All Adults Here(85)
Chapter 37
Couples Massage
The first time, Porter and Jeremy had broken up in person, and so this time, it seemed fine to do it over the phone. Porter thought that her resolve would be stronger if she didn’t have to look at his face. She didn’t know why his face was so irresistible to her, but it was. Diabetics didn’t have to stare at a fridge full of Coca-Colas when they went cold turkey. Sometimes the easy way out was fine.
It was a weekday, and so Porter called the clinic. His assistant, whose name was either Stephanie or Tracy, Porter could never remember, put him on. Porter’s heart was beating fast, but she knew what she had to do.
“Hey,” Jeremy said.
“Hey,” Porter said. “Again. I know I’ve said it before, but this was all my fault, us doing this again. It’s not good for either of us. Right? Don’t you think?” She hated herself for asking the question, as if it was an open matter, still to be decided.
“That’s what you always say.” She could hear the smirk in his voice. Jeremy didn’t need to be sitting in front of her, Porter could see his face just as clearly over the phone.
“Yeah, well. This time I mean it. Bye, Jeremy.” She clicked the phone off before he had a chance to respond. Her tear ducts were dry, but her hands were shaking. Porter closed her eyes and took a deep breath. In the momentary dark, she could see it all: the two of them as idiot kids, herself in the parade, the cold waiting room, the first time they’d slept together afterward, the first time they’d slept together after he got married. Porter wanted to be better than she was. If her brothers were right, parenthood was all about making mistakes. Now that she was so close, Porter wanted to start making them by accident instead of on purpose. Maybe someday she’d tell Elliot that she’d listened to him. She exhaled again and then picked her phone back up. Porter scrolled through her contacts until she found what she was looking for. She hit Call and waited for a few rings. When Rachel answered, Porter got right to it.
“I have a plan.”
* * *
—
At four P.M., Porter was standing in a parking lot when Rachel pulled up. It wasn’t a Parade Crew day, and so she was free right after school. They were both bigger now, Porter saw, well past the point of plausible deniability. Rachel’s coat was open, her belly laughing at the idea of a zipper.
“Hi there, pregnant lady,” Rachel said.
“Hello there, pregnant lady,” Porter said back. They hugged, and Porter slung her arm around Rachel’s shoulders.
“So what exactly is happening here?” She pointed to the building they were standing behind. It was the Seascape Spa, never mind that the sea was hours away. “Pedicures?”
“Oh no,” Porter said, guiding her down the stone path toward the door. “You’ll see.”
The young woman inside took their coats. The sound of a babbling brook came from speakers in every corner of the room, which made it feel less like a brook and more like being caught in the bottom of a drain during a torrential downpour.
“I have to pee,” Rachel said.
“What else is new?” Porter asked, and knocked into her shoulder.
The receptionist offered them both mocktail mimosas—orange juice mixed with seltzer. “I think half a glass of champagne won’t hurt us,” Rachel said. “What do you think, Port?”
“For sure,” Porter said. The girl squirmed, clearly uncomfortable, visions of brain damage dancing in her head. “Just the orange juice is fine.” The girl melted, relieved, and left them alone in a room filled with overstuffed chairs and a large fake fireplace.
“Mmm,” Rachel said. She took a sip and then sank into one of the chairs. “I can almost taste the three drops of mediocre champagne she was thinking about pouring in.”
Porter took a sip too. “Oh yes. Hints of citrus.”
Two women poked their heads into the waiting room. “Couples massage?” said the taller, sturdier woman.
“Yep,” Porter said. She reached for Rachel’s hand. “Let’s do it, baby.”
Rachel laughed. “When you think about it, it’s more than a couples massage—it’s a quadruples massage.”
The tall, sturdy woman and her short, stout counterpart led Porter and Rachel down a dimly lit hallway into an even dimmer room. In it, there were two massage tables side by side, the covers pulled back in crisp identical triangles. In the center of each table was a divot—a hole.
“What in the world?” Rachel asked. She touched the hole with her fingers.
“It’s for your belly, miss. If you’d rather not, you can always stay on your side. But some of our clients prefer it.”
Rachel looked up at Porter. “You got me a hole.” She began to laugh. Her body shook, a cartoon Santa.
“I’m sorry for being an a-hole. I didn’t plan that joke, but I think it works, don’t you?” Porter asked.
Rachel offered a generous chuckle. “Wait, I still have to pee.” She toddled down the dark hallway while Porter took off her clothes and tried her best to maneuver herself gracefully under the cover. Her belly slid into the hole. It felt like swimming. She closed her eyes and listened to the flush from the bathroom, and then to the sound of Rachel making her way back in, and taking off her clothes layer by layer, with no small amount of grunting. Porter listened to Rachel climb up on the table and assume the same position.