My client winces when I work on her trapezius muscles. I pause. “Have you been doing the stretches I suggested, Carla?”
She hesitates, shoulders tensing ever so slightly. “Maybe not every day.”
Or even every week. I push my thumbs up her spine and out over the knot between her shoulder blades. “It shows. You’re going to end up with a stress hump if you don’t start stretching more. Now, I’m not saying Quasimodo can’t be attractive, but—”
“I hear you. They hurt though. I tried doing them, but it felt like someone was stabbing me.”
“I know they suck, especially at first, but it gets better. They’d hurt less if you did them more often.”
She sighs. “Fine. I’ll do the annoying stretches.”
I shake my head. So many injuries could be avoided if people would take better care of themselves. A massage will make them feel better for a while, but if they put in the work, the massages would make them feel even better. Too many people are looking for quick fixes, but if they weren’t, I’d have less work. Then again, Carla’s the type who has someone to do everything for her. If she could pay people to do her stretches, she would.
I rub more gel on my hands and work my way up her calves. My forearm twinges as I focus on a particularly tight knot, and I realize I’ll need to do an ice bath on my arms tonight. I’ve been taking on too many clients lately because of my upcoming vacation.
She shifts on the table. “You have any plans for the summer?”
“As a matter of fact, you’re my last client for two weeks.” Five minutes to go, not that I’m counting down much.
“Oh, are you going anywhere?”
“Nope. I plan on staying in my apartment and doing as little as possible. What about you?”
“Well, Teddy and I are heading to our place in the Hamptons. His mother-in-law is having some work done in Switzerland at a very exclusive spa, so I’ll be accompanying her…which should be interesting.”
“Do you get along well?”
“No. I’m kind of hoping they pull her skin so tight she’ll look like she’s frozen in a wind tunnel and won’t have the slack to sneer at me anymore.”
We laugh at that mental image. “She sounds awful.”
“She’s the worst. But I love Teddy enough to put up with that crusty, old battle-ax.” She tenses as I press firmly on a trigger point and wait for it to release.
She and Teddy always seem like partners in crime, and a relationship like that appeals to me. Unfortunately, most of the women I’ve met lately seem more interested in being taken care of than being a partner. I’m not looking for a spoiled princess or someone so jaded and cynical that she assumes the worst of me right off the bat; I’m looking for someone to have adventures with.
I give Carla’s hamstrings a quick work-over for the last few minutes of our session, and with that, my two-week staycation begins. “Alright, you know the homework.”
She sighs. “Stretchy, stretchy. I’ll book our next appointment when I get back from Europe.”
“Have a good vacation.” I wipe my hands off on a towel and toss it in the hamper in the corner of the room.
“You too.”
I leave the room to let her dress, stretching the tension from my forearms before writing my notes in Carla’s file. Then I scrub my hands and arms in the sink.
My best friend, Shawn, calls while I’m drying off. I toss the hand towel into the laundry basket before grabbing my phone from the counter and answering. “Hello?”
“She’s lost her fucking mind.”
“Who’s lost her mind?”
He huffs into the phone. “My sister. You’re not going to believe this.”
I grin at his annoyance. The wildest thing his kid sister has ever done wouldn’t make an elderly church lady blush. Melanie is way too responsible. Even when she was in high school, she acted like a scandalized nosy neighbor, tattling on us when Shawn and I snuck out to go to parties. “Lay it on me.”
“She took a three-week vacation out of the blue.”
I don’t get it. “So? She’s in a high-stress position. It is summertime. My vacation starts today too.”
“Not done. She used some sketchy website to swap houses with a complete stranger for a couple weeks. This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast situation. Trust me when I say something’s wrong.”
I grimace, feeling less casual about the situation. She’s a bit of a control freak and not a spontaneous getaway kind of woman. Jetting off to Florida to stay in a stranger’s house is completely out of character. “Mel’s never been the ‘feel free to put your feet on my coffee table’ type,” I admit.
“Never mind an unsupervised stranger living in her apartment. I don’t know why she suddenly decided to do this, but it’s not like her. Maybe she’s on drugs. You hear stories about the fashion and publishing industries being full of drugs. Do you think she’s gotten involved in that shit?”
“Not a chance. She’s not the type—and drugs are more in the music business, not publishing. I’ve heard liquor is the poison of choice for writers. Maybe she just needed a break.” I lean against the counter. “Agreed it’s weird, but there’s nothing you can do about it. She’s an adult.”
“Well, there’s something we can do.”
“We?”
“You’ve got to do me a favor and go to Florida, man.”
I laugh. “I can’t just go to Florida and spy on your sister.”
He makes an agitated noise. “This is my little sister we’re talking about. Mel? The girl who put the hyphen in anal-retentive?”
“I see your point. If you’re so worried about her, why don’t you check on her yourself?”
“Three reasons. One, she’d kick my ass for interfering—and if it all turns out to be fine and dandy, I don’t want to trample the one time she’s decided to do something outside her comfort zone. If it’s all straightforward and safe, then this could be a good thing for her. Two, my boss won’t give me the time off work.”
“And three?”
He clears his throat. “The chick she switched houses with is a fucking fox.”
“How do you know that?”
“I went over to Mel’s as soon as I heard about this ridiculousness. I needed to see for myself the kind of person she was switching houses with in case they were some freak or a criminal just waiting to rip her off. I had visions of pulling up and Mel’s apartment being empty except for the lightbulbs because her guest had cleaned her out or had thrown a raging party and trashed the place.”
“Which wasn’t the case.”
He sniffs. “Not even close. But we got to talking, and you know how it is.”
I shake my head. “And you’ve kindly offered to show her around the city?”
“Something like that.”
“Something tells me you’re still going to get your ass kicked by the end of this. One way or the other.” I pause. “Mel really took off to Florida?”
“She did. If you go check on her for me, I’ll even fly you down using my air miles.”
I grin. “There and back.”
“Damn, you caught that?”
“You blew it by being oddly specific.”
“Fine, but you’re paying for your own damn hotel!” He laughs. “Do we have a deal then?”
Two weeks in Florida, kicking up my heels on the beach, with only the small cost of checking on Shawn’s sister? Maybe it’s been a while since I’ve seen her, but Mel’s the little sister I never had—and Shawn’s like my brother. I owe it to him to make sure she’s OK—and hell, I could use some time away from it all. “Text me the flight details.”
* * *
Shawn emails me the itinerary as I’m walking into my apartment.
He has me on the first flight tomorrow.
It’s short notice but worth it. I need the
change of scenery, to be honest. I’m on my third and final year in my doctor of physical therapy program at NYU. I love massage therapy, but it’s hard on the body. The past few years have been a whole lot of all work and no play. When I’m not studying, I’m working. Even the summers have been jammed with practicums in addition to my packed work schedule. I work full-time at one clinic and weekends at another. It’s tight, but I want to come out of this degree with no debt.
I fill the sink with water and ice and plunge my forearms underneath, trying not to tense at the frigid temperature needling my skin. My body will thank me at the end of this—at the end of this summer too, when my practicum is done and my schedule downshifts from manic to hectic.
As I try to wind down, my mind keeps drifting to Mel. I haven’t seen her in a few months. Doesn’t feel that long, but there were times when she didn’t make it to Sunday dinners or events with her family. Other times, she was there but I was away taking a seminar on Active Release Technique or whatever else that week.
She’s the director of human resources at a magazine, and she recently did me a favor. I’d told her all about the hippies at Inner Space and the receptionist who may need a new job, based on a tense moment I walked in on. Sarah had looked like a deer in the headlights with Phyllis looming over her while Fern did nothing. I really should have asked Sarah first, but she confirmed my suspicions when she jumped at the job and aced the interview with Melanie.
Sarah seemed like a good person, so I’m glad I could help. Fern and Ziggy aren’t bad people per se, but they do a lot of things that irk me—and I wouldn’t be surprised if their main masseuse, Phyllis, is into some shady shit. With no questions asked, Mel did me a solid and gave Sarah a chance. I owe it to her as well as Shawn to make sure she’s okay. The chances of Mel being involved in anything dangerous are next to impossible, but who am I to look a gift horse—with a plane ticket to Florida—in the mouth?
Chapter 3
Melanie
Last week, I had a day so horrendous, I was tempted to fake my own death. Six days and twelve hundred miles later, part of me wonders if it was really that bad.
But I know it was. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing in a strange woman’s apartment with my hands in her underwear drawer. I gnaw on my lower lip and stare at the tiny scraps of fabric—mostly thongs—tangled together in disarray. Shelby Kellerman’s ass is way tinier than mine, probably from all the swimming she does. Her surfboard is propped in the corner of her bedroom, a silent ta-da! to her athleticism. It mocks me with its existence.
The nine hours a day I spend chained to my desk, plus two hours on the R train, have softened me considerably over the last few years. Shelby probably doesn’t feel bad when she can only squeeze in the gym once a week. I bet her life gives her all the action she needs without an elliptical or a sadistic spin instructor named Nadia.
I bet she wouldn’t have let herself be chased from a nude beach by embarrassment. She’d have cavorted with the best of them, probably arranging a beach volleyball game or water polo. Naked water polo where you sit on people’s shoulders with crotches snuggled up to the backs of necks… And I can’t even finish that train of thought.
I slept terribly last night, tossing and turning and regretting my overreaction at the beach yesterday.
The tiles are cool beneath my feet as I pace around Shelby’s bedroom, soaking in the details of her life and the differences between us. Everything here is so…fresh. Buttery-yellow walls with white-painted trim. Light-silvery-gray sheets on the bed, covered with a turquoise chenille throw. A salty sweetness fills the air, and I still can’t tell if it’s the remains of her perfume or the ocean air wafting in through the huge window.
With an almost angry sigh, I move back to the dresser, scoop her tiny panties from the top drawer and drop them into the bottom one, and carefully arrange mine in their place according to type and color. They never felt boring until I found myself elbow deep in someone else’s much more exotic underwear. Wouldn’t a pearl thong—I don’t know—chafe?
I slide the bottom drawer open again for another voyeuristic glimpse. The first one I lift gingerly has two strings of beads that go way past thong territory up the front. Wouldn’t these…pinch or get caught in pubic hair?
Don’t be ridiculous, Melanie. Women like Shelby don’t have pubic hair.
Annoyed with myself, I drop Shelby’s thong back into the drawer and take my toiletry bag into her bathroom.
Sage-green tiles on the walls, white tiles on the floor, and there’s sea glass in a dish atop the huge vanity. On the edge of her large tub must be thirteen different types of shampoos and conditioners. I crack the lid on a brand I’ve never tried, admiring the musky vanilla scent. Is Shelby doing the same to my two lonely bottles that smell like toasted almonds and brown sugar?
I rearrange the hair products so the matching shampoos and conditioners aren’t scattered all over and put the body washes on the opposite end. I pluck the towel lying by the sink and hang it on the rack. Staying in a stranger’s house instead of a hotel is weird. It doesn’t feel like my temporary sanctuary a thousand miles from home. It’s like she just ran out to the store and will walk in any minute and catch me in her house, making it impossible to relax.
The fact that I’m alone and so far from home also makes me tense, but I had to get out of New York. I needed a break.
Straightening the living room helps. Shelby has a small collection of seashells on an end table, and I flip them around, admiring as much as displaying them to better showcase the delicate shades on the insides.
I know why I’m doing this—organizing things helps take my mind off the beach. But I came here to unwind, and isn’t a nude beach the epitome of throwing your inhibitions and troubles to the wind?
“Why can’t I just relax?”
Something orange flashes at the corner of my eye, and I whirl toward the open window. A tabby cat twitches its tail and stares at me with large, yellow eyes that seem to say Bitch, get a grip. Maybe Shelby doesn’t talk to herself much.
“What’s your name, buddy?” I walk over to the cat, who leans into my touch when I gingerly reach out. I’ve never had a cat, but my parents’ neighbor had an ornery, old Siamese that used to scratch me whenever I tried to pet it. This guy’s already way nicer. “Shelby never told me your name.” He must have hidden when I was here earlier. He purrs when I stroke his forehead with the pad of my thumb, realizing I’m not an intruder. He looks like a Buddy. “I was about to make lunch. You hungry, Buddy?”
Predictably, he doesn’t answer, but he comes running when I use the can opener on the tuna I find in the cupboard. I dish a portion into a small bowl and smile at the little growly sounds he makes as he digs in. I eat a sandwich one-handed while I organize the cans in Shelby’s cupboard. She eats a lot of chickpeas—or doesn’t, based on the seven cans I find. Lots of beans as well, and lentils—something I’ve been meaning to eat more of, but never quite get around to.
I lean against the counter and finish my sandwich, eyeing the open floor plan. In square footage alone, my apartment could fit into hers at least three times. There’s a door I hadn’t noticed in the dining area that leads to a shallow terrace with a charming wrought iron table and matching chairs shaded beneath a turquoise umbrella.
All of this and an outdoor area that doesn’t reek of garbage? I may have to brush up on the rules of squatters’ rights.
The cat bumps against my ankle, slipping through the open door. No point worrying about him getting out; he’s obviously as free-spirited as his owner, so I leave the door open for him, enjoying the smell outside anyway.
After washing my dishes and putting them away, I wander back into the living room and sit on Shelby’s white couch. I’ve never seen a white couch outside of decorating magazines and nightmarish tampon commercials. Maybe they’re more common down here? The cat joins me a moment later and heads to a patch of su
nlight streaming through the window.
I tap my foot against the floor and try to get more comfortable, but it’s no use. I can’t seem to settle into Shelby’s perfect home, her perfect life. I’m haunted by the memory of genitalia flapping in the breeze. It’s ridiculous that I’m this thrown off by some skin. I’m not a prude. I take the R train to work every day, and I’ve seen it all—sometimes on the same day. Naked people don’t scare me. So what the hell am I doing hiding in this—admittedly very beautiful—place, still in my pajamas like I’m going to camp out on the couch for the rest of the day?
“I should just go back to the beach, shouldn’t I?”
Buddy twitches his tail and stares at me, looking nonchalant and bored as only felines can. He turns back to look out the window. He’s probably had a thousand adventures with his fun owner, doing fun things with fun people.
I sigh and check my phone.
The four missed calls from Thaddeus may have something to do with my desire to play hermit. He makes me feel vulnerable—and feeling vulnerable isn’t good for a nude beach.
Shelby probably doesn’t care about the lack of clothes while she’s prancing up and down in the surf like a gazelle. Why have I let it bother me so much? What’s one little, clothing-optional beach? Pictures aren’t allowed, and while it’s not crowded to the point of no privacy, there are enough people that no one really stands out. Only complete assholes would go there and stare.
Thaddeus and his messages can’t chase me from my phone—because by locking it in a drawer for the rest of my vacation, I’d miss out on calls from Bailey. And I can’t allow a little nudity to chase me from the beach.
Besides, it’s not like I have to prance around without clothes.
Unless I want to.
If the mood strikes.
I get dressed, slipping my tankini on under a floaty sundress, pack another bag, and march out Shelby’s front door and down the street. This time, I’m armed with knowledge and a big umbrella to block any excess flesh from my direct line of sight. I grabbed a large hat too, on the off chance someone slips past my first line of defense.
Summer Indiscretions Page 2