I hope someday, somebody wants to hold you for twenty minutes straight
They don't pull away, they don't look at your face
And they don't try to kiss you
All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight without an ounce of selfishness in it
"You Matter to Me", Waitress
From the moment Nathaniel wrote Bunch & Plimpton & Associates on a legal pad, drunk on whiskey, a twinkle of an idea taking shape, he imagined what it would be like to run his own firm. He imagined what the office would look like, who they would hire, who their first clients would be. He imagined their first day opening the doors, smiles on their faces, nothing but a blank slate and endless opportunities ahead.
But on this day, one week before Bunch & Plimpton & Associates is supposed to open, he's entering a hotel lobby in Santa Fe instead. Neither of them are smiling and the office back in West Covina is locked up until further notice.
A few days prior, Silas Bunch passed away unexpectedly. He had a cardiac event in his sleep and slipped away. Poof. Like that. There was no time to process, no time to say goodbye, no time to prepare in any way. In an instant, his two other children, Rebecca's half-siblings, were fatherless and Rebecca still had no idea where she fit into the picture. She hasn't shed one tear in Nathaniel's presence since it happened; she hasn't had much of a reaction at all. She's pretending the loss of her father is completely inconsequential to her life, merely a blip – an inconvenience, really – in the grand scheme of her life.
Dr. Akopian insisted she go to the funeral for closure and so, after much back-and-forth and dogged insistence from Nathaniel to just listen to her therapist, they decided to fly out to Santa Fe together. At the very least, she could show support and solidarity for Silas's other children. Even Naomi planned to attend.
Bunch & Plimpton & Associates would have to wait.
Paula keeps checking in with Nathaniel to ask how Rebecca really is. The truth is that for the entire trip thus far – the drive to the airport, the flight, the car ride to the hotel – Rebecca has shown no signs of any emotion whatsoever about it, which is far more concerning than any other possible reaction. If there's one thing he knows – that anyone knows – about Rebecca is that she feels everything deeply, both highs and lows. Yet, she's been cracking jokes throughout their travels as if it were any other weekend getaway. He's been struggling with how to react to her reaction. Is he supposed to follow her lead and act like nothing happened, or should he challenge her air of nonchalance?
As they find their hotel room, each dragging a carry-on-size rolling suitcase behind them, Nathaniel resolves to help her relax. Tomorrow, the day of the funeral, will be a test of emotional endurance – a Catholic mass followed by a burial followed by a luncheon for the family and close friends. It's an all-day affair, a pressure test of emotions and awkward social encounters. He can't imagine she can maintain this aloof facade through all of it. All he can do is try to support her whenever that dam does break.
Money's been tight in these final days before opening the firm, so he doesn't spring for a fancy hotel, but the place he chose is still nice and has standard amenities. Though the decor may be a little kitschy for his tastes, Darryl would probably love the heavy Southwestern theme that seems to permeate all the hotels in this geographic area.
As Nathaniel unpacks his suitcase and hangs up his suit in the closet, Rebecca locks herself in the bathroom for a period of time that is much longer than usual. There's no toilet flush or bathtub faucet sounds – only the shuffling of her feet and rustling of clothes. After several minutes, he starts to wonder if she's finally letting herself feel something about her father's death. He's unsure whether he should leave her alone, letting her grieve in peace, or offer his support. His hand poised to knock, he hovers outside the bathroom door for several seconds.
He clears his throat. "Hey," he says gently, "are you OK? I know this isn't the Four Seasons, but if you want to get a massage or something, there's a spa here. Might be relaxing."
"Just give me a minute," Rebecca says from inside the bathroom, her voice not wavering the way it might if she had been crying.
Confused, he retreats away from the bathroom door and sits down on the bed to wait for her.
When the door flies open and Rebecca strides out, his jaw immediately hits the floor.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she says, hiking up her leg on a nearby armchair with a bold Southwestern print. She's in a full French maid uniform, the kind you might find at a tacky, pop-up Halloween store: a impossibly short black teddy trimmed with ruffled white lace and thigh-high black stockings. In her hand, she holds a feather duster with light gray feathers.
"Appelle-moi Éponine," she purrs.
Of course. How many times had she belted out On My Own in the shower as part of her regular rotation of showstoppers?
She gets on her hands and knees in front of him, her cleavage threatening to spill out of her scrap of a dress. "Do you want me to clean the room for you?" she asks in a theatrical French accent.
A million questions whir through his head as he tries not to get distracted by the admittedly tantalizing display in front of him. For one, when did she get this costume? Did she buy it specifically for this trip or is it something she's always had lying around the house? How could she be thinking about sexual roleplay when her own father's funeral is in less than twenty-four hours?
"Uh, Rebecca –"
"Éponine," she insists.
He's genuinely torn. The last thing he wants is to embarrass her by refusing to participate. It wasn't long ago he spent money and time and preparation into his own costume only to be rejected before it even began. Of course, he was squarely in the wrong, but the humiliation he felt over the whole incident stuck with him. Venturing into new sexual territory requires a great deal of vulnerability and he doesn't want to reject her.
"This room is pretty clean already," he says, feigning interest in her imagined scenario. "Don't you want the night off? To rest? You probably have a busy schedule tomorrow."
She refuses to acknowledge the subtext. "I'll sleep when I'm dead," she says, laying the French accent on thick. "For now, I want you to tell me how I can serve you."
She trails her fingers up his legs and it tickles, making him flinch. She smirks at the movement and transforms her hands into tiny claws, scratching her nails the rest of the way up his thighs.
"Polish your wood?" she asks suggestively, arching an eyebrow. "I'm very good at that, monsieur."
Rebecca rests her cheek on his thigh and looks up at him with a sly smile, her mouth inches away from a very delicate place. Through determination and sheer will, he tries not to be affected by her.
He clears his throat. "I – I know you are, but I don't think this is a good idea."
She pouts her red-stained lips. "What is it? You have a wife? Épouse? Petite amie?"
"Um, no, but –"
Before he can generate enough blood to supply both his brain and his dick simultaneously – which has been a serious problem from the moment she walked out of the bathroom – she crawls into his lap. She straddles him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, the feather duster tickling the back of his neck. This is a losing battle.
She kisses and nips her way up his jawline, shifting in his lap so her hips are flush with his. When she reaches just below his ear, his hands reflexively find their way up her thighs, under her skirt.
She whispers, "J'ai passé toute la journée à penser à te baiser, mon serpent coquin."
He has no idea what she's saying, but it's sexy as hell. By request, he's spoken Spanish in bed before, and now he finally understands why she loves it. The little hairs on the back of his neck prickle and he shivers. His hips buck a little into the warmth between her thighs and she laughs, husky and dark, into his ear.
His mind whirs as he tries to rationalize his participation in this little game. Thus far she's acted like she's fine. Shockingly fine, actually. Maybe rather than deal with the heaviness of her emotions, she wants a distraction. There's no harm in that, right? He can make love to her, make her feel special, supported, and loved. A sexual release can be cathartic too. At least for now. He can do that.
Still in a French accent, Rebecca whispers into his ear, "I want you to fuck me so hard I can't walk tomorrow."
Or that. He can do that.
He pitches backward, bringing Rebecca down with him, then rolls her over so he's on top of her. He kisses her, pressing her into the mattress and she moans into his mouth, arching up against him.
He tries to be gentle, go slowly, but Rebecca is ravenous and meets his kisses with fervent hunger. When she won't let up, he pulls away and lovingly runs his fingers through her hair.
Remembering why he's doing this – or rather, why he's telling himself he's doing this – he kisses her cheek and says softly, "I love you, you know."
"Love me?! You don't even know me!"
He sighs, disappointed. She's distancing herself from him. And from herself.
"What do you want tonight?" he whispers, his tone still gentle, trying to appeal to the Rebecca he knows is just behind this mask of indifference.
"I want you to hold me down and fuck me like a man," she demands. "Prends-moi. Baise moi mort."
While his body is responding with its enthusiastic consent, he's really not in the mood for this particular brand of sexual activity. The funeral is looming in the back of his mind, and, as it turns out, it's a pretty significant mental boner killer. He doesn't mind playing with control in bed, but, more often than not, Rebecca is in the driver's seat. Sometimes she asks him to take over like this – to dominate her, ravage her. There are times when she doesn't want to think, only to feel.
Wanting more than anything to give her what she wants, he tries to play along. He gathers her wrists in his left hand and raises her arms above her head, pinning her in place. The effect is immediate. Her eyelashes flutter and her breathing quickens with excitement. He's on the right track.
He ducks his head to kiss her again and she whispers against his lips, still fully in character, "Tell me I'm bad. Tell me I'm a bad girl."
He trails his free hand from her neck over her breasts down to her thigh, hiking it up high around his hips. She gasps at the new friction it creates. He rasps, "You're such a bad girl."
Her hips arch off the bed, searching for more contact. Despite the metaphoric wrestling match taking place in his head, he's hard and he grinds against her clit. Maybe he can do this after all.
"Fuck," she breathes, "keep talking."
Put on the spot, he says the first thing that pops into his head. "You're so sexy," he whispers, nuzzling her neck with his nose. "I want you. I always want you."
A sound like a whine passes her lips. But it's not a sound of pleasure at his words; it's frustration.
"No," she says, her accent starting to falter. "Just – just talk dirty to me. Really dirty."
Sex is not usually an area where they struggle to communicate. At this point in their relationship he's developed a sixth sense for what she wants. Her body language has become second nature to him. But it's abundantly clear there's something lost in translation between them.
He tries.
Grazing his nose behind her ear, he whispers, "I'm going to punish you, bad girl" He gently takes the delicate skin of her neck between his teeth.
She hums and squirms beneath him, a bit more pleased. Still, he senses her lingering frustration. Still in character, she says, "Tell me . . . I'm a slut."
That's a new one.
He's stunned speechless at the request. This is not a road they've travelled down before. In fact, in the past she's insisted that all dirty talk be respectful, never demeaning or infantilizing. Where is this coming from all of a sudden? He releases her wrists and props himself on his forearms, searching her face to try to understand what's happening.
Not letting the moment linger, she slips her hand between his legs and starts stroking his erection through the stiff material of his jeans. His eyes slip shut for a moment as he concentrates on not letting his horniness completely cloud his judgment. He doesn't want to say the words; it doesn't feel right.
Hoping she won't notice his pivot in another direction, he musters enough bravado to growl, "I want you to come so hard you scream my name."
Thankfully she doesn't point out that in this imaginary scenario he hasn't told her his name.
As if she hasn't heard him at all, she demands, "Choke me." Her eyes darken and she tips her head back slightly, exposing her throat.
The request isn't wholly unusual. She enjoys the occasional dalliance using a certain red candy as rope. But the way she says it – not flirtatious or teasing – is troubling. Sex between them is light-hearted more often than not. The whole concept is weird and funny if you think about it, she says. This doesn't feel anything like their usual trysts. It feels serious. Dangerous somehow.
To divert her attention, he removes her hand from between their legs and replaces it with his own, pressing his thumb to her clit and rubbing.
"Do it," she commands, her accent less prominent but still faintly there. "I want you to choke me."
His erection is subsiding. A sinking feeling settles in his stomach.
He obeys her, but with hesitation. His touch is gentle, light. It's the way she likes it, anyway. It gives the illusion of danger without any real threat.
She exhales and closes her eyes. Hiding.
"Harder," she says.
He doesn't want to do it harder.
"Come on," she goads. "Hurt me." Her accent has disappeared.
This is wrong, all wrong.
"Stop," he says. He slackens the hand around her throat. "I want to stop."
Choked but still insistent, in Rebecca's own voice, she says. "Tell me I'm nothing." Her lip quivers.
He takes his hand away from her throat.
"Tell me I'm worthless," she whispers. A tear slips out of her eye and slides down her temple.
"Alohomora," he says softly, invoking their safe word for the first time. Ever.
The safe word was created as a joke the first time they fooled around with handcuffs. Nothing they did ever warranted its use. Hearing himself say the word aloud in all seriousness is jarring. It's not funny anymore.
Though Rebecca is blinking back tears, she still seems surprised nonetheless. She huffs, defiant. "What?! Why?"
She's baiting him, forcing him to verbalize his discomfort.
Nathaniel pushes himself off of her and stands, putting space between them. "What is going on with you?!" The words explode out of him, a little louder than he intended.
Defensive, she crosses her arms and says, "What, you can't handle the tiniest bit of kink?"
"That wasn't . . . it felt wrong."
She makes a show of rolling her eyes at him. Tracing the edge of her lacy skirt with her fingertips she mutters, "You're never any fun. I try to spice things up for you, keep the spark alive, and you don't appreciate me at all. Any other man would be worshipping me."
"None of these little roleplay scenarios you've concocted over the past few months have ever been about me and what I want," he fires back.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Until this moment he didn't realize how upset he was about these incidents, but he is. He's angry. Even though he wants to remain calm and rational the day before her father's funeral, her snide comments push a button he didn't know he had.
"What part of this has ever been fun for me? You think I enjoy watching you flirt with another guy at a bar? Or being handcuffed to a chair, not able to touch you on my birthday? Or being asked to fucking hurt you? Which of those activities sound like things I enjoy? What part of those encounters sound fun to you?"
Rebecca flinches like he's slapped her in the face. That's what she wanted all along, isn't it? For him to hurt her. And even though he would never, ever engage physically, he's gone ahead and hurt her with his words.
Hoping to ameliorate what he's said, he continues, "Sorry. I know you're going through something right now with your dad. And I know things haven't been easy the past couple of months. You quit your job and we're opening the business and now this. It's been stressful."
Rebecca stares down at the stiff bedspread, her eyes glazing over.
He sits back down on the bed and covers her hand with his own. "Don't hide yourself behind these fake people you want to be or think I want. What I want is you. That's all. I want Rebecca."
Suddenly, Rebecca covers her mouth with her hand and heaves. She finally lets it all go, sobbing openly into her hands.
Despite her outward appearance these past few days, he should have known that she would be emotionally fragile. Behind her facade of aloofness, she was hurting. How long was she on this precipice, one push away from plunging over the edge?
No matter how long her father was absent, no matter what hurt he caused, his death still rocked her. Maybe even worse than if they had had a loving relationship.
He wraps his arm around her and she collapses against him.
"I've been trying to convince myself that I don't care," she says through her tears, burying her nose in the crook of his neck. "That he means nothing to me. Because if his death hurts me, then I'm allowing him to keep hurting me. It means he still has the power to hurt me, even now. Even after everything."
She sniffles and balls her fist against his shirt. A wave of protectiveness washes over him, seeing her so small and vulnerable, and he tugs her close and kisses the top of her head.
He understands what she's feeling more than she probably realizes. He's had similar thoughts about his own father. No longer a small child to be picked on, he knows his father shouldn't have that stronghold on his emotions anymore. Yet, he continues to be affected by his words and actions. His father continues to be that looming presence, even after taking steps to distance himself and cut ties both professionally and personally.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I raised my voice," he whispers into her hair.
"You're right, though," she says, lifting her head from his chest. "When I'm having a hard time processing something, I try to disappear in another person. You're right. I never thought about what you wanted. I'm selfish."
While he appreciates the acknowledgement, he worries she's veering too far in the other direction, spiraling into shame. He grabs a tissue from the nightstand and offers it to her and she blows her nose into it.
"I'm struggling," she admits. "Not just with this. The firm. I feel like I need to be strong for you. This is your dream and I don't want to ruin it. All the work we've done . . ."
"Don't worry about that now."
"How can I not?! We're supposed to open in a week and look at me. I'm a mess."
She's right. Grief has no timeline; it cannot be rushed. When they open the doors of Bunch & Plimpton & Associates, he wants her to be excited about it. He doesn't want her to dread it.
"I don't think we should open," he says. "Let's postpone."
"No," she says reflexively, wiping her eyes as if it can erase his doubts. "No, we can't."
"Why can't we?"
"We've been planning this, working nonstop for this. I can't – I don't want to do that to you."
"You're not." He gently tugs her back to his chest and rubs her arm. "Let's put the firm on hold for now. Focus on tomorrow. Whatever happens after that, we'll figure it out then."
Before Rebecca wakes the next day, Nathaniel sneaks out of the room into the hallway. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and still in his t-shirt and lounge pants, he dials Paula's number.
"We need to push back the opening of the firm. Rebecca will need more time."
Paula is silent for a long time. Surprisingly, she doesn't question him. He hears her sigh on the other end of the line, but it's not out of frustration. It's more of a knowing sigh, a sigh that she expected this all along.
Paula finally says, with all the confidence he's come to know her for, "If she needs to take some time, we can do it on our own. Get the place up and running, and she can join when she's ready."
He considers this only for a moment, but knows in his heart he can't.
"I'm only half the team," he says.
He ends the call and slips back into the room where Rebecca's still sleeping soundly. Soon he'll need to wake her for the funeral. Her face is peaceful, serene in sleep, cuddling a pillow in her arms. It was not that long ago that she held him in her arms all night as he wrestled with his fraught emotions about his own father. It meant the world to him – how she held him for hours, wanting nothing in return. Last night he was finally able to return the favor.
He'll let her sleep five more minutes.