4. Grace
four
Of course he doesn’t care. He never has. I tell him it’d be better if he left, and he decides to stay? Why? To spite me? Rub in my face that we’re just two strangers? That I’m a nobody giving him a massage?
The last time I saw him, really saw him, he betrayed me.
So seeing him here without warning? I don’t know that I can handle it.
“Ready.” His voice is emotionless. Like I said, I’m a stranger to him.
I’m used to this now. I’m used to being just a side note in people’s lives.
It’s okay. Tonight, I’ll go through my memory box. Imagine what could have been. If I imagine it hard enough, I can believe it’s true. At least for a minute or two. That’s all I need.
I know I shouldn’t be doing that. I know I’m stronger than that. And I am. I really am. Just now and then, I need a little pick-me-up. That’s all it is. I know it’s not reality. Doesn’t mean I don’t like the fantasy.
Don’t judge me. If you like to read romances where the guy is hot and young and a billionaire and he only wants little old you, you’re doing the same. If you go to gaming conventions dressed as your favorite hero, you’re doing the same.
We all have our ways of getting through shit.
I have my memory box, my fantasy world. That gets me through.
Meanwhile, Mr. Hotshot here needs his massage.
He breaks my heart, shatters it to pieces, sees how distressed I am, knows it’s because of him, offers to leave to let me live my sad little life in peace, and when I say yes please (or something close to that) he taunts me by staying here to torture me some more?
I pull the sheet down and get started.
“Ow!”
Yep, that’ll hurt all right. Man, he’s a bundle of tightness. Okay, I should go easier now. After all, he’s just a client now, and I have a reputation to uphold. I don’t want him walking out of the tent cussing and complaining about what a bad experience he had.
It’s enough that I’m losing my space. I can’t afford to lose my clients.
I ease up, use the heel of my hands instead of my knuckles, feel the deep tissue loosening under my touch, then graduate him to a deep massage using my elbows. “We only have ten minutes, so I’ll focus on the pain point. Get you walking normally again.”
Without him looking at me, it’s easier.
He doesn’t answer.
I do need to get to his quads, though. I wish there was another way, but there isn’t. “Now turn around.” I cover his body with the sheet, step away to oil my hands again and to give him privacy as he gets situated on the table.
“No.”
“’Scuse me?”
“I ain’t turning ‘round.”
I blink several times.
He pushes himself up on his forearms and speaks to the table. “Matter of fact, the massage is over, and I need you to step out so I can get dressed.”
So he thinks he can boss me around and tell me how to do my job? “The treatment isn’t over. It’s already just a mini massage. Cut it in half and it’s a waste of time.”
“Nope.” He doesn’t move, though.
Was it something I did? Was it too hard? “I can adjust the pressure…” And then I get it. “It’s a normal physical reaction in men. I see it all the time. There’s no need to—”
“You see it all the time?” he blurts.
What’s he all worked up about? “It’s a sign of relaxation. Nothing to be self-conscious about.” I hand him a pillow to cover his midsection. “Here.”
“No.”
“If you walk out of here limping, I’ll lose business. I need to get to your quad. Now get on your back. You’re holding up other people.”
He huffs. “Turn around first.”
Fine.The ruffling of the sheet sends a shiver down my spine. What is happening to me? It can’t be because of how he’s changed.
And he has changed.
Ethan was always athletic. He was Emerald Creek’s golden boy. The hockey star. The football captain. It drove all the other boys crazy. They could never measure up to him. But he was such a good guy, no one that I know was ever jealous of him.
Everybody liked him. He was that kind of person.
When he walked into my tent earlier, I was taken aback by the mass of muscle he’d become.
That was after I registered and dealt with the shock of being so close to Ethan King.
He was supposed to be the love of my life.
Or so I thought, growing up.
“Ready,” he grunts.
He has one arm thrown over his face, hiding his eyes, while the other hand holds onto the pillow for dear life. In the process of him turning around and focusing solely on hiding his privates, the sheet slipped off, revealing a torso that I’m intimately familiar with.
I rub my hands with oil, lean over his hairy thigh, and get to work. Starting from right above the knee, I identify the knot and work my way up, kneading and stretching. I close my eyes to focus. All I need is to feel the muscles under my hands. To let his body guide me.
“That’s enough,” he snaps and sits up.
My eyes fly open. I was almost there. Almost got that pesky knot untangled. I lift my face to meet his, then quickly look down. “Not quite.” I run my hands higher up, dig deep with my knuckles up to his hip area, which is connected to his back. There. “That should do it. For now.” I straighten, avoiding his gaze by focusing on his naked shoulder. That seems like a safe place to look at.
It’s not.
I remember crying on this shoulder.
I remember laughing so hard I bumped my forehead on this shoulder.
I remember the way his shoulder would curve around me to make me feel safe.
Everything about him is a painful memory.
Whipping around, I prepare a sample of arnica and CBD ointment while he gets dressed. “That’ll help,” I tell him, turning around just in time to catch his gaze drilling into me. He blinks several times. His jaw clenches as he pockets the small box. “How much is it? And the… massage?”
That’s it, huh. Just a transaction. “It’s free. Says on the tent.”
He narrows his eyes on me and frowns. “Why?”
We’re really not talking about us, then? Nothing about the past? Wow. “I’m launching my massage business. This is advertising. How’s your back feel?”
He straightens. “It—it feels like new… Grace.”
My name coming out of his mouth pierces me. It’s been ten years since I’ve heard it, and it breaks me to pieces. I bite the inside of my cheeks to keep my lips from trembling. “That’s great,” I chirp. “Use the cream. It’ll help.” He could use more work, but I’m certainly not giving him the brochure to my spa in town.
Anyway, he’s probably just staying a couple of days. If that. And thank god.
There’s no way I can be in the same town as Ethan King.
I think he’s saying thank you or something like that, but I can’t take it anymore. I turn my back to him, pretending to occupy myself with a fresh sheet and oils and lighting a new candle.
I let the tears fall freely, careful not to sniffle, not to wipe them, not to breathe. Careful not to show any emotion.
Until light invades the tent, indicating he’s leaving.
And then I’m alone for a moment in the silent and empty tent, and peace slowly returns to me.
I silently thank Ms. Angela for sending people away on the pretext of me picking Dad up. Then I text Colton to take good care of our father, because I certainly can’t.
I can’t even take care of myself in this moment.
But I’m not letting this state of mind take root. I’ll get over this bump in the road like I always do. I’ll get back to my happy normal. I just have a handful of hours to get over myself, and I’m going to focus on that. I’m going to focus on being perfectly okay by the time I get to the farm tomorrow.
Because I have bigger problems than Ethan King.