Chapter 5: Happy, Joyous, Free

Prologue: His New Addiction
Chapter 1: Money Well Spent
Chapter 2: Close Enough
Chapter 3: The Next Right Thing
Chapter 4: A Way Out

After a month of silence, John’s phone dinged.

A text from Jasmine: See you tonight.

He had convinced himself she wouldn’t come back. That she had only been a nice girl taking pity on an awkward, creepy, sad man.

The hospital conference room looked the same as every Saturday. AA slogans in gothic black-and-red type were taped crookedly to the walls.

First things first.

Easy does it.

Live and let live.

Let go and let God.

He had been to meetings from Florida to California. The same slogans hung on the walls everywhere.

A restaurant-industry relic of a coffee maker gurgled out bitter coffee—warm, not hot. People orbiting the table added powdered creamer and sugar. They had run out of the pink packets of off-brand Sweet’N Low last week.

Marvin sat next to him.

“You nervous, brother?”

“No. I’ve done this enough.”

This was a lie.

He had given a handful of leads, each one a little easier than the last. His story—what it was like, what happened, what it was like now—had become rote. An extended elevator pitch.

But tonight he was nervous. He just wanted to know if Jasmine would really  be there.

People settled into their chairs. He looked around the room, face to face, but didn’t see her.

It’s for the best. I didn’t really think she would come.

Marvin gave a brief introduction, and the audience laughed at his description of John at his first meeting—how John had stuttered and mumbled so badly Marvin thought he wasn’t speaking English.

As John settled at the podium, he saw her.

She was different. Hair, face, clothes—everything about her commanded his attention. All black. Not tight or form-fitting, but tailored.

John cleared his throat and began his lead.

“Hello. My name’s John, and I’m an alcoholic. But I wasn’t always like that. I was a quiet kid, a mama’s boy, a Boy Scout…”

This part of his story flowed freely and easily. He sprinkled in the same jokes as the last time. It wasn’t until the end that he really had to think.

So he watched Jasmine take in his story—smiling at the jokes, softening at the serious parts, mirroring the rest of the room. Except her eyes kept darting to the right.

Instinctively he followed her gaze to a disheveled blond man a few chairs down.

A newcomer. Young. Maybe a week sober.

He kept sneaking looks at her. She glanced back.

John became aware that he had stopped talking and that several seconds of silence had passed.

Dammit, man. Get a grip. Don’t get distracted now.

He cleared his throat.

“I’ve vacationed at some of the finest places—Pendleton Penitentiary, Madison County Jail, Worthington Correctional Facility.”

John waited for the chuckle from the crowd.

“Ah, I see some of you have too. Pendleton had the best food—but my tenure in the canteen had nothing to do with it.”

Another laugh—but the eyeball tennis between Jasmine and the young man kept pulling him off track.

He white-knuckled the edge of the podium. He continued to the night of his last drink. “Why that night? I suppose it was divine intervention. Nothing different than any other night. I just got sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

He moved through the familiar beats—his first meeting, working the steps with Marvin, the slow grind of trying to live by the principles.

“The hardest thing for me has been surrendering my life and will over to a Power greater than myself. It would be so much easier if God spoke in a loud, clear, booming voice. But alas, it’s usually coincidences, windows of opportunity, and the people around me. Like my sponsor.”

Glancing at the clock—five more minutes—he locked eyes with Jasmine.

“You know the literature says God wants us to be happy, joyous, and free. I never had trouble believing God wanted that for me—for all of us. But it’s only recently that I’ve started to believe it might actually be possible. Ten years in, and I’m finally excited for tomorrow and the day after. I hope everyone here has a chance to get what I have, if they want it.”

As usual at the end of these things, a group formed around John to share their predictable reactions.

So relatable.

So inspiring.

Can you sponsor me?

Can I get your number?

John responded politely. Thanked them. Of course—here’s my number. Call me anytime.

He scribbled his number on receipts and scraps of paper, but his eyes remained on Jasmine, who stayed seated.

The blond man ran a thick, dirty hand through his hair and approached her. They talked back and forth. John couldn’t hear a word, but her face told him everything he needed to know.

This wasn’t good.

“Excuse me, man.” John pushed past another well-wisher and strode over.

He stopped beside the newcomer, who reeked of alcohol and four-day-old sweat laced with hormones and anxiety. A nostalgic smell from John’s worst days.

“You did so well!” Jasmine said, hugging him. Her hands trembled slightly on his shoulders, squeezing twice. “Have you been working out more?”

“Same amount. Just upped the protein.”

The other man shifted warily and backed away, slurring, “We’ll finish this later.” He wandered to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup.

“I didn’t think you’d really come,” John confessed.

“Of course I came.” She winked. “I just had some important things to do. Saw family. An old mentor. Worked on some things. Took a break from… distractions.”

Distractions? What distractions? Is she talking about me? She took a break from me.

As much as John appreciated the update, his eyes kept drifting to the looming figure now dumping too much sugar into a Styrofoam cup.

“Look, uh… Jazz. What’s up with that?” He tried to subtly motion toward the coffee area.

“Maybe,” she said, surveying the room, “maybe you could walk me to my car.”

“Yeah. Let me get my coat and say goodnight to Marvin.”

Outside, the night was dark and bitterly cold. Though it hadn’t snowed in two weeks, large mounds of snow—blackened by exhaust—sat scattered through the expansive parking lot.

Their footsteps sounded loud in the quiet, crunching bits of ice compacted into the asphalt.

“Jazz, you don’t have to tell me anything.”

“No. It’s okay.” She frowned, digging for her keys in a black handbag with a gold chain strap. “He was a prospective client. I only saw him the one time. But…” She trailed off. “He didn’t know how to play nice.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“I only saw him the once.”

That didn’t answer the question. What were Jasmine’s other clients like? All this time he had imagined them suave. Rich. Cool. Sex gods. Not like him.

What the fuck has she been enduring between weekly slumber parties with me?

“This is me, John.”

It was not her usual silver SUV. No, a small red sports car chirped cheerfully awake as she pressed the key fob in her hand. =

“Is this a different car?”

“Yes…” She seemed solemn, serious. “I’ve changed a lot of things. I’m going to be doing things very differently from now on.”

Oh no. She was quitting. Done with the lifestyle. Of course she was. Between men like that—and creeps like me—how could she not be?

He breathed in her orange perfume deeply as he hugged her—probably for the last time. He remembered when he bought it, the counter girl proudly saying it was made in France. Four hundred and fifty dollars, and he could hold that memory forever.

Then he heard Jasmine say, “Oh no.”

Behind him came the stumbling sound of heavy feet.

Turning and now face to face, yet again, with the drunk. The asshole. Some guy who had probably been one of many to hurt Jasmine. Probably right before she held John in his bed and had been so sweet to him.

The man approached with his hands raised in a mock peaceful gesture.

“Just wanna talk.”

Tripping over his own feet and falling into John, he knocked everyone against Jasmine’s car.

John grabbed the man and hauled him upright. Old instincts took hold. He hadn’t felt this in decades.

Using his body to shield Jasmine’s view, he pulled up his shirt just enough to reveal the 9mm Glock strapped to his belt.

His voice was steady. Scary.

“You don’t want to do this, man.”

With slow recognition, the man looked down, then back up at John’s face.

Then John heard a click behind his right ear.

A surprising but unmistakable sound he knew well.

The hammer of a revolver cocking.

The man scrambled away, shouting unintelligible words as he ran.

John turned.

Behind him, Jasmine stood in a balanced, firm stance, both hands wrapped around a gun of her own.

She slowly released the hammer and slipped it back into her purse.

All that followed was eerie silence, punctuated only by their heavy breathing. Plumes of breath hung in the frozen air between them. Two bodies, tense and alert.

“Occupational hazard,” Jasmine whispered, glancing down at John’s waist where the holster was still visible. “What’s your excuse?”

“Protection.” John shifted his thick flannel to conceal the belt.

“From what? What scares you, John?”

A hard breath, again, fogged the space between them.

“Fuck, Jasmine. I can’t have this. You know that?” He gestured toward his waist. “I’m a felon. Felons can’t have weapons. This is another felony,” His voice tightened. “This isn’t funny. You can’t joke about it. You can’t tell anyone….I was just protecting you.”

“Okay. Okay.” She patted his shoulder condescendingly. “Pinkie swear.”

She held out a pinkie.

He wrapped his around it.

“Ah, ah!” she chided. “You have to bite the thumb.”

She bit the thumb of her hand linked with his. He did the same.

“God… that was scary, Jazz. You use that thing?” He nodded toward the purse.

“Do you?” She nodded toward his belt.

One cop. One security guard in that parking lot, and he could have been arrested tonight. And she—she wasn’t the sweet, innocent girl he thought. She was packing. That stance was of a woman ready to kill a man. 

“You should go home, Jasmine. Be safe. He might come back.”

“What if he follows my car?” she whispered.

“Look… if you want, I’ll follow you. Make sure you get to the door safe. But that’s it. I need to go home myself. This is over.”

“It’s not far. I promise.”

She slipped into the car, and John climbed into his truck.

Wrong road, John. Turn around, man.

He had passed this complex thousands of times. The kind of place filled with single moms and college kids. Three levels of balconies stacked against the brick walls. A winding cement staircase leading to floors of tightly packed apartments.

An endless series of identical doors, distinguished only by a small square plaque.

Jasmine’s read 3H, on the top floor.

She paused as she slid the key into the doorknob.

“Do you want to come in?”

Maybe it was because he had always envisioned her in a glitzy, sleek, modern high-rise. Not this.

Or maybe it was because, just as his mother had always said, he was always going to choose the wrong option.

Or maybe, deep down inside, he was still just a criminal who hadn’t been caught in a while.

For some reason, he said yes and crossed the threshold into a decision he knew he could never return from.

A hot-pink sagging futon.

A small TV on a pressed-board table with peeling laminate.

A white bookshelf, stickers half torn away.

A bowl of oranges on a kitchen table propped up with cardboard.

This is the furniture of a woman who convinced you to buy twenty-five thousand dollars of furniture. What are you doing, man?

The woman in question slung her coat over a chair and slid her black pumps off her feet. She unbuttoned the single button on her blazer and smoothed the black skirt beneath it.

And the most noticeable—and bitter—absence: no marble.

No nude marble woman, tweaking a nipple between forefinger and thumb, the other three fingers splayed. No white roses blooming at her chiseled feet. No Aphrodite statue.

“I need to go,” John croaked in a sudden panic. “This… this is wrong. I’m sorry. This isn’t even real.”

Jasmine seemed cold and distant, turning an orange slowly in her hand.

“It’s as real as you want to make it, John. You’re the only person limiting it.”

“Look, I made sure you got home safe. I should go.”

“You think I’m safe because of you?”

She dropped the orange. In one swift motion she crowded him against the wall, a sharp red nail pressing into his chest.

“No. I’m a pissed off woman. I had my own gun—and a legal one, unlike you.”

Then she smacked his nose lightly, like he was a wayward puppy.

“For weeks, John, I’ve been contemplating what to do with you. Don’t you want to hear my plan?”

“I don’t know what this is, but, uh, I can’t do this. This is wrong. It isn’t right.” He pleaded while edging closer to the door.

“Do you want to have sex with me?”

He swallowed the tight lump in his throat.

“I don’t think I can. I can’t. No… I can’t.”

“I didn’t ask if you could. I asked if you wanted to.” She pressed wet lips to his ear. “Do you want to?”

“I think want and should are two different things.” John pushed her away.

“Damnit, John. I’m sick of your thinking. Your brain constantly wondering what’s right and wrong. You aren’t qualified to ponder. Your brain is too dumb.” She released him from the wall and opened the door. “Just do as I say. And if you want me to stop… just say stop. Then you’re free to go.”

Move, man. Feet, move. Why can’t I move? I need to leave. This is different. Wrong.

“Is this some sort of… session?” he asked. “I’m not paying you. Not for sex.”

“No. I’m done with hourly rates. But this is a sample.” She stepped closer. “Of what could be. This is what you get when I’ve had four weeks with no other clients. Four weeks thinking about only you.”

She tilted her head slightly, “Do you want to see what that’s like, John?”

Betraying every shred of conscience, every Boy Scout oath he had ever taken, he nodded.

“So that’s a yes?”

“Yes.”

With a fistful of his shirt, she grabbed him and pushed him toward her bedroom, forcing him down into a chair.

He could see nothing but her as she moved to the bed in front of him and lay down. Her slender pale hands slid up her skirt hem. John gasped.

She wasn’t wearing panties.

“John, for too long I’ve tried to figure out what turns you on. Lying in bed chaste like virgins with you. Wondering. What turns you on…”

She began to touch herself.

“Do you like to watch? Is that it?”

John’s body lead-heavy, glued to the chair. He tried to swallow for a small amount of relief but found none.

“No, John, I think it’s that you know you’re bad. You were bad today. A felon with a gun? Like you want to go back to prison and be punished again.”

She studied his face and continued, “I bet you jerked off every day in prison.”

Desperate to move—just to shift a little, to know his body could move—he failed. He could only watch. Fearfully aware of how aroused he was from what she was saying.

“You try so hard to be good. And most of the time you succeed. A little fucking Boy Scout. But there’s this little devil inside you aching to be punished, so you do bad things just to get caught.”

She paused, leaning her head back against the pillow. A free hand began unbuttoning her blouse.

“Is that it? Why do you do bad things, John?”

“Right and wrong,” he said weakly. “I don’t know the difference.”

“Tsk, tsk. Not true.”

She motioned toward a table to John’s right.

“Put the gun on the table.”

Unhooking the holster, he laid the weapon down at the white feet of the ancient Greek goddess of love.

Not pawned. Not discarded.

Here. In her bedroom. In perfect view of her bed. Displayed on the table next to him.

“John,” she asked, her eyes piercing, “did your mother ever spank you?”

“No.”

As the word slipped out, John became painfully aware that the internal voice—that doubtful, loyal friend—had been silent in the bedroom.

Mausoleum silence filled the room.

A silence he hadn’t felt in years.

In fact, he no longer felt inside his own body. Instead, he seemed to watch as an impartial audience member while this young woman seduced and manipulated an unsuspecting, weak, older man. Him.

It reminded him of the edge of a blackout—when he used to lose control of his body and mind to alcoholic stupor.

“So she let the prison system handle you then?” Jasmine asked.

She tilted her head.

“How many years in prison would you get for your stunt tonight? “

John answered quickly and honestly, “At least ten years. In Wisconsin.”

Tapping her chin in feigned thoughtfulness, Jasmine replied,

“That is where we are. So ten swats seems fair.”

“Excuse me?” The words fell clumsily from his open, shocked mouth.

“I don’t have all night. Stand up. Pants down.”

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, patting her exposed knees.

Pulled by invisible strings—maneuvered by a puppet master above—he watched himself make quick work of his buckle, button, and zipper.

Then he leaned over her lap. Vulnerable. Eyes squeezed shut, muscles stiffening in anticipation.

Each strike reverberated through the small, dark room, stinging sharper than the last. After each she rubbed the spot gently before the next one landed.

After the last one, he finally released the breath he had been holding.

The sounds suggested she spat into her hand and rubbed it across his burning cheeks before telling him to lie beside her. And suddenly—almost as if nothing had changed—it felt like those hundreds of nights being held against her comforting chest. But everything had changed now.

His ass burned with embarrassed pain, and an undeniable erection pressed against her bare leg.

No thoughts. No feelings. Just physical sensation.

He sought only friction—movement, pressure, rhythm—humping her leg the way he had once humped pillows as a boy while she continued to talk.

“I’ve known you for over two years. I’ve heard you talk about your mom, your work, AA. I know you, John. You’re a man who needs to be needed. Your mom, your coworkers, your sponsees.”

She ran her hands soothingly through his hair.

“Yes… Maybe you need direction. Someone to tell you what to do next.”

Her voice softened.

“But you aren’t a fuck-up. You built that playground down the street when you were a teenager.” She motioned toward the window. “You don’t need to wonder what’s right and wrong. Let me tell you.”

With a sigh, she touched his face.

“Free up that brain to be useful. To be of service. To someone. To me. I can’t waste time on other clients,” She tilted his chin slightly, “Do you want that too?”

He felt the climax and the wet warmth on his thigh.

Perhaps only thirty minutes had passed. Perhaps an hour.

Time stretched and contracted as he contemplated what she had suggested.

Body and mind drunker and higher than he had ever felt.

Like that first sip of alcohol—one that only made him want the second sip, then the second drink, then more. Endless until blackout. He needed more.

“Are you serious about no other clients?” he finally asked.

“I am, John. I only want to see you.”

“But how will you survive?”

She smiled.

“I believe we’ll be able to work it out.”

Then she glanced toward the door.

“But my roommate will be home soon. We have all the time in the world to figure it out.”

John dressed and reached for the weapon lying like an offering at Aphrodite’s feet.

“John…”

Jasmine’s voice stopped him.

“You know that will stay right here with me.” She whispered softly. “You’ve been bad enough today.”

He nodded.

“I’ll be good until next time I see you, Jasmine.”

He left and sat in the solemn silence of his truck.

The quietest his mind had felt in years.

Something had been set into motion.

The future felt foggier than ever. He wasn’t returning to the life he had yesterday.

But maybe he could get through Sunday.

Go to work Monday.

Find some way to answer the inevitable “Do anything fun this weekend?” from Darlene.

That was a problem for a future John.

Maybe a happy, joyous, free future John.

Chapter 4: A Way Out

Prologue: His New Addiction
Chapter 1: Money Well Spent
Chapter 2: Close Enough
Chapter 3: The Next Right Thing

Jasmine printed off the confirmation number. Another bursar bill paid. She wasn’t sure why she continued participating in this humiliation ritual. Stubbornness, maybe. Three credit hours of “Dissertation” each semester—just enough to avoid being a true dropout. Maintain her all-but-dissertation status so that perhaps—maybe someday—she might finish it. Might be called Dr. Kopernick. Stupid.

The idea that escorting could provide a real therapeutic benefit for clients felt further away than ever. Most clients weren’t consistent anyway. After a few months, they usually stopped scheduling. More importantly, there was a limit to what her body, mind, and spirit could take on each week. That’s why John had been a breath of fresh air. Consistent, weekly, easy money for two years. The dream client. Until recently.

This bursar payment was money that should be applied to student loans with interest rates that made every payment—no matter how large—feel like two steps forward and one step back. Next semester she would formally withdraw. She had to.

As she closed the laptop, her phone rang.

“Hi, Dad. I can’t talk long. I have work shortly.”

“Honey, you are always working. You must make a million dollars a year.”

She laughed. As the youngest child and only daughter, her father had always maintained an exaggerated confidence in her abilities and prospects.

“Dad, that’s never going to happen.”

“Well, it should. You are worth a million bucks. I don’t understand your finances. You work all the time but live like a pauper. When are you going to finish what you started? Become a doctor?”

There it was. The bursar bill. The outline of a dissertation. An annotated bibliography. Unfinished. Probably forever. A dream of a younger Jasmine who knew nothing about life—just like her father. He still thought she was the smartest woman in the world because she was valedictorian at a school with fewer students than a freshman college seminar. Believed she could be an Oscar-winning actress after playing Mary in the church nativity scene. Well-intentioned, but wrong. 

She had been a medium fish in a puddle—dropped into the ocean. He couldn’t understand the Everest of expectations he was asking her to leap over gracefully, without question.

“I don’t know, Dad. Maybe. Maybe not. I need time. Money, time. It takes a lot.”

Jasmine poked at a bowl of oranges on the kitchen table and began to peel one.

“Okay, kiddo. Speaking of time and money, are you coming to visit this Christmas? I checked—the flights don’t cost nearly as much as last year. Take a break from working. See your dad and mom. Of course, Jason and his family will be there. I think Jordan might come too.”

Jasmine hesitated. “Maybe. Do you need my answer now?”

“Of course not.”

Glancing at the clock on the stove, she said, “Hey, I have to go. But I will think about it.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Hanging up, Jasmine saw that the call had lasted only two minutes. Two minutes, and he had managed to shine a spotlight on all the cracks in her life. Those nooks and crannies you ignored as you pushed forward to laundry day and reordering your prescription.

She did need to get off the phone, but she didn’t need to go anywhere just yet.

Time and money. The two things she never had enough of. Time was finite—the same hours everyone received. But money crept everywhere, permeating every corner of life. The present: rent and food, like everyone else. But the past lurked in high-interest payments on a degree she had pressed forward with, never questioning if maybe, perhaps, for a second, she wasn’t nearly as great as her father insisted.

But even worse was the looming future.

She could manage the present. Perhaps even the past. She had paid down quite a bit over the years, and the halfway point seemed in sight before the year’s end. But the future? There was no overcoming the future.

She had witnessed it happen to too many friends. Colleagues, if she could use such a term. She was thirty-five and luckily still looked young for her age, but the day would come, like it did for all the girls before her, when she was too old. Clients moved on to younger, new, fresh faces. Even if you specialized in cougar fetishes, the body would eventually give out. The mind too.

She had seen these women fall into two futures: poverty or a man. Neither appealing. The latter was a better option. 

No. That was not today. That was for future Jasmine to deal with. Just as in her youth she had assumed future Jasmine would deal with the debt. Now here she was, trying her best.

Pulling into Hanerty’s Furniture Galleria parking lot, Jasmine was determined to maintain control of the situation. For the past few months, she had blurred boundaries with John. Lost control of the basic scripts. For years, most clients had been simple. Even the difficult ones—she knew how to exit stage right and move on to the next prospect.

Throughout her career, if she was to call it that, she had maintained a polished image: manicured fingers and toes, a contoured face, a character she had developed that was fun, flirty, free. Easygoing. Nice girl—but not too nice. Not too smart. Just right for most men.

But she was finding it harder not to be the scared girl who could never live up to her or her father’s dreams when she was with John. Today she was going to be in control of herself and the direction they were going.

John’s old red truck pulled into the spot next to hers. Rolling down the window, he called out, “You waiting on anybody?”

She laughed. “Only waiting for you, handsome!”

Yes. On the way to regaining control of the reins today.

Inside the store, Jasmine meandered through the large pieces: sofas, chairs, bookshelves. The price tags surprised her. She had initially suggested IKEA—affordable—but John had asked to meet here. Each piece had customization options John read aloud to her.

“Jasmine, you’ll be pleased to hear! The goose in the yard has a new outfit. I bought it a little  Packers jersey.”

She smiled at him. The bird had worn a faded Fourth of July outfit since she first saw it.

“I love that!”

John stroked a tall bookcase. “Yeah. It’ll always be in season, right?”

A salesman dressed in a well-fitting suit and tie, his slicked-back hair heavy with gel, approached them.

“Does the Mrs. like this bookshelf?”

Jasmine’s eyes caught John’s, which bugged out in panic and horror. She could hear the stuttering struggle in the depths of his throat. Time for her to intervene. She would take the lead. This was going her way today.

“Oh, Cliff,” she said, reading the name tag on the man’s left lapel. “I love it. Perfect height. We’re doing a library. But the carpet is green. Surely you have something in a darker wood?”

Cliff began showing them wood options. John landed on mahogany. They played the roles for the employee.

“Oh darling, I love the brass bedframe, but we have to have a king size.”

Jasmine ignored the prices and simply enjoyed the thrill of being in control of the narrative again.

Finally, after an hour, the salesman excused himself to tally the order and print the invoice. In addition to the shelves, they had chosen a pair of mid-modern style floor lamps, a driftwood coffee table—unique and custom carved—a large genuine-leather chair with big brass rivets, a plush overstuffed sofa with Tiffany blue jacquard upholstery customization, and a wool rug.

Sitting on a deep burgundy velvet sofa, they waited for the invoice.

“So, Jasmine. I have been meaning to ask you. I, uh, am scheduled to give my lead on January 12th. It’s a Saturday. At the hospital downtown. A lead is like an AA meeting, but I would be the only one talking… sharing my, uh, story. It’s also my tenth birthday… of sobriety.”

John shared this like a nervous boy describing prom before asking a girl out.

Jasmine immediately felt the shift in the air.

“That’s great, John. An honor, yes?”

“Yeah. It’s an open meeting. Anyone can come. I wanted to tell you. In case you wanted to come. Hear my story.”

Jasmine wanted to be firm. Tell him no. Perhaps say something coy and playful, like whenever she dodged invitations. A lie. Busy. Anything but what came out next.

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”

Just like with her dad. She knew the answer was no, but she was too cowardly to disappoint him. So she bought time on credit and spun herself into new debt.

John moved to hold her hand. “Only if you want to. No pressure. January 12th. 7 p.m. Hospital downtown.”

Cliff, with big white teeth as bright as the paper in his hand, strode toward them.

“Sir, here is the estimate. As is, the total comes to $25,000 before taxes.”

Panic caught in Jasmine’s throat as John studied the invoice. Lost in the fun of playing pretend, she had forgotten to consider the reality of John’s finances. He was frugal. Probably scraping pennies together for their weekly meetings.

“Uh, Cliff… can I have a moment with… my man?” Jasmine smiled at the gleaming grin of a salesman contemplating the commission he was about to earn.

“Of course.”

“John, can you afford this? Like the rug… it’s nice, but we can remove things.” She pleaded as she touched his hand.

His amused face seemed to disregard her concern. A look she was used to seeing on men who tried to order her food and drinks for her before they called the valet. A expression that belonged to cocky, rude men.

“Oh. I have plenty of money. Always been my nature. Even when I drank. I always fall into more money than I spend. I’ve been co-owner of the warehouse for awhile. My trust has a solid return. Of course, no mortgage, low expenses… I don’t need much. Really my biggest expense is…”

His voice trailed off as he glanced over at the salesman pacing nearby.

It’s her.

She had always suspected she was a luxury in his minimal, frugal life. But she assumed he was pressed on every side. That his finances mirrored hers. That he was counting cents to make it happen each week.

It had never occurred to her that he was more like Ebenezer Scrooge rationing coal simply to increase the balance on his… trust? Investments? Return?

How this man continued to puzzle her.

To him, was interest earnings and profit—not a weight dragging him back into the past?

Yet he clearly loved the splurge of spending. Choosing this store. Every customization. 

She could see all the seemingly contradictory facts about John she had learned over the years turning in new and different directions—overlapping, then parting, then turning again—fitting into an increasingly clearer image. But still too foggy.

“Cliff!” John called out. “We are missing one thing! I promised her she could pick something out just for herself. A gift. What do you have?”

What was this? A absent-minded joke backfiring. Jasmine vaguely recalled her joke about a gift when she had first suggested furniture shopping as Cliff led them to a door in the back.

“We have specialized in only the highest quality home furnishings since 1932,” he said, “but in the last twenty years we have expanded to include a sister company—an art gallery. Perhaps the lady might find something suitable here?”

Her eyes scanned the walls of paintings. Large abstracts. Smaller portraits. A monstrous resurrection-of-Jesus-Christ scene that encompassed an entire wall. Various statues on platforms with recessed lighting pointed at each. A modern, avant-garde piece of twisted metal. A brass lion roaring as an African warrior pierced its haunches…

And a beautiful white nude carved from stone.

“Ah!” Cliff followed her gaze to the piece. “A lady of taste. This is Aphrodite. Pure Turquin Blue marble. The artist utilizes only the tools and methods available during ancient Greece. The way artists did before Jesus walked on water. A labor of love. True craftsmanship.”

“Jasmine, isn’t she beautiful?” John said softly. “Just like you. Worthy of being placed on an altar and worshiped.”

Laughing, playfully poking John’s shoulder, she quipped, “John, would you kneel before her?”

But John’s face became earnest and intent.

“Yes. I would. For you.”

Cliff shifted from side to side and pulled a small notepad and pencil from his blazer pocket. Scribbling quickly onto the first sheet, he handed the pad to John.

“The price, sir.”

John nodded and handed it back to Cliff.

“Add it to the invoice. Can you box it up? Can we take it home today?”

“Of course, sir. Just a moment.” Jasmine could feel the electric excitement in Cliff's steps. Walking away with the statue. No doubt tallying the fat commission he was making on two suckers.

Alone in the gallery now, John brushed a curtain of hair behind Jasmine’s right ear. He didn't even ask. He just bought it.

“Uh, I hope that was okay, Jazz. I could tell how much you admired it. Beautiful. Like you. Well almost.”

Jazz? No. 

She stepped back from him at the sudden, familiar childhood name. Staring at the obnoxiously large painting—Jesus stepping out of the rolled-away stone to the happy and exuberant faces of his followers—she slowly moved further from John and toward the wall in silence.

The control she had intended with this little expedition was gone. Dead on arrival really.

It was all her fault. She should have planned. Thought through something beyond the same tired banter and scripts. Not been on autopilot. 

“Jasmine,” John’s voice cracked following behind her. “Wait up.”

Looking at the ground, he seemed to try to backpedal the situation.

“I thought you liked it. Whatever you want. Tell me what to do. What should I do? How do I make this right?”

His begging tone and slumped posture made Jasmine aware that he was dangerously close to getting on his knees before her. She glanced at his eyes, brimming with what appeared to be the start of tears. No.

As John continued to plead with her, the seemingly contradictory pieces of him—slowly revealed over the years—shifted in her mind: the sheepish man who was content just to be held, and the man with investments that apparently compounded interest into an abyss he never used. The mother he feared but patiently cared for until she died. A fucking Boy Scout who built a playground. The prisons he circulated like a circus act on tour.

She saw an emergency exit in her periphery as she heard John say, “It’s not too late. I can tell Cliff we don’t want it.”

Suddenly, as if a savior were really rolling back a stone, the emergency exit door opened. Bright, blinding sunlight bathed the room, and an older woman walked in, tall black pumps clacking loudly on the tile floor.

Perhaps in her fifties, she looked sophisticated. Put together. A patron of the arts.

It took Jasmine too long to realize she had met her before. Interviewed her.

This was a piece of data in her abandoned dissertation.

Monica.

Her first mentor.

Not exiled to poverty post-escorting, but seemingly now in the same place as Jasmine, trailed by an elderly man who walked softly behind her. Entering through an Emergency Exit like rules didn’t apply to her.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Jasmine blurted out. “I want it, John. I want the statue. I’m just…”

Jasmine struggled to find the right word on the spot.

“I am just…”

Again, every autopilot response she relied on failed her. All she could do was be honest.

“It’s much more than I expected. I don’t own anything that costs that much.”

John whispered, “You can’t know that. You don’t even know how much it costs.”

She waved off his truth, “Trust me, John. I don’t need to know how much it costs to know it will be the most expensive thing I have ever owned. He wrote the price on a piece of paper. Like a movie.”

She watched as John frowned and looked toward the floor in thought.

The things she didn’t know. The cost of the statue.

Things she had only recently learned. His finances. An Eagle Scout. A felon. A scared boy who wouldn't enter a room.

Fragments from old psychology and sociology classes floated into her mind as she then weighed what she did know. An academic's mind. How did it all fit? It had to make sense.

“Jasmine, I… you should have nice things.”

From the distance, the snap of fingers echoed in the room.

Both of them turned as Monica directed Cliff to put a box into her companion’s hands.

“I will get this into the car right away, Mon.” the man said, scampering back through the emergency exit, arm heavy with a wooden box.

Jasmine watched, transfixed, as Monica chatted with Cliff, catching only stray words.

A new shipment. New artist. Nothing you’ve seen before. You’ll love it. Exclusive.

“Like her,” John said softly into Jasmine's ear. “You should have nice things like her.”

Jasmine smiled.

Maybe there was a way out after all.

Revisit an old mentor. Review what she knew. Learn what she didn’t.

Go home for Christmas. Get her notes and books out of storage.

Maybe she just needed a new script. A new character.

Maybe the new character wouldn’t be so far off from the real thing.

She needed time.

Time. She had work to do. Money to make. Bills to pay.

“Yes,” she said. “I think so too, John.”

John, satisfied with this answer, said, “I'm glad you agree. We should get your present to your car now, yes?”

“Yes. And John, I just wanted to say… I liked that you called me Jazz. You should know that I am taking a few weeks off—visiting family. Won't be able to meet with you.  But I’ll text you when I get back.”

“Will you be back before the 12th? That's my lead.”

“I think I will.” She would be sure of it.

Chapter 3: The Next Right Thing

Prologue: His New Addiction
Chapter 1: Money Well Spent
Chapter 2: Close Enough

Though John didn’t smoke, he sat on the back porch of the clubhouse after the nooner meeting with the smokers. The meeting after the meeting. Familiar faces he’d known since his first AA meeting, and one unfamiliar one visiting from out of town.

He had quit smoking years ago when he moved in with his mom and her oxygen tank—cigarettes were an OSHA tragedy waiting to happen—but he still loved sitting with the smokers. Breathing the smoky air and listening to conversations between coughs felt cozy.

Marvin stepped out the back door and clapped his hands once.

“Everything’s locked up. I’m ready for pie.”

John stood from the picnic table.

“Sorry, fellas. That’s my cue.”

They walked a few blocks south to the dingy diner where they had met for the past ten years.

Sliding into their usual booth, they ordered: a Reuben and cherry pie for John, a patty melt and apple pie for Marvin.

Marvin leaned back.

“So… are we going to do a few laps around the barn, or are you going to say it?”

Years of sponsoring had taught him John never asked for lunch without a reason.

“Well, uh… I’ve kind of been seeing someone. A woman. A lady friend.”

Marvin grinned.

“Well, John, that’s fantastic news. A lady! Brave new world—you dating. A blessing of the program.”

“Yeah… well.” John rolled a paper straw wrapper between his fingers. “It’s complicated.”

I’ve been paying a woman to hold me once a week. Now we make out like high schoolers. Last week she jerked me off.

“Well,” Marvin said, “you can just say you’re getting laid. I don’t need the play-by-play.”

“I just don’t want to hurt her… or myself. I don’t know how to do that. I don’t want to screw it up.”

Marvin nodded.

“Yeah. Relationships are Miracle-Gro for our character defects.”

He took a bite of his sandwich.

“Look, it’s not wrong to want companionship. Want sex. Hell, the literature says those are God-given instincts. Just don’t let it run wild. This is AA, not a monastery.”

Marvin studied him.

“This isn’t like that mess you got into a few years ago, is it?”

John shook his head quickly.

“No, no. It’s not like that. She isn’t sending me nudes or anything. She isn't using me...she is professional. She’s working when I see her. But maybe it could be more.”

I think that’s enough information.

Marvin wiped his hands on a napkin.

“Hey, I met Martha when she was a waitress in this diner. Did I tip her too much? Ask when she worked next? Yeah.” He shrugged. “Just be careful.”

Then he pointed his fork at John.

“Ask God what the next right thing is. Then do that.”

He pushed away his plate and picked up his pie.

“And John?”

John looked up.

“I’ve seen a lot of guys try to become Captain Save-a-Hoe.”

Marvin took a bite.

“Don’t do it. You can’t change people.”

Later that day, John paced around the house, turning light switches on and off. Each room seemed too dark for the anticipated activities of the day, but with the click of a switch, the overhead fixtures felt unbearably bright. He suddenly saw each room with new, raw eyes, as if he hadn’t been living here for the majority of his life. The dated, worn furniture from his childhood. The layer of dust on everything. The knickknacks he had accepted as part of each room without question.

John picked up a crystal angel displayed on a pink doily among several other angel figurines.

Did I get Ma this? If I did, it must’ve been when I was a kid. Couldn’t have cost much. It’s been here for… decades. Maybe I should cancel. Clean up a little before we do this.

This. It was something different from what they usually did. It had been Jasmine’s suggestion. One night in his bedroom, she had casually asked if he had any plans for “moving into the rest of the house.” It hadn’t occurred to John that he lived almost entirely out of his bedroom—ate there, spent his time there, only using the kitchen sparingly and cleaning it to his mother’s standards, just like before she died—until Jasmine said something.

She had suggested that one of their meetups could be just that: clearing out some of “the old woman stuff” and making room for his own things.

John had replayed the conversation in his head ever since.

“John, you live like you’re still in a prison cell. Why not sit on the sofa? Enjoy this big house?”

A cell. A cage. A bedroom. Known. Safe. Contained. 

He had grown comfortable in confined spaces. Nowhere to go, little to do—control over himself. Fewer temptations.

But maybe she was right. She had that spark of excitement and eagerness at the thought of using the other rooms in the house, and he wanted to see her in those rooms. But he couldn’t with all the dust and remnants of his mother still clinging to every surface.

A knock at the door.

Jasmine.

He opened it, and fresh air from outside spilled into the room.

“I came to work,” she laughed, motioning to her outfit.

She wore a tank top with bleach stains and baggy sweatpants.

John smiled.

It didn’t feel like he paid her to love him anymore. It felt like friends helping friends. Like when he helped someone move for nothing more than the promise of pizza.

But he still had the cash ready in his pocket.
Four hundred dollars an hour.
The same rate it had been for the past two years.

“Wow! Lights on! I’ve never really seen this room. Not really.” She squeezed his shoulder and, with a coy smile, said, “To new things, huh?”

She set a large duffel bag on the couch.

“I brought trash bags, paper towels, sprays. Teamwork makes the dream work.”

“Uh, thanks. I have… stuff.”

John suddenly felt his heart pounding in his chest, his brain whirling through a million fears and apprehensions. Visions of her seeing his underwear, picking up ugly cherub figurines, moving his mother’s shower chair from the bathroom.

“Yeah, but not this stuff. This is the absolute best for cleanup.” She clapped her hands lightly. “Let’s just survey the rooms. Make a donate pile, grab a trash bag, and work through it. Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

In the kitchen, Jasmine opened cabinets with cool familiarity.

“You’ll want to keep all this. You have a fully stocked kitchen! A dream, really. Everything you need to cook.”

Last time I cooked was canteen duty at Pendleton Penitentiary, John thought, but sure—the pans and pots would be useful someday. Someday when full meal preparation makes more sense to me than a protein bar and sandwiches.

Moving from room to room, she asked probing questions and made suggestions in response to John’s answers.

“So the angels can go. The sofa too. Honestly, John, I think the curtains should go as well. You’d do better with blinds. That way you can control the light that comes in.” She gestured toward the hallway. “Of course, all your mother’s clothes. Basically everything in your mom’s room… well…” She paused, then added, “unless it’s like cute baby photos or something meaningful, of course.”

John watched, transfixed by the precision and organization. Without even seeing the room, she had made it seem easy—like he could simply turn it over to a blank slate.

For years, I have spiraled into a panic attack just thinking about Ma’s room.

But with Jasmine’s assessment and plan, it felt possible. Manageable. Just do what she said to do next.

What was it Marvin had said? Pray for the next right thing to do and do it. This was right.

“Okay, John. Your mom’s room will be easiest to do. It’s basically all donation. Let’s start there.”

God. No.

“Uh… before we do that… I have a gift for you.” John hesitated.

“A prezzy? For me?” Jasmine placed a manicured hand on her heart and leaned toward him in mock swooning.

“Nothing much. I just… it made me think of you,” he mumbled, picking up a small box from the side table.

“Orange blossom perfume?” Jasmine turned the bottle, reading the label. She uncapped it and smelled the sprayer. “This is lovely.”

“’Cause… that first time. You know, we had an orange. I could smell oranges.”

“What a coincidence! I brought a few oranges today too. Guess we’re both thinking about that.”

As Jasmine peeled the rind from an orange in a single spiral, John was lost in thought.

Did she really remember? Did she bring oranges special, or does she always have some as a snack? Do I even care anymore? It’s so sweet. We brought each other orange things.

Hold up, buddy. That’s too far. You gave her orange perfume because she had an orange in her bag. She probably always has one.

After splitting the orange, Jasmine motioned toward the room at the end of the hall.

But John tensed at the thought. Hesitated.

“I, uh… maybe another room. I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve never been in there.”

“What? How? Didn’t you dress her and care for her?”

“Yes. But she was… tough. Tough and firm and just particular. She would pick out her clothes from her room and have me dress her in the bathroom. I’ve never been in it.”

“Oh.” Jasmine paused. “Well, John, maybe—as a woman—I can go in there and clear out the stuff to donate and throw away. That’s probably still in the spirit of your mother, right? Keep her privacy. Woman to woman.” Jasmine spoke with a kind of quiet feminine authority he could only concede to.

John brightened at the idea.

Yes. It wouldn’t be him. It’s just women’s stuff. He couldn’t, but she could.

His mind dredged up memories of his mother’s purse—a holy, sacred interior that remained a mystery to him and his father.

It’s just women’s stuff, she used to say.

For an hour, Jasmine happily worked alone in his mother’s room. She hummed as she carried trash bag after trash bag out, pausing each time for John to nod before tossing them in the truck’s bed. Donations.

John stayed busy in the other rooms. He took down the curtains—blinds did make more sense for him—packed up the various angel figurines his mother had collected her whole life, and contemplated an encyclopedia set from the 1980s.

His concentration was interrupted by a gleeful squeal from the other room.

“Oh my God, John! You have to see this!”

Jasmine appeared carrying a cardboard box with “John” written on the side in permanent marker. Setting it down on the kitchen table, she began pulling out various mementos—envelopes and photos.

She handed him a photograph.

A smiling, impossibly young face in a Boy Scout uniform grinned back at him.

“God. This was the day I made Eagle Scout.”

“Isn’t that the highest you can go?”

“Yes. I went through everything from Cub to Eagle. You have to do a fully independent project for the community to become an Eagle Scout.”

“What was yours?” she asked, looking at him with genuine interest.

“Well… uh…” He tried to suppress a nervous chuckle. “You know the playground on Memorial Drive?”

“Uh, yeah! I used to babysit kids and take them there all the time!”

“Well, I mowed lawns, did maintenance, fundraised, designed it, got the permits—everything.”

“You’re like seventeen or something here!” Jasmine waved the photo in front of him.

“It was when I was young and smart… before I got young and dumb.”

John began pulling more items from the box.

“I can’t believe she saved all these,” he said, thumbing through a stack of envelopes and handing each one to Jasmine’s eager, outstretched hands.

“Pendleton Penitentiary. Madison County Jail. Worthington Correctional Facility. John, you did a full tour of the Midwest.”

Birthday cards, photos, a knot board from Scouts. The box felt like an endless pit of a life John had packed away. His mother had too—the things that were and never could be again.

When they reached the bottom, Jasmine smiled at him as if they had shared a long, meandering secret journey no one else could know.

“John.” Jasmine gently caressed his cheek. “You are a good man. A good son. I want this home to feel like yours. Not hers.”

John nodded into her hand as she drew him into her chest and held him tight. He could hear her heart beating in a low, steady thrum beneath her ribs.

“You could make that room into a library,” she said softly. “All those books you’ve got stacked on your bedroom floor. We could go buy bookshelves. A desk.”

“What?” John sputtered, a small fleck of spit flying with the word. “Uh… no, no. That’s Ma’s room.”

“She’s not going to be using it,” Jasmine said gently. “Come. Have a look.”

Holding his hand, she led him to the door he had only ever knocked on before and opened it.

John stilled as he peered inside.

A large bed with a bare mattress sat in the middle of the room. She must have pulled off the bedding.

Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Jasmine said, “Sheets are in the washer. Blanket’s in the dryer.”

The room was devoid of anything John could recall from the brief glimpses he had caught as his mother entered and exited over the years. Nothing hung on the walls—only faint outlines and stains where pictures once had been. Nothing sat on the dresser. Even the bedside tables had been pushed into a corner.

John took a tentative step onto the avocado-green carpet.

His fingers grazed the open closet door.

The closet was completely bare except for a row of hangers.

“A library, John.” She pointed to the wall farthest from the door. “Shelves. Tall shelves there. I won’t stumble over stacks of books on the floor when I get into your bed.” She paused, then laughed. “Your bed! You could get rid of that twin and fit a full, or a queen, or—”

Her voice lifted with excitement.

“—a king bed in your room.”

He could start to see her vision.

Yes. I could have a big bed. Jasmine in my huge bed. I’ve always had a twin—from being a kid, to prison, to now.

“Do you have a king bed?” John asked.

“No, I have a twin in an apartment with a roommate, and we fight over the bathroom.”

“So no library either.”

“Nope! John, you’d be positively spoiled.” She playfully pushed his shoulder on the last word. Then her expression softened. “No. Not spoiled. You’re a good man. You work hard. You’ve earned a big bed and a library.”

“What about you?” John said suddenly. “It could be your room. No fights over a bathroom—you could have your own. Not pay rent. Pay off those student loans faster.”

Goddamn it, what am I saying? Jesus. I’m a weirdo creep. I’m not stupid. I know we aren’t dating. But maybe we are friends.

“As friends,” he added quickly.

“Oh, John, no. This is your dream. Your life. Your castle. I have to earn my own way.” She smiled at him. “But let’s go to the store and get you some bookshelves. A bed. Blinds. New couch.”

“Uh… together?”

“Well, yeah. If that’s okay with you.”

“In public? People might see us together.”

“John, are you ashamed of me?”

“No. But… aren’t you ashamed of being seen with me? What would you say?”

“Anything I want. ‘This is John, my friend.’ ‘This is Jasmine, my friend.’ Easy.”

“And you would want to be seen with me?”

“Of course, my friend John.” She looped her arm through his. “You don’t need to question me. I tell you exactly what I mean when I mean it. If I suggest something, it’s because I want to do it. I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”

She glanced at the clock.

“I think our time is up today.”

John pulled $1,600 from his pocket. Four hours. Four hundred each.

“Uh, Jasmine, yeah. Let’s do the furniture shopping. Together. Does public, uh, cost more?”

She opened the front door and said, “No charge. I love to shop. But buying me something I pick out—a little gift while we’re out and about—wouldn’t hurt.” She winked and kissed him on the lips.

John turned back toward the clean house, toward the prospect of a new life built inside the recently emptied rooms—rooms where he might finally take up space and a day shopping with his friend Jasmine.

My friend. My friend Jasmine. A date with my friend Jasmine. No. Not a date. Don’t be stupid…But no charge. My friend Jasmine who wants to go shopping with me. I’m not just a job to her. My friend Jasmine who will wear the orange perfume I bought her and pick out a big bed that we can…God, John… have sex in? You think she would fuck you? Goddamn it, man. Get a grip.

But he still smiled.

Returning to the empty room—the second time in his life, the first time alone—he looked at the bare walls and envisioned shelves.

Shelves and shelves and shelves of books.

A leather chair. Real classy. A library.

In the hallway, he passed the Serenity Prayer plaque still hanging on the wall. A Post-it note had been stuck to it in unfamiliar writing.

Eagle Scout! I know this is an A.A. thing too, so I left it up. It suits you.
—J

Jasmine.

Even thought the words were engrained in him, he still read the prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Marvin’s voice echoed faintly in his mind.

Okay. God, am I doing the next right thing? Is this right, or is this just wrong thing again and I'm convincing myself it’s good? I don’t know the difference. I know I can’t change her. But can I change? What can I even do?

New furniture.
Something he could do.
Something safe he could change.
The next right thing.

Outside, Jasmine’s car started in the driveway and left.