Page 8 of Touch of Class

Gillian’s shoulders eased. “You’re in a mental health field? That honestly makes more sense for you than it did for me back in high school.”

Daphne smiled, the first fully genuine one since the two of them had recognized each other. “I’m mental health adjacent, and probably unsurprisingly, I took a quirkier and windier path than you.”

The corners of Gillian’s lips curled upward. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m still on-brand a bit, but don’t act like you broke the mold completely over there with your power-lesbian attire and business boss details.”

“Fair, but now you know what I do for a living, and I only know you’re adjacent to it, which seems more than a little cagey for someone who accused me of not being able to say something plainly.”

“Zing.” Daphne chuckled nervously. “You noticed that.”

Gillian waited patiently while Daphne glanced slowly around at the room, seeing it differently now. “I’m also comfortable sitting in the silence.”

“Picking up on that,” Daphne said. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you got good at whatever you needed to be good at in order to succeed.”

“Thank you?”

“Should I also trust that you’ve managed to nail the whole nonjudgmental listening thing, too?”

“Am I about to be tested?”

“You’re very good at tests, if memory serves. Didn’t you get a perfect score on the ACTs?”

“Daphne, do you not like your job?”

“No.” She finally stood, and tried to hold this woman’s impressive gaze, somehow confident, cool, and concerned all at once. “I love my job. I love it the way a person can only love something they’ve had to fight for and defend and build without any blueprints. I love it with the same kind of protectiveness I heard in your voice when you talked about your people. I love it with the fierceness of a woman who’s been discounted and discredited and grown defiant even in her weariness.”

Gillian’s lips parted slightly as her body angled slightly forward. It was such a subtle reaction, but it spoke of interest and genuine curiosity. Daphne seized on those impulses, or maybe her own sense of building momentum. “I’m a professional cuddler.”

Absolutely nothing about Gillian’s expression changed. Honestly, if they’d been on a video call, Daphne would’ve thought her screen had frozen, but in person she found the reaction, or complete lack of one, infinitely more disconcerting.

“Gillian, I cuddle people. I’m opening a snuggery.”

“Okay,” Gillian said with unnerving calm.

“Okay?”

“I’m listening.”

Daphne stared at her. “Listening to what?”

“You.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t exactly known what to expect, but in her lived experience, people she told about professional cuddling generally fell into two main categories, the curious kind or the scoff/laugh kind. She probably would’ve pegged Gillian as the latter, and she would’ve been wrong, but neither did she seem to be the former. Standing there, eyes focused, the line of her lips completely even, she gave zero feedback, verbal or otherwise. With nothing to push back or pull forward, Daphne floundered.

“I’ve been doing the work for a couple years near Syracuse, but family circumstances changed, and a move seemed right. My best friend found this office for me. I didn’t know anything about it, or you, when he signed the lease, but I’m here now.”

“You are.” Gillian nodded slowly.

“I’m already building my client base on referrals. I plan to open next week on a limited basis and grow from there, which is why I had to get the bed in … thank you for your help. Hard to snuggle people standing up, though it can be done.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Seriously?” Daphne’s annoyance piqued at another nonanswer.

“What?”

“I’ve never known you to take the placid track in any conversation. Are you seriously not going to comment on anything I’ve just told you?”