3. Chapter 3 #2
He moves toward the privacy screens. I follow as he parts the fabric and steps into the treatment area.
The portable massage table stands beneath the maple branches, covered with a thick cream-colored sheet and a folded rust-colored blanket.
A small rolling cart holds sealed oils, towels, sanitizer, and several crystals.
Battery lanterns cast a soft glow against the screens.
The space feels private despite the voices and occasional crashes beyond the fabric. Tomorrow, I will add music low enough to soothe without interfering with awareness of the festival around us.
Rocco checks beneath the table and examines the braces. I watch him closely, knowing he’s curious.
His head lifts. “What?”
“You looked beneath the table as though you expected it to be hiding something interesting.”
“I don’t expect massage tables to be interesting.”
“That depends on who is lying on them.”
His gaze meets mine. This time, neither of us pretends the warmth between us is an energetic misunderstanding.
I walk to the head of the table and place my hands lightly on the padding. “You should try it.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what I’m offering.”
“Yes, I do.”
“A therapeutic session.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Your right shoulder disagrees.”
His expression closes. Not gradually. One second, I can feel attraction moving openly between us. The next, an invisible door slams shut.
“You don’t know anything about my shoulder.”
“I know you shifted the weight to your left side when you carried the table. You avoid reaching directly overhead, and you’ve rotated the joint three times since the briefing. The pain worsened after the temperature dropped.”
Rocco says nothing.
I keep my voice gentle. “You don’t have to believe in energy work. I also understand muscles, fascia, scar tissue, and the ways an old injury can make the surrounding structures compensate.”
“And crystals?”
“Crystals don’t require your belief.”
“That’s convenient.”
“So is pretending pain doesn’t exist because acknowledging it feels too much like surrender.”
His eyes darken. I have gone too far. The realization reaches me a second before his energy pulls entirely away. I lift my hands from the table.
“That was unfair,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Rocco’s attention remains fixed on me, but some of the hardness leaves his face.
“You apologize quickly.”
“When I’m wrong.”
“Are you?”
“I used an observation to push after you said no.”
I draw the privacy screen farther open, returning the space to something less intimate.
“I don’t do that during sessions, and I shouldn’t do it outside them.”
He watches me as though revising an assessment.
“Most people defend themselves first,” he says.
“I have many flaws. That one became exhausting.”
The corner of his mouth almost moves. “Only one?”
“I’m saving the others for later.”
He looks at the massage table once more, then steps through the open screen.
“Your booth passes inspection.”
“That sounded reluctant.”
“The shelving needed reinforcement.”
“Which you provided.”
“The privacy screens still require another weight on the western side.”
“I have one in the vehicle.”
“I’ll get it.”
“You have employees waiting.”
“They can wait two minutes.”
I watch him walk toward the parking area. His right hand flexes once at his side, and the injured shoulder remains slightly lower than the left. He is hurting more than he wants me to know, but pain is not the only thing he carried into my booth.
There is guilt inside him. Old, controlled, and bound so tightly to duty that separating one from the other may no longer be possible. I sensed it when he spoke about responsibility and again when he told the vendors not to intervene in an altercation.
He does not simply prepare for danger. Some part of him is still answering for one that has already happened.
Rocco returns with the final weight and secures it without comment. When he straightens, I hold out a small tumbled stone. Pale pink. Smooth. Ordinary enough to fit inside his palm.
He looks at it but doesn’t take it. “What is that?”
“Rose quartz.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Nothing. Keep it in your pocket. Put it on a shelf. Throw it at someone violating an emergency lane.”
His mouth twitches. “I have better equipment for that.”
“It’s associated with emotional healing, trust, and compassion.”
“I don’t need emotional healing.”
“That wasn’t a diagnosis.”
“It sounded like one.”
“It’s a gift.”
“No.”
The refusal is immediate but not cruel. I curl my fingers around the stone.
“All right.”
“You’re not going to tell me I’ll change my mind?”
“I don’t have to.”
Rocco looks at me for another long moment. Then he nods once and leaves my booth. I remain beneath the maple tree, listening to his footsteps fade into the sounds of festival preparation. The rose quartz warms inside my closed hand.
He said no to the stone. He said no to the massage table. He has built his life around refusing anything that might reach beneath his defenses.
But the universe did not bring me to Cady Springs to force open a locked door. It brought me here because, eventually, Rocco is going to unlock it himself.