The Fix

by Kristin Rouse

  She steals another cigarette from my pack. “And she went to you. That’s pretty indicative. I don’t know, maybe giving things a go wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

  “I figured you’d lecture me on keeping all this from you,” I admit.

  “Your business is still your business. You need to tell me when you’re going to drink, but who you talk to, who you flirt with, who you… whatever. That’s still up to you.”

  “She lives thousands of miles away. I don’t know how to cope with that.”

  She nods. “I’ll bet that she’s not sure how to cope with it, either. This is pretty new territory. You need to have this conversation with her, not with me.”

  I know she’s right. We stub out our cigarettes and go back inside as a cold wind picks up. The amount of people in the house has doubled since we slipped out, and more and more are people I don’t recognize. We go for some hot mulled cider while I pretend not to notice that Juliana is acting as though she hasn’t seen me.

  The house is practically full to bursting when the toasts begin. I’ve switched to straight club soda (which lacks a certain something, but I gulp it down anyway). Mattias has been hanging with Anja and me, introducing us to people he actually knows and recognizes, but when Lukas stands up on the coffee table, much to Mama A’s chagrin, he gets up to join his brother. It’s tradition, Anja explains: every member of the family says something, thanks everyone for coming. Lukas, ever the comedian, always starts and gets everyone’s attention.

  He’s written his speech in limerick, and within seconds, he has even my sad-sack ass rolling. It’s breezy and light and funny, exactly what you expect out of a character like Lukas, but his crescendo is what really gets my attention.

  “…and middle sister, how we’ve missed her—we’ll be so pleased next month when we forever get to keep her!”

  He’s slipped it in, maybe thinking no one will notice. But enough people gasp and rush Juliana to ask what he meant by it that I know Lukas meant to spill the beans. She confirms aloud to the entire ensemble that she has, in fact, accepted a position within her company here in town. She isn’t going back to Brazil, at least not forever. She’s flying back to pack up, then moving back home for good. It was official as of yesterday. She doesn’t get the chance to give whatever speech she might have had lined up before she’s mauled with hugs and kisses from the ravenous crowd of people who adore her.

  I look at Anja agape. She shakes her head in silent insistence that she knew nothing about this. Across the room, I catch Juliana’s gaze with my own.

  I told you we needed to talk, she mouths to me.

  I nod, like I’m actually brave and noble enough for this talk. But right now, with an ocean of possibility stretching out in front of me and inexplicably scaring me shitless, I am neither brave nor noble. I kiss Anja on the cheek and tell her I’ll call her later. She tries to follow me out to my car, but I brush her off and promise her I’m not on my way to doing anything stupid. I just need to think, and I need to do it alone.

  I barricade myself in my apartment and turn my phone off. I marathon cheesy 80s movies to distract myself from my incredible yearning for a drink. When that doesn’t work, I exhaust myself with push-ups. I smoke three packs of cigarettes with the windows thrown wide open. I stay put, safe and locked away inside my own head, and try to process what this means. Why I’m scared when I should be thrilled. And finally, why I took off instead of taking that charming, gorgeous woman in my arms and kissing her senseless in front of the entire party.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I feel like a coward when I wake up in the morning. My head aches and my heart is torn up with longing. I feel miserable. Which ’is the exact opposite of what you should feel when the woman of your dreams announces she’s staying in the country when you’d been so sure things were over. When I turn on my phone again I have half a dozen texts from Anja telling me Juliana is looking for me. I run a shower as hot as I can stand it and stay under the spray until my skin feels raw. Why the hell am I such a coward?

  I put it aside while I’m at work—I have to, or I’ll drive myself crazy. At least it’s a busy day. I only have one free appointment spot on my schedule at the very end of my day. I check and recheck it between sessions, torn between wanting the money and wanting to leave early. It’s open right up until I go into my second-to-last session.

  That’s when Juliana calls in.

  I try to weasel out of it, like the louse I am. Ethically it’s questionable whether I should see someone I know—particularly someone I know like I know Juliana. I’m prepared to make my case to the manager-on-duty, but a glance over the schedule for the rest of the day reminds me that I’m the only one available. This must be my shitty, bailing karma coming back to bite me.

  I wait for her intake paperwork, then go out and introduce myself like she’s never seen me before. She plays along with a scowl on her face — I’d be a moron to not notice it. My heart races as I lead her back. When I usher her into my room and close the door behind us, she crosses her arms and glares at me.

  “I wanted to talk to you, Ezra. I really needed to talk to you,” she says.

  “And you couldn’t think of any other way than to blindside me at work?”

  “Well I tried going to your apartment, but you weren’t home.”

  “Yeah, well. I’ve been here.”

  We stare at each other for a minute. “Did you just come to yell at me?”

  “I—no.”

  “Okay. So what do you want done?” I gesture to the table. “They’re going to charge you even if you storm out right now.”

  Her demeanor changes. “I mean… A massage, I guess? I told you, I’ve never had one.”

  “Right. So what’s hurting? Anything?”

  She mutters something I can’t understand, then shrugs her shoulders. “Nothing, really. I just want to see what all the fuss is about, I guess.”

  “Okay. So I’ll step out and let you get ready, and knock when I’m coming back in.”

  “Ezra?" she calls as I’m opening the door. "What, ah… What do I do?”

  I can’t believe I’m about to tell her to take her clothes off. And yet, what else can you say? You can’t really give a massage through a thick sweater and jeans.

  When I close the door behind her, I hightail it to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I’m a consummate professional. I’ve never once even been tempted to cross a line with a client. I’ve got ten grand worth of student loan debt—one moderately pretty client would so not ever be worth risking my reputation for. I have to pretend she’s just any other client on my table, and not the girl I’m a lovesick moron over.

  I rub a paper towel over my cheeks roughly and stalk back to my room. I wait an extra second before knocking and letting myself into the room. She’s lying on her stomach under the blankets, propped up on her elbows and looking over her shoulder. This is exactly why I don’t work on people I know—with any other client, I’d put on my soothing, therapist voice and tell them to lay down and relax. With her, I have to keep my voice in check when I say, “You can lie down. Relax.”

  “Face in this horseshoe thing?” she asks.

  “Yeah. That.”

  Why am I being such an asshole to her? I ought to be jumping for joy that this is just one of a million moments I can now spend with her since she’s staying here. I have a shot with her, and that should thrill me more than it should upset me. I should be making jokes, not snapping at her. Maybe this is just another reason why this is all a very bad idea.

  “So, erm, I’m going to get started,” I tell her. I place my hands on her back through the blankets and rub up and down her spine. “You can tell me if I’m working too deep or too light anytime, all right? If something hurts or tickles, let me know.”

  “I’m not ticklish.”

  I file that in the therapist part of my brain. At least, I think it’s the therapist part. “Still. Just let me know what to adjust and we’ll go fro
m there. You won’t… hurt my feelings or anything.” I’d say the same thing to any client to make them comfortable with the idea of telling me what I need to do differently to accommodate them. With her, the statement is fully loaded, and we both know it.

  I give the same basic massage to most people who walk through my door the first time. Get them used to my hands through the blanket and sheet, undrape their backs, work top-down on the back of their bodies, toes-to-head on their fronts. But because this isn’t most people, I have to steel myself to undrape her. I pull the blankets back to the base of her spine and keep my gaze straight ahead. I stare at the clock, which I swear is mocking me, and register only what I’d register with any other client—a trigger point here, tight muscle tissue there, a deep scar on her hip that might be sensitive to too much pressure. As I work in a little deeper, I feel her skin pebble underneath my hands.

  “Are you cold?”

  “A little.”

  “We’ve got a heating pad on the table. I’ll turn it up for you.”

  “Thanks. I guess my blood will need to thicken back up to cope with winters here.” She shivers again when I go back to my work. I train my eyes straight upwards.

  “So…pressure all right?” I ask, mostly because that’s always what I’d ask of anyone on my table, and it’s almost working to pretend she’s anyone and not someone I’m so crazy for.

  “I don’t really know the difference between all right and not all right,” she says. “But it feels good.”

  “If it doesn’t, just—”

  “Let you know?”

  “Yeah.”

  For a few minutes I can pretend that she really is any other client. We’re silent and I get into my groove. She tilts her head in the face cradle and stares at me until I look back.

  “It’s a coincidence, you know,” she says. “Me staying. It’s been a possibility in the works for a while. When you were over on Wednesday and I was in my room on the phone the whole time—that’s what I was doing. My boss made her decision and we were figuring out all the logistics. When I’m starting, where I’ll be living, all that. It’s sort of a major deal—I’ll be running the entire office here. I’ve worked my ass off for this. It’s a coincidence, meeting you and liking you and also staying. That was what I wanted to talk to you about at the party last night.”

  Was I actually vain enough that I thought maybe she was staying for me? Her brothers and mother hadn’t been enough to keep her in the country when a work opportunity came up, so the notion that I could be a deciding factor was probably ridiculous. I don’t think I did think that, not really—but maybe I hoped that she liked me enough that I played a tiny part in it.

  I guess that sort of is what she’s saying, though.

  “You should be really proud of yourself, then. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. I am proud of myself. And I’m really happy I’m staying.”

  I realize I’m going to knead her back into sore mush if I don’t move on. I switch to her leg and chance a look down for the first time and admire the copper glow of her skin. My pale skin seems even paler in comparison. I wonder if she’s naturally this dark, or if she’s perpetually sun-kissed. I have to stop myself, though, because thinking about her sunbathing in Brazil, of all places, is right up there with picturing her naked. I can’t think like that while I’m working. Right now she has to be any other client, any other body, nothing more.

  I’ve got my knuckles buried in between the bones of her feet when she speaks again and unhinges my defense. “I hoped that maybe you’d be excited," she says. "That maybe you’d make some time to spend with me. Like the other night.”

  “I liked the other night,” I say quietly.

  “I did too. I hoped we could do it again.”

  “I’d like that. But if it’s all right, can we not talk about it right now?”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure.” A little disappointment there.

  “It’s just that I’m trying really hard to stay professional here,” I say, my voice strained. “I can’t think about how much I want to kiss someone when I’m trying to do my job.”

  “Oh, right. Boundaries.”

  “Exactly.”

  I see the blankets bob up and down as she laughs.

  “What?” I ask when she offers no explanation.

  “It’s not exactly easy for me on this end either,” she says. “Knowing just how well my massage therapist kisses.”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This is why you don’t work on people you know, Mackenzie, you ass.

  “This is why I don’t work on people I know,” I go ahead and tell her.

  “I should have gotten my first massage from a stranger, huh?”

  “You never know… There could be another therapist on staff that kisses even better than I do.”

  “I don’t really want to find out. I’m pretty happy with how you kiss, if that wasn’t obvious.”

  My heart leaps. I have to start thinking about things other than kissing her, and fast.

  After that, time ticks away almost too fast. I sneak a few more downward glances, enough to notice her pedicure when I’ve got her turned onto her back, a little birthmark on her left wrist, and the way she smiles tightly and bites the corner of her lip when I hit a particularly tender spot on her neck. I can stay focused enough to not think of how pretty the color of her nail polish looks, how the birthmark resembles a pair of lips, and how I’d felt her teeth scrape against my mouth the other night. Almost.

  I run my fingers along the side of her face in closing. She opens her eyes, looks straight at me, and smiles.

  “Not too bad?” I ask.

  “Amazing.”

  “I’ll step out and let you get dressed. Ah, do me a favor and don’t mention knowing me when the girls at the front desk check you out? I actually could get into a little bit of trouble for working on someone I know without saying anything.”

  “I’ll tell them you were the very picture of professionalism.”

  “I tried. It’s not so easy where you’re concerned.”

  That seems to trigger something in her, and she smiles at me coyly.

  “I’ll see you later, all right?” I tell her with finality, and leave the room. I have to splash another handful of water on my face after I scrub my hands to keep my composure. I grab one of the mini-bottles of water we keep on hand for clients post-massage, and return to my room….

  …but Juliana is already gone.

  ***

  I take my time heading home. I make a couple of needed stops for gas, cigarettes, and cat litter, and it gives me time to process everything that happened during Juliana’s session. I don’t feel like I’ve crossed any lines, but I also know something significant happened. The way she was talking—it was like she was claiming me. Or trying to. I feel like I know her enough now to be able to tell for sure now what she means when she speaks. Perhaps she was never that difficult to figure out in the first place. Maybe it was just a matter of sifting through all my own bullshit in order to put two and two together. I suppose I don’t necessarily have to understand her feelings to understand why she feels them.

  I could wax poetic about how I’m not worthy of her. How I’m certain she’s setting her sights way too low when it comes to me, and that it’s only a matter of time before she figures it out. Why would she want me when she could have literally anyone else in two different countries?

  With my bags in hand, I take the steps two at a time to my apartment. I am, but shouldn’t be, surprised I find her squatting outside my door, her arms hugging her knees to her chest. No one has ever waited outside my place for me. But then, when has this girl done things other girls have done for me?

  Never, in the best possible way of the word.

  She gets to her feet, and we stand and stare at each other for a minute. Then I unceremoniously drop the bags at my feet and open my arms to let her fall into them. My eyes haven’t even shut all the way when her lips seal over mine. I pivot her until she’s bac
ked up to my front door and crush myself against her. I need to kiss her lips, her face, her neck, every inch of skin I can find that I couldn’t wait to touch like that an hour ago. I had my hands on her professionally before—now I need them on her because I want her. And it’s finally registering that she wants me, too. My chilled hands roam her torso and loop around her bare wrists. I pin them in place on the door behind her and kiss her until my head spins. She pants for a second when she rips her lips away from mine and attaches them to my neck instead. It ought to give me the freedom to see well enough to jam the key into the lock, but instead my eyes roll back in my head when her mouth finds my pulse point. I fumble blindly for another few seconds, catch her in my arms when a shove of the door nearly sends her tumbling backwards, and I kick the bags at our feet over the threshold before we stumble behind them. I can’t let her go. Not now.

  “This is okay, right?” she says between gasps when I nudge the door closed behind us.

  I grasp the back of her neck and force our mouths flush. I kiss her deeply, trying to rid her of any doubt that I might not want this as much as she does. I groan as her tongue writhes against mine, and I feel my hips buck against hers.

  “Oh, thank God,” she mutters against my lips.

  We’re through the doorway to my bedroom within seconds, and she drags me down on top of her when her knees hit the edge of my bed. I hover over her, one arm keeping me from crushing her while the other smooths over her torso. The buttons of her coat come away easily under my fingers, and the pair of us wiggle and roll around until both of our jackets and shoes are tossed on the floor by my bed.

  She throws her weight against me so I’m on my back while she straddles my hips.

  I can’t do anything but stare in lust and wonder as she inches her sweater up her torso and tosses it aside. The streetlights peek in through the slats of my window shades and set her dark skin glowing. What I hadn’t looked down at before I’m seeing now in spades. Like so much else in my life, all I want is more. More skin, more touching, more her.