ranging from tentative to all in, every one of them met her in the moment, amiable, attentive, interested, and open.

“I’d love to do a demonstration,” Daphne said to Robin, then looking to Brooke and Tegan added, “and answer any questions that come up.”

Then, with a little pause, she turned to Gillian, keeping her voice even and devoid of the satisfaction she felt at the responses she could now compare hers to. “As long it’s okay with The Boss.”

Gillian finally lowered her hands from her mouth, then took a slow, deep breath. “Extra opportunities to study new concepts have never steered me wrong, though I prefer clinical observation to experiential learning until I have a grasp on the theoretical underpinnings of the practice.”

Daphne pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh at the juxtaposition of her overly formal response to the others’ enthusiasm, but she needn’t have tried so hard because everyone else in the room cracked up openly.

Even Brooke giggled. “Gilly, that’s the most elaborate way I’ve ever heard anyone say they don’t want a hug right now.”

Daphne was about to clarify whether Gillian didn’t want a hug or didn’t want a hug from her, but as Gillian rolled her eyes, her cheeks colored and she smiled, a real, genuine show of chagrin and affection that changed everything. Something soft, something self-effacing, something human emanated from her, and the question died on Daphne’s lips.

Suddenly, she didn’t want to know the answer nearly as much as she wanted to know this side of the woman in front of her.

“How’s this my life?” Gillian mumbled, growing lightheaded, as if the gravity that normally tethered her to firm ground had shifted. She’d apparently stepped into an alternate universe in which everyone agreed to play along in some farce without acknowledging the absurdity of Daphne spooning Robin … on a bed … across the hall from where they all did their life’s work.

Or maybe her friends were all so deeply committed to their jobs, and could play the part so seamlessly, they forgot they were watching a theatrical production. The thought calmed her natural revolt against the idea of touching at work. While Gillian had never considered herself an actress, she’d received enough training on addressing clients suffering grand delusions to at least understand the merit of avoiding jarring doses of reality.

Still, as she leaned against the wall watching her colleagues dive in with Daphne, Gillian didn’t get the sense any of them were placating her.

“Where’s the research on this field currently being conducted?” Brooke asked from her perch on the couch next to the bed where Daphne lay on her side, curled around Robin.