by Lacey Dailey
“It’s okay,” he whispered, still moving his hand in a circle. “Just breathe. That’s all you have to do.”
I didn’t tell him that breathing was harder than what it seemed. I said, “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he said back. “And it’s okay.”
“I am,” I insisted, stepping away from his hold.
“Brett.” He wrapped his fingers around my wrist. “You’re crying.”
I startled, pushing my palm to my face. Wetness met my skin immediately. I wiped it away, only to find more streaming down my cheeks in replacement. A choking noise that couldn’t have come from me filled the room.
Before I could even process I needed to, he was there, reminding me to breathe.
“I’m fine,” I said again, over and over until I was crying so hard I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what the hell I was crying for or why a task as basic as breathing was proving to be rocket science. I didn’t know anything. I rooted myself in the voice that kept telling me to breathe, following the instructions until the wetness dried and shame fell over me like a thick blanket.
I had no reason to cry.
“I’m fine,” I said, more harshly while I yanked away from his grip. My knees buckled, and before I even recognized what was happening, two arms were around my middle, holding me steady.
“You’re not fine, but it’s okay, man. I got you.”
* * *
He reminded me again, but this time the voice wasn’t in a memory. It was surrounding me.
“I’m fine.” I cleared my throat. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”
His grip on my wrist loosened just a fraction, his fingers whispering over my skin gently. I fucking melted.
I placed my hand over his, just to keep his touch for a moment longer.
He smiled softly and pulled away. I knew he didn’t believe I was fine. But he wouldn’t push. He never really did. He was just there somehow. Every time. “I’m gonna shower and change. You want to give me like an hour? Then we can go grocery shopping.”
“Really? No more bitching about me going to school?”
His eyebrow piercing raised. “I wasn’t bitching, man. I just asked. If you don’t want to talk about it, cool. Just… I’m here, yeah?”
With that, he turned and padded down the hallway, yanking his hair from the band that held it. He was stepping into the doorway of his bedroom, running his fingers through his hair when the word shot out of me like a rocket.
“Yes.”
He halted and turned his head, his brows pulling together. “Yes?”
“Yes,” I said again, louder so he could hear me down the hall. It wasn’t a super long hall. Ten feet maybe, but this wasn’t something I’d likely repeat. He needed to hear it. “Yes, Ace, I went to school for Sage.”
“And now?” He pushed away from the doorway and started back toward me. “You aren’t enjoying it?”
“It exhausts me,” I admitted. “And I don’t know why. I used to love it, man. Chemistry was my shit. I recited the periodic table like preschoolers recited the damn alphabet. College was my safe place, and….” My throat went raw.
“And it’s not anymore.” He finished, stepping into my personal bubble. His hand came to rest on my shoulder. “That’s okay. People change.”
“It’s not okay. Because now what? Chemistry used to drive me. Fuel me up with all sorts of passion. I put on those lab goggles and just became another person. It sounds crazy—"
“No.” He cleared his throat and looked away, his jaw setting. He blew out a choppy breath. I was just about to ask him if he was okay when he met my gaze again. “It doesn’t sound crazy. I know exactly what you mean. And what? You’re freaked because chemistry and college aren’t what they used to be for you? People change, Brett. It’s okay.”
“Stop saying it’s okay. It’s not okay. Sage is counting on me.”
He snorted. “B, Sage is doing incredible. We both know it. And we also know part of her struggle is when she feels like people are walking on eggshells around her, treating her like she’s made of glass because of what she went through. We both know she wouldn’t want you to keep with college if it’s not what you want.”
“I know.” I ground out. “Of course I know, but it isn’t a fucking easy conversation to have. I feel like I haven’t done shit for her. She has her therapist, Wren, you, Lilah, and that chick named Zelda she apparently met on campus. Even a bunch of nerdy strangers did more for her than I did.”
His face twisted. “Do you resent them? Circuit? For what they did?”
“Fuck no!” I burst out. “I’m so fucking grateful they found her, man. But I just feel like a loser in comparison, ya know? And the one thing she finally asks of me is something I can’t do?”
I hung my head, gripping my knees harshly and rolling my shoulders. My muscles hurt. They always fucking hurt.
He gripped both my shoulders aggressively and started to perform witchcraft. “That feels good, dude. Shit. You’re good at your job.”
He chuckled in my ear. “First one is free. Then I start charging.”
“Really? I feel like I should get a best friend discount.”
His laughter filled the room again, and I held tight to the bubbly sound. “You need to talk to Sage, Brett.”
I nodded, keeping my head low. He was right. On some level, I knew I would be more disappointed in myself than Sage would ever be in me. The decision wouldn’t affect her much at all. I knew that, but it fucking destroyed me.
“I’m kinda really freaked, A,” I whispered.
“Why?” he asked gently. “Because you’re losing your safe place?”
“Lost my safe place years ago,” I mumbled. “Thought I was finally getting it back. Feels like… like I’m stuck on a street that turns into a cliff. Don’t know if I should jump or turn back the other way. What do I do, Ace?”
“You breathe,” he answered, pulling me against his chest the same way he did all those months ago. “And then, when you’re ready, I’ll help you find a new safe place.”
I nodded against his chest and let him hold me, not bothering to tell him I was pretty sure I already had.
4
Ace
“I have a question.”
I felt his diaphragm contract and move downward beneath my hands before I heard his low groan. It was muffled strangely by the way his cheeks were pinched in the face cushion that held his head. “No more questions,” he pleaded.
I shuffled from my spot at the side of the massage table to stand at the front. Arching my body, I applied pressure to his shoulders and pressed gently with my palms. “How many chickens would it take to kill an elephant?”
“What the actual fuck?” His voice bounced off my feet that were now directly in his line of sight.
“I’m just curious.” I stood on my tippy toes as I applied more pressure and slid my palms down his back until I couldn’t reach any farther.
“Why?” He sounded exasperated while he laid still and stared at my socks and sandals combo. “Honestly, you are like the dumbest human being I’ve ever met.”
“Randall Jameson Hardwood!” Linda Hardwood looked up from her phone and gaped at her son. “Mind your manners!”
“A chicken cannot kill an elephant, mom!” His body rocked beneath my touch with the deep huff he took.
“That’s exactly my point, Randall.” He growled when I used his full name. “One singular chicken can’t kill an elephant. My question is how many would it take to kill one?”
“Can you, like, stop talking? Aren’t I supposed to be relaxed when I come here? The place is called Tranquility Spa for shit’s sake. I do not feel tranquil.”
“Randall, really? You’re gonna swear with your mother in the room?”
“I hate you,” he told me. And honestly? He just might. Randall Hardwood was one grumpy kid. But I’d probably be just as grumpy if I had a bad case of scoliosis and a last name like Hardw
ood.
I patted his head. “I hate you too, honey.”
“Are you for real?” he snapped. “Now, I’m going to have that oil shit in my hair.”
“What hair? You have a buzz cut.”
“Your shoes are ugly,” he snorted.
“Randall!” Linda looked completely mortified at her son’s behavior. I got a huge kick out of it. My work as a massage therapist wasn’t always the most entertaining job. More times than not, I was massaging elderly people whose muscles had given up on them. I knew by now any chance of conversation with somebody over the age of sixty would be flushed down the crapper the moment they laid down. From then on, it was a full hour of snores and all my unanswered questions.
“I’m so sorry, Ace,” Linda sighed. “He’s being extra douchey today.”
A laugh burst out of me. “Your mom just called you douchey, bro.”
“Fuck you,” he snapped. “Do your job so I can go home.”
His mom buried her face in her hands. I just laughed and rounded the table. I was used to Randall’s douchey behavior. It was actually the highlight of my week. His shitty attitude and determination to hate everything in sight was classic teenage angst. I used to be the exact same way. Actually, I was probably worse.
My poor mother. She and Linda should have coffee and compare notes.
“Two choices.” His mom spoke up. “Stop talking or be polite. Ace is the best in this area. Do you want him to kick you out?”
Randall shut up. He most certainly did not want me to kick him out. Though I never would.
He had been my client for over two years. The moment he walked through the glass doors of Tranquility Spa, it was clear as Vodka he had scoliosis. The way his right hip was cocked higher than the left and he swayed when he walked told me his spine wasn’t as straight as it should be. He was in pain. That was made evident the second he scheduled an appointment. Massage therapy wasn’t a cure for scoliosis but a deep tissue massage made it suck a lot less.
“I know you probably think you’re like some massage genius.” Randall started, distaste for all things living in his voice. “You’re not. This spa is just closest to my house.”
“Whatever you say, Randall.” I moved to the back of the table and placed my hands on his calves.
We both knew he was spouting off bullshit. The certifications hanging on the wall beside me and an appointment book complete with a waiting list were enough to prove I wasn’t simply a convenience for Randall. When it came to massage therapy, I possessed the healing touch. I wasn’t the only masseuse who worked at Tranquility Spa –we had four– but I was the only masseuse who was certified in dealing with scoliosis patients, and I was the only one who booked appointments two months in advance. Randall Hardwood had a standing appointment every other Thursday at four o’clock. It was an appointment he never missed.
“It’s Randy," he hissed. “Not Randall.”
“Are you going to answer my question, Randy?”
“The one about the elephants? No. It’s a dumb question.”
“Why is it a dumb question?”
He lifted his head from the cushion and peered over his shoulder. “Because who gives a shit if chickens can kill an elephant? They don’t even live together.”
I shrugged and motioned for him to lay back down. I stood on the side of the table and focused on his right hip. It was a big area of pain for him so I started in gently, intensifying only after I knew he was ready. “It’s just fun to think about, Randy. Do you know how to have fun?”
“Do you? You massage asshole teenagers and overweight old people for a living. The extent of the excitement in your life is when new massage oils come in the mail. Your life is like a stale Ritz cracker.”
This kid was a riot.
I threw my head back and laughed loudly. I winked at Linda to let her know I wasn’t offended and kept doing my job. To Randall, I was simply a twenty-three-year-old masseuse with no actual degree and a lot of suspensions on my high school record.
But as much as I loved this job, and as quickly as I excelled at it, it would never be more than a scheme to keep people like Randall Hardwood from figuring out I spent my nights fighting crime with a boner for taking down psychopaths.
“Are we almost done?” Randall groaned. “I have plans tonight.”
“Hot date?” I mused.
“Jealous?” he shot back.
“My man, I have plans tonight too.”
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “Does it involve yourself and low-quality porn?”
I rolled my eyes and rounded the table to work on his left hip. I could shut this kid up with one sentence. Porn, my ass. Who the hell had time to watch porn when they spent eight hours a night moving their fingertips against a keyboard until they went raw?
I finished my job in silence. The only noise was Randall’s heavy breathing and the squeak of my shoes against the tile floor. “You’re free, Randall. Enjoy your date.”
I moved to the sink to rinse the oil off my hands, watching from the corner of my eyes as he maneuvered himself off the massage table. “Every time I come here my shorts get ruined.” He gestured to his black gym shorts and the oil marks around his waistband. “Disgusting.”
“Wear the same pair every time then.” His mom sighed and stood up from the oddly shaped chair she was waiting in. “You know the rules.”
“The rules are stupid,” he clipped. “I’m not a kid.”
But he was a kid. And that’s why he was required to wear a pair of shorts and be accompanied by a parent or guardian in the room at all times.
I grabbed two hand towels from the rack above my head. Tossing one at Randall, I used the other to dry my hands. He used the towel to wipe the oil off his body. We had showers he could rinse off in but he told me once he’d rather rip out his fingernails than be here longer than he had to.
His mom was right. The kid was a douche, and I didn’t like his attitude one bit, but I understood it. I had a soft spot for him. I could only imagine what sort of reminder this place served for him. The dude was sixteen and stuck coming here every other Thursday instead of getting to be at soccer practice or a football game. This place of tranquility didn’t bring Randall an iota of peace or calmness. It made him fidgety and turned him into a total jackass.
I watched him pull a T-shirt over his head. “Bye, Ace. Have fun with your low-quality porn.”
“Goodbye, Randall. Enjoy smelling like jasmine and lavender for the rest of the evening.”
He flipped me off and stormed from the private room. I chuckled and waved goodbye to Linda while she followed her son with a look of defeat in her eyes. I used to believe that look came from the way she was never successful in reeling in her son’s shitastic attitude. The more time I spent with Linda, the more I began to believe the defeat came from the limp Randy always had when he walked out of here.
It made me want to hurl.
Not the limp, but the fact that I couldn’t fix it. Hundreds of certificates and hands of an angel would never fix Randall. So instead, I let Randall insult me and complain, dishing it back just as good as I received it. The kid needed an outlet for all the pain and resentment he felt towards his spine. I knew what it was like to be mad at something you had no control over and not know how to express it. I was a grown ass man, but had no quarrels against instigating Randy. If it helped him later, it was worth it. Did it make sense? No. Was it working? I had no idea. Would I keep doing it in case it was? Hell yes.
A light tap came from the other side of my door. My first thought was that it was Randy coming back because he’d forgotten something. But it couldn’t have been Randy, the knock wasn’t impatient enough and there were no insults coming through the wood.
I set down the sanitizer I’d just grabbed and yanked open the door, blinking when I came face to face with the person behind it.
“Hey, man. The lady at the desk told me you were done for the day.” Brett pushed past me and dropped into the chair Linda had just
occupied. “She let me come back with no complaints but I think it’s because the lobby was busy.”
I snatched the bottle of sanitizing spray off the table Randall left empty. “What brings you here?” Not that I cared. He could make an appearance whenever the hell he pleased.
“You made me quit college. I was bored.”
“I did not make you quit college!” I lifted the bottle and sprayed the shit out of him with tea tree oil.
“Ace! Come on!” He wiped at his face, lifting his palm to his nose and taking a whiff. “This actually smells good. No wonder you always smell like a flower shop.”
“You smell me?”
His cheeks rivaled a lobster’s ass, and I was living for it. Making Brett blush was almost better than any of the victories I’d had at Circuit. “Blush any harder and your ears will start smoking.”
“Piss off, man! I don’t go around smelling your stuff. It was just an observation. My room smells like dirty socks and yours smells like whatever the hell is in that bottle.”
“Tea tree oil. It's an organic sanitizer.”
“Tree oil?” He dragged himself from his chair and came to stand on the other side of the massage table, directly across from me. “That’s what you use to get nut sack sweat off this table?”
I spritzed him again. “You disgust me.”
He batted the leftover moisture in the air while walking around the small room. “This is a pretty sweet space, bro.”
There wasn’t much to it. Just a massage table, a waiting chair that was only ever used by Linda Hardwood, a kitchenette looking thing with cabinets stocked full of fresh towels and an endless supply of oils.
I lifted a shoulder. “Yeah, it’s nice.”
“But it’s cool because it’s yours, ya know? Like an office.”
It didn’t have my name on it or anything, but all my clients knew to head towards room three before the receptionist led them this way. If that wasn’t a clear indicator I was the only one who used this room, my stash of Red Vines and Cool Ranch Doritos in the bottom left cabinet was.