Page 41 of Touch of Class

“I don’t want to kick you out, but can you back up and tell me where this is coming from?”

“That’s usually my line.”

Daphne chuckled. “How do you like having it used on you?”

“Not much.” Gillian rolled out some of the tension in her neck. “But you’re right. I haven’t studied what you do, or the basis for the need, or any theoretical underpinnings. Mostly, I’ve been ignoring it because I can’t control it.”

“Wow.” Daphne blinked a few times as if to clear her vision. Had the woman in front of her actually admitted that? When the vision didn’t prove to be a mirage, she pushed forward. “Good bit of self-awareness on what seems like a ‘you problem.’”

“But not just me, because you’re here too. For six weeks now, getting deeper and deeper into my space, my friendships, my head, my dreams.”

Daphne’s breath caught. “Your dreams?”

Gillian’s face flamed. “I was on a roll. I didn’t mean to say ‘dreams.’”

“Didn’t mean to say it, or didn’t actually mean it?”

“The point is, initially a part of me hoped you’d go away and the problem would solve itself if I stayed patient, because how could any of this”—she waved her arm generally around the office—“be a viable business venture for the long term?”

“You were hoping I’d fail?”

“Not consciously, but it seemed a likely enough prospect.”

“I’m not even mad at the assessment,” Daphne admitted. “I spent years wondering if I could actually make a living, but those days are long past, and if you’d asked, I would’ve told you there’s a lot of lonely people out there, a lot of shame, a lot of stigma, a lot of trauma, and not nearly enough cuddles, comfort, peace, and affirmation.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it does. Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Yes,” Gillian said quickly, “but you’re making money off of those problems. Doesn’t it feel like you’re taking advantage—”

“Ma’am.” Daphne cut her off. “Women who work in glass houses should be real careful about throwing stones in this direction.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do therapists not make a living off of lonely, traumatized, shame- and stigma-filled folks?”

“That’s a gross oversimplification.”

“Still, if someone walked into your office and said, ‘I’m broken, I’m ashamed, and I’m lonely,’ would you say, ‘Sorry, it’d be wrong of me to accept your money,’ or would you say, ‘Come on in. Let me help you get what you need.’?”

Gillian pressed her lips together as if she knew the answer but didn’t like it. “I’m trained to handle those conversations.”

“I’m glad you are. And before you ask, I’m not trained to handle all of that. But neither are you equipped to handle someone who comes in saying, ‘I’m happy with my life overall, but I’m touch-starved. I don’t want to sacrifice my hard-fought freedom or sense of self by depending on a romantic partner or begging a friend to hug me.’”

“How can you possibly assess what might be beneath a person’s desire—”

“I don’t,” Daphne said quickly. “I meet them in their stated need. We move forward together.”

“And if a deeper need surfaces?”

Daphne laughed. “You’re the boss. You tell me. Say someone comes to you for therapy and over the course of several sessions you realize they could benefit from antidepressants or a substance abuse program or a domestic violence shelter. Would you try to handle that on your own?”

“No. Obviously, I’d refer them, gently, to resources, while continuing to do what I could, unless I felt wholly unqualified to do so.”

“Same.”

Gillian raised her eyebrows.