The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky

Shannon sighs. “I know you want to do all of it on your own, but it’s really not that bad with the therapist. It’s kind of like a half-hour Pap smear.”

“That’s what hell is,” Butter says, pointing her glitter brush at Shannon. “Hell is an infinite Pap smear. That’s not how you talk someone into going to physical therapy, girl.”

“I’m with Butter.” I shudder. “And I can handle it on my own. But I’ll keep the endless Pap smear on the back burner.”

Shannon glares at us both, but I turn back to the desk and resume working on my ravens.

“It’s okay to ask for help, you know,” she mutters into her mug of coffee.

“I do,” I say, narrowing my eyes at the majestic candy bird resting on my notebook. “I’m asking the universe to help this raven not take seventeen minutes to make, but still look this awesome.”

11

I’m still wearing my pants, and my ass isn’t stuck to tissue paper, but there’s a backless gown on a tray a few feet away that’s not instilling hope in me.

The physical therapy pavilion is nothing like what I expected. It’s the size of a gymnasium, but with carpeted floors and equipment everywhere. When I walked in, I saw the whole gamut of those in need. A little old lady pulling what looked like giant rubber bands away from the wall. A small child with braces on his knees walking between parallel bars. A businessman doing awkward-looking stretches on a table.

Earlier, in the waiting room, I couldn’t help but wonder how many women there were waiting for special therapy.

Now, I’m wondering if there’s a comparable therapy for men.

If so, I imagine it would involve...lifting, somehow.

This line of thinking is making me question my own sanity in a big way.

I’m in one of the private rooms off to the side, as I’m assuming vagina therapy isn’t something they’d want to parade in front of the elderly and small children.

On the other hand, as the owner of a broken vagina, I’m not sure how comfortable I am with there being only a cloth curtain serving as a door to this little room.

Perhaps something with a dead bolt would be better suited.

The curtain whisks back, and a man appears. “Hi, Miss Carmichael,” he says with a smile. All I can think about is how mortified I would have been if I’d had my feet up in the stirrups, on display for everyone to see. He didn’t even knock!

“I’m David, and I’ll be getting you started here.”

“Are you the intake guy?”

He sits on a rolling stool a few feet away. I see the therapy table over there, but I’m not budging from this chair. “No, I’m your PT. Now, let’s look at your chart.”

I blink at him for a moment. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re the vagina therapist?”

His eyes dart up to me, and he squirms on his stool a little. “Well, I mean, I’m a physical therapist, and that’s one of the types of therapy I do, yes. Although if you’d be more comfortable with a female therapist, we can absolutely reassign you.”

I shrug. “It’s not that. I was just wondering what would make a guy want to grow up and be a vagina therapist.” Some frightening mental imagery hits me and I mutter, “Actually, never mind. I have an idea of the appeal.”

He lets out an affronted laugh. “Like I said, I’m a physical therapist. This is only part of what I do. It’s something I was trained in, just like I was trained in all sorts of other therapies.”

I suddenly realize exactly how rude I’m being and feel a flush of embarrassment. I’ve got to get my nerves under control or someone is definitely going to slap me.

He adds, “One of our other therapists, Constance, is a woman, but she’s our reigning champ of groin injuries, so it’s not really about the equipment.”

There it is. Penis therapy. I’m tempted to hunt Constance down and inquire about the specifics.

Sighing, I offer, “I’m sorry. That was horribly impolite. I’m feeling a bit twitchy about all of this.”

“Understandable,” he says kindly. “Give me just a minute to get caught up on your chart, and we can get started.”

I tap my toes to the beat of some unidentifiable pop song I heard on the bus ride over, and he reads silently. He seems like a nice enough guy. A bit dude-bro, to be honest. The sleeves of his oxford are rolled up, his tie is too loose and he’s wearing cargo pants. He’s buff enough for me to assume that he spends his time between patients using all the equipment in the pit to get in extra workouts.

“So,” he says when he finishes reading, “this has been going on for about two years? Can you tell me a little bit about what was happening in your life then?”

I frown at him. “Why?”

“Because,” he explains slowly, “if I know what might have triggered the disorder, it can help me customize your treatment.”

My face forms into an awkward smile. “Uh, well. I was going through a really busy time, starting up a business, and so, well, you know, it’d been a while for my boyfriend and me, intimacy-wise, and when we tried, it didn’t work. A few weeks later I went to the doc, she said vaginismus, and here we are.”

He starts writing notes in my file and casually asks, “What’s your business?”

“Oh, um, it’s a bakery? A cupcake shop. Cup My Cakes.”

His eyes light up. “Is that the shop Shannon Brimley owns?”

“Yes!” I reply, excited to be talking about something that isn’t my vagina. “We started it together. She’s my best friend.” A horrid thought pops into my head. “Wait. Are you...were you her vagina therapist, too? Because I know she went to one when she had vaginismus. And I’m sorry, while she and I are the best of pals and share everything, I don’t think I can share vagina therapists with her.”

David makes a little popping noise as his mouth falls slightly open. “No. No, I wasn’t her therapist. Our kids go to the same school. She always brings awesome snacks for the PTA meetings. And you guys have really good cupcakes.”

I slap my hand over my mouth. “Jesus. So I just outed my friend for having broken junk to the PTA?”

His eyes go wide as he focuses on my file again. “It’s totally fine. So, after your diagnosis—”

“Her vagina isn’t broken anymore!” I insist. “That was like, seven years ago. As far as I know, her bits are in tip-top shape now.”

He doesn’t look up from the folder, but takes a deep breath. “I’m very glad to hear that.” Closing his eyes, he repeats, “After your diagnosis, what kinds of treatments did you try?”

Shannon is going to flat-out kill me dead. “Uh, well, nothing, really. Dr. Snow gave me some pamphlets and stuff I could try by myself and with my boyfriend, but things didn’t go particularly well, and I never got around to the rest of the therapies.”

Now he looks up. “Never got around to them?”

My brain is preoccupied with images of Shannon shoving my head into a preheated oven. “Yeah, you know. Things were super stressful with the shop, and our relationship was already a bit strained. Plus it was all so...awkward. Ryan offered to help at first, do the exercises and whatnot, but it all felt too bizarre to him, I guess.” My foot starts involuntarily tapping the pop song again as I push images of Shannon with a chef’s knife out of my head. “I feel really bad, though. You know, this kind of thing can be really hard on a relationship. Especially one that’s not going great to begin with.”

My stomach fills with the heavy sense of guilt, mixed with a hint of vulnerability, and resentment I don’t understand. “I even told Ryan he could sleep with other people until the problem sorted itself out, but I don’t know if he is. I mean, I know he’s got a date, but maybe they won’t actually sleep together. That could happen, right?”

David looks rather stunned. “This is...this is not really the kind of information I need to design a treatment plan for you.”

Feeling exposed, and wondering why in the good goddamn I just shared all that with him in the first place, I indignantly say, “But you’re a therapist!”

“I’m not that kind of therapist.”

This is going really well.

I clench my hands into fists and release them a few times. “Look, I’m sorry. This is all very uncomfortable for me.”

He sighs. “Why don’t we get the exam out of the way now? I can let you get changed and be back in a minute—”

“I knew it!” I yelp, pointing at the gown on the tray. “Can I not keep my pants on for one doctor’s visit!?”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“Oh, who asked you?” I snap. I’ve lost any grip on social constructs, and I know I’m being an ass-wagon, but I can’t reel the humiliation in enough to stop. Every horrible thing that flies from my mouth just fuels the panic. “Look, I did the exam with Dr. Snow. I’m sure she wrote notes. I’m not doing another one.”

He drops his head back and lets out an exasperated sigh. “I need to assess the severity of your condition so I can give you a proper treatment plan.”

“Well, you can assess it with my pants on.” I sit up straight. There is nothing I want more in the world than to flee from this room immediately. “And it’s vaginismus. It’s like blinking involuntarily when something gets too close to your eye.”

He gives up and sets the file down on the little table by the curtain. “I... I know what the disorder is, Miss Carmichael.” He leans forward and puts his fingers on his temples. “Okay, how about this? Let’s go over equipment and we can discuss techniques. I’ll try to do a generalized plan that you can alter to fit your needs, okay?”

I cross my legs at the knees and exhale with a haughty sound. I don’t think I’ve ever made a haughty noise in my life. What the hell is wrong with me?

“That would be fine,” I say.

My brain is now flashing with images of Shannon and David taking turns chasing me with brûlée torches.

He shakes his head ever so slightly and walks over to the tray. Carefully removing the backless gown and setting it on the exam table, he wheels the tray over near me.

If I were to walk into a dungeon made explicitly for torture, I can say with absolute certainty that this tray would be in there.

It looks like a larger, more horrifying version of what sits next to you at the dentist’s office. Everything is sitting on a large piece of blue gauze lined with plastic. Dilators of varying sizes, clinical-looking bottles of lubricant, and very scary silver devices.

There’s not a sparkling purple item in the lot, and it all smells of chemical disinfectants.

My legs pop up of their own accord, and I bump into the tray as I stand. A dilator goes flying and lands with a loud metallic crash.

“I’m sorry,” I say, smoothing down my shirt, silently begging my heart to stop trying to beat out of my chest. “Cramp in my leg. Sorry.”

David bends down to get the fallen implement, and looks like he’s definitely had enough of me. “It’s fine. Now, this is what you’ll need to buy for your own use, or we can loan things out as needed.”

“Nope!” I trill. “I’m good. Got it all. Totally set. In fact, I think we’re good here.”

“But we haven’t discussed a treatment plan!”

I grab my purse off the back of my chair. “And see, I think you were so efficient, I’ve got a handle on things from here. I’ll check in again if there are any problems. Thank you so much for your time.”

Before he can say anything else, I scuttle past him and yank the curtain open. I’m stopped dead in my desperate retreat by a sight I am almost certain I’m hallucinating.

Walking through the therapy pavilion, not ten feet away, is Ben freaking Cleary.

I fight several instincts at once. To dive back behind the curtain. To drop to the floor and army-crawl my way out of here. To run like the coward I am.

“Kat?” he calls. Too late. I’ve been spotted.

“Oh, hey!” I say, managing to keep the shrillness out of my voice far better than I expected. “How’s it going?”

Ben smiles, seeming a little confused, and walks over, a boy of maybe fourteen in tow. “What are you doing here?”

“What?” I ask, trying to think of an appropriate excuse. I notice his tie has tiny Spider-Mans slinging webs all over it. “I was just in the area.” I grab my phone and pretend to read something terribly important. “And actually, I’m running late, so I’ll see you later!”

He looks more confused than ever. “In the area... Wait... Were you looking for me?”

I lower my phone and stare at him. “Why would I be looking for you here?”

Speaking very slowly, he says, “Because I work here.”

My eyes go from Ben to the teen, who is now looking at his own phone, clearly bored as hell. I flash back to our date and rewind to the conversation we had about jobs. We talked about my job, but we got distracted by Ben’s Hail Mary before I could ask about his job. And though he’s been coming into the shop for months to get cupcakes for his coworkers, it never occurred to me to ask him what he and those coworkers do.

Oh my god. David mentioned our cupcakes. What if Ben is the one who brings him those cakes?

“You’re...” I try to swallow, but there’s no moisture in my throat. “You’re a physical therapist?”

The curtain whooshes open farther behind me, and David appears. “Miss Carmichael, you should take these notes with you. They give you some treatment options and some guides to different resources you can find online to assist with the process. Of course, if you need anything, you can give us a call. I, or maybe one of the other therapists, will help however you’ll let us.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.