The Hot One(9)

Now here I am – happy – but the memory of those moments on the phone with my dad tightens my spine like a high-tension wire as I do my makeup.

Except, I didn’t enter the massage therapy business to let myself be consumed by piss and vinegar. I went into it because I didn’t want to be surrounded by the kind of world I grew up in. I wanted to work in harmony, not discord.

I loosen my pincer grip on the blush brush.

Let the past rest. Let the future unfold. Let the present be a gift.

I can’t send a note to Tyler with that kind of ire attached to it.And it’s been nearly twenty-four hours, so at the very least I should respond to Tyler’s invitation.

A drink with him sounds intoxicating.

But far too dangerous. Given the way he’s invaded my mind for years, I can only imagine what sitting down to have a drink with him would do to my efforts to kick the addiction. Last night, I went on the wagon. I blocked him from my brain. Successfully. I earned my first-day sober chip. And I can’t risk falling back.

I set down the brush, pull my hair into a ponytail, and tap out a new note on my phone.



* * *



Dear Tyler,



* * *



Thank you. Your niece is lovely! Such a little doll. What a surprise to see you, too. Thank you for the invitation to drinks, but I have a packed schedule. Hope you’re well!



* * *



Best,

Delaney



* * *



I copy and paste the note into Messenger. My finger hovers on the screen like it’s resisting me. But this is the right approach. I believe that wholeheartedly, even though my stomach nosedives the closer my finger gets to the send button. Nerves swirl like a tempest, trying to trick me into seeing him. Trying to fool me into spending a few minutes with him at a bar.

I won’t give in.

I hit send.

I don’t look at my phone as I head into work. I don’t take a peek the rest of the morning to see if he writes back. Fine, I have back-to-back-to-back clients, and that helps.

Still, progress is progress, and I can beat this desire by focusing all my energy elsewhere.

Like on others.

With a groan, one of my regular gals flops down on the massage table in the Rainfall Room. Faint sounds of ocean waves lapping the shore drift from the sound system. The scent of lavender wafts through the dimly lit room. Relaxation is always the goal, but for some it’s tougher than others, and Violet needs the full effect.

“I’m addicted to my tablet in bed,” my raven-haired client mutters as she face-plants into the headrest. She says her words like a confession.

As I adjust the sheet on her lower back, I tsk at her gently. “I’ve told you before, Vi. We need to break the nighttime tablet habit. It’s bad for your wing,” I say, then run my fingers lightly over her bare shoulder.

“I know, I know,” she says, guilt in her voice. “My shoulder is killing me. I can’t help myself, though. I lie awake in bed at night, reading the news. I hate the news, but I can’t stop. And then my arm is extended the whole time, which makes my shoulder yelp in pain.”

I reach for the lightly scented oil and drizzle some in my palm. “Can you make bedtime an iPad-free zone? What if you tried it for a week?”

“I don’t know if I can do it.”

“They say the first day is the hardest,” I tell her. “And it’s true. I’m trying to break the habit of thinking about my ex-boyfriend, and I was successful last night. If I can do it, you can do it.”

Her face sinks deeper into the face rest. “I’ll try,” she says, and I can hear a soft smile in her voice. “Was it hard?”

“Like catching a taxi in the rain. But then when you hail one . . .”

“It feels like the biggest victory in the world,” she says, finishing the thought.

“Exactly. And it was completely rewarding. And that’s why I know you can do it. It’s what your body needs. Treat your body like a temple and it’ll treat you with reverence,” I say, then she sighs deeply as I work on her shoulder and the rest of her knotted-up muscles for an hour.

My next two clients keep me equally busy. One is waylaid with regular headaches, so we work on her neck, and the next suffers from sciatic nerve pain. “Sitting is the new smoking,” he grumbles, as I try to give him some relief from the chronic aches that shoot down the back of his leg.

“Then massage is the new ibuprofen,” I say with a cheery smile. “Let’s see if we can get you feeling better.”

Ninety minutes later, he says he feels human again.

And I feel proud that I barely thought about Tyler the entire morning. When I slip out for a quick lunch break at my favorite salad bar around the corner, I check my phone for the first time in hours as I walk down the block.

My shoulders sag.

There’s no reply from him, and I try to fight off a kernel of disappointment that takes root as I go inside.

As I spoon arugula and jicama into a Tupperware dish I brought with me, I tell myself there’s no need to feel the slightest bit empty. I’m not at all bummed over the absence of a response. Since I said no to his offer, why on earth would I even think he’d write back?

Except, I knew him as a man who fought relentlessly for what he wanted, who dug in like a Rottweiler with a bone. His tenacity was limitless. So if a guy like him didn’t reply, then clearly my toned-down rhetoric in my more tactful note was strong enough to ward off even his won’t-back-down approach.