“I know. It’s the fault of society, that ambition in women is punished, that more is expected of them in order to prove themselves ‘worthy.’ I didn’t want that for her. I didn’t want her to be punished for trying to make our marriage work.”
I couldn’t bring myself to ask him if it still troubled him, so instead I asked, “Do you think you two will find your way back to each other?” My heart hurt and I fought the desire to touch him, lay a comforting hand on his arm. Though he looked and sounded completely at peace with the situation.
He smiled, but his sunglasses hid his eyes so I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not. “I don’t think so. She remarried within the year after our divorce. He’s a great guy.”
I almost choked on my shock. “What does he do?”
“He used to be a barista at Starbucks, to pay the bills. But he’s an artist. A painter, extremely talented. Now he paints full-time. He also makes a great cup of coffee.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Oh yes. I stay at their house when I go back to the Valley.”
“The Valley?”
“Silicon Valley.”
“Oh.” I was so confused, which likely explained why I had the audacity to ask, “Is that what you want? To find someone, too? To get married again?”
Matt made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Hell. No.” He sounded alarmingly bitter, similar to how he’d sounded when debating with Fiona whether robots could replace parents. The bitterness was completely at odds with the brainy and peculiar Dr. Matthew Simmons he’d been back at his office, or the excessively reasonable guy who’d just discussed the dissolution of his marriage as though it were nothing more than a failed experiment.
Actually, I suspected he would be more passionate about a failed experiment.
Yes, I’d seen him angry—when I’d coerced him into sharing his research—but this bitterness was something altogether different. It sounded almost hostile.
I hadn’t decided whether or not to ask for further details when he volunteered, “Marriage—forcing vows of eternity upon a person who won’t be able to fulfill them—doesn’t work for me. Read that book, don’t need to read it again. Some people are worthy of a lifelong commitment, others are not. In my experience since the divorce, women will always demand I work less, which is problematic as that is where my real interests lie. Some get to have that, to find fulfillment with other people, with their families, spouses, children, and that’s fine. Good for them. But some people, like me, have their work, and that’s enough.”
I snapped my mouth shut, trying to school my expression and bite my tongue. His explanation was less acrimonious than the Hell. No. yet still colored with a similar shade of harsh obstinacy. I wondered if Matt Simmons was pretending he was over his ex-wife. Was that all it was? Pretending?
Maybe he was a great pretender. Because why else would he, personally, be so against romantic relationships?
“We’re here.” Matt pulled the door open for me, motioning for me to precede him.
“Thank you,” I said numbly, still working through the surprising new details he’d just volunteered. In a distracted daze, I strolled to the counter, reminding myself to take note of our surroundings.
The space resembled the front room to a day spa. An assortment of cosmetics lined the walls. Massage oils. A basket of what looked like fur gloves sat next to another basket of silk scarves on a shelf with a handful of other textured and sensory products.
“May I help you?” The receptionist glanced in our direction.
“Yes. I have an appointment with Jared.”
“Marie?” she asked, her eyes moving between her computer screen and me.
“Yes. That’s me.”
She read something on her screen, her eyes jumping to mine. “You’re the reporter?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have any walk-in availability?” Matt asked, coming to lean on the counter next to me.
The receptionist moved her eyes to his and they widened subtly with blatant appreciation. She reached for her braid over her shoulder and began playing with it. “Do you need a cuddler?”
“I think I must,” he answered with over-exaggerated sincerity.
She giggled.
I fought not to roll my eyes.
“Well, let’s see.” Her tone was a tad breathy. “Giselle should be finishing up soon, and she’s free until four.”
“Giselle.” Matt said the name like he was tasting it, deciding if he liked it or not.
“She’s great,” the hostess said. “Only the best for you.”
Matt peered at her as though he distrusted her judgment. “Okay. Sure. Giselle it is.”
“Let me go grab Jared,” she said to me as she stood. Then to Matt, “When Giselle’s finished, I’ll let her know you’re here.”
The hostess left to fetch my cuddle buddy just as a man and a woman came down the hall toward the waiting area. The woman was mid-twenties, maybe even younger, dressed in yoga pants and a tank top. The man, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, appeared to be in his sixties, his hair in earliest stages of salt and pepper.
They were smiling, but their smiles were muted, and hers was laced with compassion.
“What do you think the age difference is there?” Matt lifted his chin toward the couple slowly walking toward the waiting room.
I glanced at Matt, who was frowning like he disapproved.
“Why does it matter?” I asked.
“Because he’s putting his paws all over someone who could be his daughter.”
I gave my head a subtle shake. “First of all, professional cuddling is platonic. Meant to provide comfort.”
Matt blinked, catching himself mid-eye-roll, but mumbled, “Give me a break.”
“And secondly, you don’t know what’s going on. Don’t judge a situation you don’t know anything about.”
He pressed his lips together, narrowing his eyes on me, but said nothing.
Noting his surly expression, I turned, hoping to intercept the man before he left, noting that the cuddler had already disappeared back down the hall.
“Excuse me, sir.” Stepping forward, I extended my hand. “I’m a journalist, writing a story about unconventional touch therapy. I was hoping you’d be willing to answer a few questions. It should only take five minutes.”
In all honesty, I had no idea how long my questions would take. But people were more likely to give you their time if you gave them a quote.
The man hesitated, glancing at me, my hand, and then at Matt at my side. Pulling his jacket on, he slowly accepted my hand for a shake, still looking skeptical.
“I don’t mind, I guess. I just don’t want to share my name.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed immediately. “It would be completely anonymous. And no pictures either.”
“Okay. Fine.” His gaze intensified. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything you’re willing to share about your experience with professional cuddling. But we can start with your impetus for seeking it out. Do you mind telling me why you decided to use a professional cuddler?”