Chapter Eight One of the Worst Massages in Human History #2
phone, already imagining the scalding heat of a mineral bath warming his aching joints.
“I’ll just book a day for all of us.”
He puts his pencil back to his iPad. “Thanks for listening last night. I didn’t mean for things to get so deep.”
“It’s what I’m here for, dude.” Kaitlyn leans against the doorframe, still half-hovering inside where it’s warmer. “How are
you feeling about . . . everything?”
“I’ll be okay,” he promises, meaning it for the most part.
Kaitlyn arches an eyebrow, staring at Owen like she doesn’t quite believe him.
Never mind that those feelings of inadequacy are still stirring, just barely below the surface of Owen’s mind. The thoughts
that leave him questioning what he has to fall back on if tattooing doesn’t pan out. What if he opens this shop and it folds
in under a year? Leaving him with even more debt than he started with?
“You know I’ll always be here to listen when your brain is being mean to you,” Kaitlyn says, leaning forward far enough to
steal Owen’s coffee mug. “Jesus, at least put a few sugars in,” she says, sticking her tongue out.
“Make your own!” Owen steals the cup back from her.
“Why do you hate me so much?” she grumbles, shuffling toward the kitchen, Owen choosing to follow her, slotting himself in at one of the barstools.
“Wait.” Owen furrows his brow. “Are you allowed to have coffee?”
“I’m allotted twelve ounces a day,” she says to him. “And I’ve already warned Abigail that if y’all try to wean me off, things
are going to get violent.”
“I think that could be a sign of addiction.”
Kaitlyn doesn’t say a word; she just glares at him with a terrifyingly quiet fire behind her eyes.
Owen holds his hands up defensively. “I said it could be. Not that it was.”
“Good boy.” Kaitlyn grabs five packets of sugar and the oat milk from the fridge as Abigail finally makes her way into the
kitchen, looking much the worse for wear. Her hair is sticking up in a dozen different directions, eyes still mostly closed
as she drapes her body over her wife.
“Don’t let me drink that much again,” Abigail grumbles, barely opening her mouth to speak.
Kaitlyn laughs. “You said that last time. And I tried to stop you last night, but you said you were pacing yourself.”
“Your fault for believing me.” Abigail nuzzles her nose against Kaitlyn’s neck. “What are we doing today?”
“Owen and I thought a spa day would be nice,” Kaitlyn tells her. “Perk everyone up.”
“God, that’ll feel heavenly,” Abigail says, grabbing a bag of trail mix from their pile of snacks on top of the counter. “Does
the plan include breakfast?”
“It can,” Kaitlyn says, her words short.
For a moment, Abigail stands there, looking at Kaitlyn, then to Owen, and back again to her wife. “I interrupted something,
didn’t I?”
“Owen and I were just having a chat,” Kaitlyn explains. Owen braces himself for her to elaborate, to give Abigail enough context that they can then double-team him. But then she continues, “I don’t think he wants to do the candle-making class in Sitka tomorrow.”
The confusion on Abigail’s face is immediate. Clearly, that wasn’t the answer she expected. Owen can almost see the moment
she decides to believe Kaitlyn.
“Afraid of a little wax play, Owen?” Abigail teases, grabbing the sugar. “You know it’s not as scary as you think it’d be,
it peels right off when it’s cool.”
“Texture issue,” Owen tells her, emphasizing his discomfort by flexing his fingers. “And I did not need to know that my best friends do wax play.”
“Party pooper.” Abigail rolls her eyes.
“At least I’m not kink shaming.” Owen tries his best to joke, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Abigail hums, and then, as if confirming Owen’s suspicions that she can tell something is going on, she excuses herself to the bathroom. Kaitlyn watches Abigail before turning back to Owen, both of them listening
for the sound of the bedroom door closing.
“Are you happy?” Kaitlyn asks, completely out of nowhere.
“Why are you asking me that?”
“You don’t seem that happy,” she says to him, her honesty blunt as always. “You haven’t seemed happy since Jacob left the
first time.”
“Would you be happy if the person you loved packed everything up and moved to another state? Then left the country?”
She hesitates, unwilling to answer the question. “Well . . . I saw the two of you getting up close and personal last night.
So that must be a good sign?”
“He was teaching me how to hold the putter.”
“Okay, I believe you,” she says, her tone betraying her.
“Having a boyfriend doesn’t determine my happiness,” Owen tells her, words bitter.
“No, it doesn’t. But I think that Jacob leaving you affected you more than you’re willing to admit.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Kaitlyn. Please, not before noon.”
“I’m just saying, if we could crack your brain open, I could take a poke around, see what chemical imbalances are going on
up there.” Owen laughs at that, genuinely, despite the anxiety blooming in his chest. “But the two of you seemed like you
were getting . . . I don’t know, close again.”
“We’re playing nice,” Owen tells her. “That’s it.”
“Do you really think that’s the way you both can find closure?”
“Who said anything about closure?” he asks.
“It’s important. And if you two get there, who knows, maybe you can move on, actually be friends again.”
“I’m good,” Owen says. “I told you . . . I’m over him.”
Kaitlyn looks at him with that familiar expression, the one that tells him she doesn’t believe a word he’s said. But she doesn’t
say anything else, because she knows the truth.
And so does Owen.
“All-righty, here are your towels and the keys to your lockers.” A woman behind the counter directs them to the two large
archways on either side of the front counter. “Men over here, and women to the left.”
Then, as she hands Owen and Abigail their keys, she adds, “And our . . . um . . . gender-neutral changing rooms are further down.”
“Thanks?” Owen replies, meeting Abigail’s eyes, both of them struggling to keep back laughter. “I didn’t realize you’d come
out,” he says when they’re a few feet away.
“Is it the hair?” Abigail asks, pulling at a short strand. “Am I really giving they/them?”
The group separates, everyone heading into the appropriate changing rooms. As he’s placing his clothes and his phone in a
locker, Owen spies Jacob walking out of a changing booth, tying his robe around his waist.
He gives Owen a smile, but Owen doesn’t return the gesture, thinking back to Kaitlyn’s catching them in this act.
He’d let Jacob get too close last night. Something that he can’t let happen again.
Before Jacob can say anything, Owen slams the locker door shut, pulling the coiled wristband over his hand as he marches out
of the locker room, grabbing a pair of flip-flops that he realizes too late are two sizes too big, but he refuses to go back
into the locker room to grab a smaller pair.
He’s barely sat down on the bench outside the spa entrance before the large glass doors slide open. A man dressed in a white
polo with the logo of the cruise embroidered over his chest steps out, his teeth far too white, hair perfectly sculpted as if he slides it on every morning like a Lego minifigure.
“You must be . . . Kevin?” the man asks, looking down at the clipboard in his hand.
“Owen,” he corrects.
“Right, right.” He nods, not looking up. “If you’ll follow me this way.”
“Uh . . . should we wait for my friends?” Owen gestures toward the locker room. “They’ll be out soon.”
“It’s okay! The sessions are one on one.”
“Oh . . . uh . . . all right.” Owen stands and follows the man through the spa entrance. One-on-one mineral baths sounds odd,
but Owen’s never been to a cruise spa before. Maybe this guy is there just to make sure Owen doesn’t overfill the tub or drown?
“How are you today?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” Owen replies. “How are you?”
“Splendid!” He smiles at Owen, showing off too much gum. “My name is Brandon, and I’m going to be taking really good care of you today.” The words are so monotone and rehearsed that they send a shiver down Owen’s spine.
What are the odds I’m murdered here? Owen thinks to himself.
Hopefully the cruise line has all of Brandon’s information on file, so at least his killer will be easy to find. He’s led
past a larger, more open area. Owen can feel his hair frizzing up as they walk past a heated pool, steam rising from the rippling
surface as other passengers step into the water. Past another set of sliding-glass doors, spa-goers are receiving manicures,
pedicures, foot massages. Owen’s sure he sees a small pool filled with those fish that eat dead skin, and someone with dark circular marks all over their back.
Finally, after turning down one last hallway, Owen follows Brandon as he walks past door after door, all of them similar enough
that Owen has to wonder how he knows which one is his.
The room is tiny. That’s the first thing Owen notices as Brandon swings the door wide open.
There are a handful of already lit candles that give off a warm orange glow, leaving Owen to wonder about the potential fire hazard before he realizes that they’re all plastic.
There’s a table much like the one that Owen tattoos on, and a large cart filled with various supplies: extra towels, dozens of bottles of oil and creams, face masks, rollers, cups, cleaning supplies.
There is something calming about the smell of the Bengay that overpowers the burning incense. Jacob used to tease him for
always smelling like the cream. “Like my grandpa,” he’d say, before taking a big whiff, nose pressed to Owen’s wrist.
“Okay, feel free to take your robe off, you can keep your underwear on,” Brandon tells him, patting his hand on the massage
table. “And lie down on your stomach when you’re ready.”
“This is for a massage?” Owen asks, his worst fears confirmed.
“Yep!” Brandon says cheerily as he starts to lay out his oils.
“Yeah, but I didn’t want the massage,” Owen explains, unable to convince himself that he hasn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t