Impersonating Brianne

"What about craps?"

"I was bored and got on a hot streak," she shrugged and flashed him a lucky smile.

"Don't tell me this is the casino's reward for you taking their money."

"Not quite," Marissa finished the last bit of roll on a plate and set it aside. "This is their way of rewarding me for giving them the opportunity to take my money, and they hope it will entice me to come back and give them a chance to win their money back and take a little bit more from me."

"You're an amazing woman, Marissa," he breathed softly. "Thank you."

Her heart skipped a beat. The way he was looking made her stomach flutter. He was appreciatingher, not what she could do for him, not for how pretty she looked, but just for being herself.

"For what?"

"You've saved me over ten thousand dollars today." He stopped for a moment, unsure of what to say. He smiled instead. "And you bought me dinner. I guess this means I'm yours tonight."

The two of them laughed.

"To you," he said, raising his cup of sake.

"To us," she replied. Their cups clinked together and they downed the warm liquid.

Soon, they were both full. It was still early, but neither of them really wanted to go out. Alan turned the television on while she went in the bedroom and changed. She came out in a nightie that was neither frumpy nor risqué. She sat down next to Alan on the couch and rested her head on his shoulder.

Marissa's heart raced. She knew now was the time.

"What's her name?" she asked softly.

"What?" Alan said, not sure he had heard her correctly.

"What's her name, Alan?"

"Who?"

"The woman you see when we dance and when we make love."

He inhaled sharply, as if she had punched him in the gut. A pained look flashed across his face. He probably would have preferred that she had decked him rather than asked that question. Alan fell silent and Marissa wondered for a second if she had pushed her luck a little too far.

Alan got up from the couch and walked over to the window. He stared out into the desert.

"She was my wife," he said softly. "The restaurant was her dream."

Marissa sat on the couch, wanting to know more about this woman who had captured Alan's heart. He stared out the window, a contemplative look on his face.

"She died almost two years ago, along with our son. Complications from childbirth." He shook his head and sighed bitterly. "I'll bet you think I'm pathetic, don't you? . . . Listen, I'm sorry about this morning. I didn't mean to drag you into this and you certainly don't want to be my shrink on this trip."

After a long silence, Marissa turned the TV off and walked over to Alan. He was still staring out the window. She put her arms around him. He tried to look away, but she put her hand under his chin and forced him to look at her.

"Alan, I don't think you're pathetic," she said gently. "I think you're still in love."

Over the years, Marissa had done her share of improvised counseling. Mostly she half-listened as men told her that their fathers never loved them, how they obsessed over trying to please their mothers or that they blamed Suzie McDonnell from sixth grade for all their troubles with women because she was cute but would never talk to them.

"Why did you bring me here?"

There was a long pause. Alan tried to compose himself. His eyes watered. "Our anniversary is coming up . . . and I . . . I didn't want to be alone."

"That's not the only reason." She locked her eyes on his so he couldn't look away. "Why me?"

"I—" Alan looked forlorn. He took in a deep breath. His arms locked around her waist. "We got married here. The first time. Her mom was taking over our wedding so we eloped. It was wonderful. Just the two of us. Our families werereally pissed off when we got home, so we had a 'real' wedding in a church, too. But this one was special."

"What is her name?" Marissa asked. She didn't speak of her in the past tense, because for Alan, his bride was still very much in the present.

"Brianne," he whispered. "Brianne Noelle Gibson."

"I look like her." It wasn't a question.

"That's why Laurie sent you to see me," Alan admitted. He looked away. "I . . . I just wanted to . . ."

His voice broke.

Alan started to shake.

Blinking back her own tears, Marissa took Alan's hands as he tried to say the words. "I . . . You don't know what I'd give to have just one more night with her."

Marissa caught Alan as he collapsed into her arms. Heart-wrenching sobs wracked his body. She pulled him close to her bosom, trying to comfort him. Tears flowed unchecked down her own cheeks. The barrier between her and her client was gone, against her better judgment.

She lowered him gently to the floor as he curled up in her arms. His breathing was ragged. Still Marissa held him tenderly. Not as his consort. Not as his lover. As his friend.

Alan sobbed in her arms for several minutes. It sounded like it was the first good cry he had since his wife's death. She ran her hands through his hair gently and tried her best to comfort him.

Finally, Alan sat up and took a deep breath and brushed the tears out of his eyes.

Marissa smiled and squeezed his hands. He struggled to his feet and went into the bathroom. She heard the sink running.

After a few minutes, Alan came out. He had changed into a t-shirt and a pair of workout shorts. His face was washed.

He sat down on the couch and motioned for Marissa to join him.

"I'm sorry, Marissa," he said quietly. "I . . . I didn't think that I'd break down on you like this. I really wanted—"

"Alan," she said and he fell silent. "You don't have to be sorry. I can see how much you're still in love with her. She was a lucky woman to have had you in her life."

"Listen," he paused, searching for the words. "I know you didn't sign on for this. Maybe I should have told you about her earlier. I realise this is an awkward situation . . . and I'm sorry for dropping you in the middle of it. If you . . . If you want to leave, I can take you to the airport tomorrow. I'll pay you for the full eight days."

He smiled feebly. She never even considered his offer to pay her for five days of services he wouldn't be using.

"You haven't been with anyone since Brianne died, have you?"

"No," Alan whispered.

"You're feeling guilty that you've enjoyed having sex with me, aren't you?" Marissa observed. It wasn't really a question either.

"Yes," his voice was barely audible. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. "And I—"

He paused again, on the verge of saying something else. Marissa looked at him expectantly.

"And what, Alan?"

This time, he managed to bring his head up. There was sadness in his eyes. "I feel guilty because I like being with you. And not just because of the sex. I like talking with you. I like having dinner with you. I feel like I'm betraying her because I like you so much."

Marissa's jaw fell open. Other clients had told her that they liked her. Often it was followed by a proposition that would basically set her up as their mistress and private whore. The sheer earnestness of Alan's demeanor was terribly unnerving for her. He didn't want her for the sex. He wantedher.

For years, Marissa had traded her body for money. For her, the most intimate act two people can share was her job. It was work. She had almost come to hate it. She hated the men who patronised her. She hated herself because she was so willing to sell herself for so little.

What Alan did with that one look was sweep aside all her cynicism. She was pretty sure he enjoyed the sex, too, but the way he had treated her over the past three days was so different than how their relationship had started. Even though he was paying her to be with him, he never treated her like a whore. He never acted like she was beneath him.

He treated her like a person.

The tips of her fingers brushed his face. The words were out of her mouth before she knew it. And she meant them, too. "Alan, I like you, too. You're unlike any man I've known for a long, long time."

Alan took her hand and held it. She tried to think of something to say, but the rational side of her took charge and stopped her from saying anything else, at least for a little bit.

Marissa stood up and got Alan's laptop. She plugged it into the wall and then pushed Alan back into the corner of the couch. He had one foot on the floor and one up on the cushions. She sat between his legs, facing away from him, and leaned back so her head rested on his shoulder.

With the flick of the power switch the computer booted up. It was on her lap so they could both see the screen. Alan put his arms around her and she let herself enjoy his embrace.

"Tell me about her," Marissa said.

Alan shifted uncomfortably. "What do you want to know?"

"How long were you married?" she started with the easy questions.

"Eight years," he replied. The desktop finished loading.

"Show me your pictures." At his direction, Marissa clicked to a folder full of picture files. Some had been scanned in, others looked like they had been transferred from a digital camera.

They started with the Vegas wedding. Marissa said nothing as Alan narrated. They stayed up late. Alan wasn't stuck in the past, but it seemed that part of him enjoyed re-living the time when his wife was alive.

Marissa watched his face carefully and got the feeling that he hadn't talked about Brianne in a long, long time. She was struck by how much they looked alike. The two women even had the same cute dimpled cheeks.

In all the pictures, she noticed something in the Alan of the past that was now gone: laughter. He and his wife appeared vibrant and full of joy. The Alan she knew wasn't morose or melancholy, but the twinkle was gone from his eyes. She saw it in the pictures. In the way the two of them held hands. In their looks when they were together.

Alan got quiet when he came to the section of pictures that were taken just before Brianne died. She was pregnant and glowing, at least until the last month and then she looked tired. Not bad tired, just like she wanted the baby to be born so she could walk instead of waddle.

Their smiles never changed, though.

Marissa noticed Alan's hands trembling as he clicked through the pictures, and instinctively knew the slide show was coming to an end. In the final picture, Brianne was very pregnant. They were at the house, sitting at the same table where she and Alan had their first conversation.

Brianne was wearing sweatpants and a big maternity blouse. Her hair was a mess, but she smiled for Alan's camera anyway.

"This—" he stopped. "This was taken right before we left for the hospital. She had some pain in her stomach, but we didn't think anything of it. I drove her to the hospital and she went into labour . . ."

His voice trailed off. Marissa put her hands over his and squeezed them gently.

"What happened?" she whispered.

"I don't know." Alan's voice broke. "They told me, but it didn't make any sense. It still doesn't make any sense to me. Brianne . . . Brianne and the baby both died in surgery . . ."

His arms closed tight around her. He started to shake again.

Marissa set the computer on the coffee table. Alan took several deep breaths and tried to compose himself.

Sitting up, Marissa pulled Alan to his feet and led him to the bedroom. They left their plates and dinner where they were. With the flip of a switch, the lights went out and the two crawled into bed.

As she lay there with Alan's arms around her, Marissa thought about their relationship. It wasn't just business anymore. She was used to being with men who would boastfully tell her all about themselves, their accomplishments and their conquests. Not once had any of them ever talked about their spouses. Not once did any of them ever tell her how much they loved their wives.

Of course, not many men patronise a call girl because they're still in love with their wife. Still, Alan was different. He missed Brianne dearly, that much was clear. But there was something else about him . . . something Marissa couldn't put her finger on.

It was like he wanted to get past his wife's death. Heneeded to get past his wife's death. And he felt guilty for even thinking that it was okay, even two years later.

And then there were her feelings. Why had she allowed herself to become attached to Alan? What was it about him that broke down her emotional barriers?

She ran her fingers along his arm. His hand tensed for a second. He wasn't asleep.

He gently rolled her on to her back and his hand brushed the hair out of her face. Alan's hand absently ran down her neck. His featherlight touch made Marissa's skin crawl—in the good way. His voice was soft. "Sometimes . . . sometimes I talk to her as if she were standing right next to me. I can hear her voice still. Iknow what she would say to me if she were still alive."

"What would she say? Right now?" Marissa dared to ask.

"She'd tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself." Even in the darkness, Marissa could tell he had a bitter smile on his lips. "And she'd say that therapy would cost me less."

Marissa took his hand in hers. "I wish I had known her."

There was a long pause.

"When is your anniversary?" she said.

"It would have been Friday," Alan replied.

"You had plans for us, didn't you?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"I'm not her, Alan," Marissa said softly, trying to sort through her confused feelings. "I can never be her to you."

"I know," he replied. "It was wrong of me to expect that from you . . . I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." Her voice was soothing. "I just don't want your expectations to get out of whack. This is your trip, and I figured there was some reason why you wanted to stay for three days after the conference was over."

He started to say something but Marissa stopped him.

"I know Brianne is very much alive to you. I think it's very romantic that you're still in love with her. She was a lucky woman." They fell silent. Marissa thought hard before speaking again. Two parts of her struggled for control. "Alan, I can't be your wife. I can't fill that hole in your heart."

Part of Marissa wanted to put the emotional wall back up between her and her client. Alan had brought her pleasure, but she was sure that there was no basis for a long-term relationship. After all, no matter what happened between them, she would always be his whore.

Then there was a little voice inside her that tried to make itself heard. It was the empathic part that she suppressed when she was with men. She had spent years bottling it up and making herself calloused and unfeeling. Now it wanted out.

In the darkness, all she could see was his silhouette. She reached out and caressed his face. He seemed so sad. So vulnerable.

"I know you and Brianne were in love. I can see it in your pictures. I hear it in the way you talk about her. I can feel it when we're dancing and you see her in your arms." Marissa took a deep breath. "Let me tell you something, Alan. I like you, too. A lot. And no, I don't say that to all the guys. You're the first man in a long time who has treated me better than I deserve, and I thank you for that. Look . . . I know you think of Brianne sometimes when you're with me. That's okay. I understand, and to tell the truth, I'm a little bit jealous of her."

He turned away, but Marissa's hand brought his lips to hers. She kissed him gently.

"Alan," she whispered. "Love me. Love me like you love her."

There was a moment's hesitation. She imagined that the conflicted emotions inside him were struggling more than those within her.

After what seemed like an eternity, Alan leaned in and kissed her. Hard. Marissa wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. Their embrace was passionate, almost desperate.

Marissa felt Alan push her down on to the bed. He broke their kiss.

"Thank you," he said so softly she could barely hear him.

"For what?"

"For putting up with me. For asking about Brianne," Alan replied. "I haven't talked to anyone about her since the funeral. It felt good to remember her and share her with someone else. Sometimes I'm afraid that I'm going to forget her."

"You won't ever forget her," Marissa reassured him. "But that doesn't mean you have to mourn her for the rest of your life, either."

"I know," he said quietly. It was his turn to take a deep breath. "Look . . . about what I said earlier. If you want to go home, I can take you to the airport first thing in the morning."

Thoughts raced through her mind.

Take his money and get home to make some more!

Don't fall for him.

He's hurting. I can't leave him.

No one has treated me this well in years. I can't let him get away.

If I stay, he'll only break my heart.

Her decision was made in an instant. She quelled the different voices within her, each pulling in a different direction. She was uncomfortable with her decision because it wasn't made with her head. It came from her heart.

"Not a chance," she managed to smile. "Besides, we have a big date Friday night."

"Marissa," he started, and she found that she liked hearing him say her name. "I don't know if—"

She silenced him with a kiss. "Shut up and fuck me."

It took him a minute to reply. When she finally let him up for air, all he said was, "No."

And true to his word, he didn't. Alan and Marissa made love until they fell into an exhausted sleep, wrapped in each other's arms.