On Rotation(42)
Thirteen
Ricky pulled up outside my apartment the next day at two o’clock sharp, his face lighting up in a smile that put his dimples on full display. For the twenty-four hours since Michelle had accosted me in L&D, I’d turned her words over in my head. Mucking around in no-man’s-land? Michelle and I had known each other for six years (and as many heartbreaks, given my tendency to fall for every man who could keep up a conversation with me) and she had never accused me of contributing to my own misery. And yeah, Michelle had a penchant for the dramatic, but she was also frighteningly astute. I would have asked her for clarification, but Gwen was on me like white on rice, and so I never got the chance.
“Congratulations!” Ricky said when I popped the door of his car open.
“For what?” I asked, clambering inside.
“For making it to the weekend without murdering La Diabla,” Ricky said.
I groaned, throwing my bag into the back. It landed with a thud; Ricky had suggested I bring my books to the spa. It’s a whole day affair, he stressed. You might want to get some reading in. Nothing medical though—you’re relaxing, remember?
“Ugh. You’re right. I deserve a medal,” I said. “You know what she said to me yesterday after you left?” I brought the pitch of my voice up a few octaves and talked through my nose. “‘You med students are always soooo slow. Why haven’t you gotten me gauze yet? Come on, chop chop!’”
Ricky took his eyes off the road just long enough to give me an incredulous look.
“And you didn’t chop chop her upside her head?” he asked, shaking his head in disappointment. “But what of your dignity, Angela?”
I snorted, then dropped my seat back. Ricky never seemed to mind long, tangential stories about my day. If anything, he egged them on, picking up on loose threads from prior conversations and inviting me to expound on them. I never felt like he was humoring me, or simply waiting his turn to talk about himself. But of course, he was like Markus—a girl’s guy, a grandma’s boy, used to the kind of aimless chatter Frederick had once described as exhausting. And yeah, it was nice, but I couldn’t just give him brownie points for, gasp, actually being interested in what I had to say.
“Seriously,” Ricky was saying, incensed. “It’s nuts that they can just talk to you like that without any consequences. She grades you, right? Have you talked to anyone in your school’s administration about her?”
“The administration?” I scoffed. “Ha! No. There’s no point. They’ll tell me that I should work on accepting feedback.”
“Then what are they there for, huh? What do they get paid the big bucks to do if not protect you—”
I smiled lazily, watching him rant about the injustice of my mistreatment with genuine indignation. The sunlight poured through the windshield, setting his golden skin aglow. Poor Camila. She had no idea how good she’d had it. There was no way her new meathead boyfriend was getting this charged up about her work drama. Though to be fair, I thought, Ricky and I were friends. Friends listened to each other. Maybe if we were dating, he would have been different.
And then I stopped that thought in its tracks, because we were not dating, and, contrary to popular Sanity Circle opinion, I didn’t want us to be. Or, more correctly, I was content with keeping our relationship as it was. What we had now—singing along to Ricky’s “top 40s from the early 2000s” playlist, joking about his problematic clients, enjoying each other’s company without any expectations—was more than enough.
Too soon, we were pulling into the surprisingly packed parking lot of King Spa.
“This is it,” Ricky announced, shifting into park.
The entrance to King Spa was flanked by two statues of lions, appearing simultaneously grand and gaudy in its surrounding strip mall. Inside, a hypnotic flute melody played over the speakers. Ricky bounced with excitement all the way up to the reception desk.
“Maximum relaxation is ahead of you,” he assured me. He gave me an earnest smile. “I promise, this place is the best. It’s like a serotonin factory. I come out feeling great every time.”
Ricky paid for both of our entrance fees (“You can buy me dinner when we get inside”) and showed me how to use the bracelet key to open my locker.
“Have a nice soak. I’ll meet you in the sauna area in half an hour?” he said.
Then he left, heading toward the men’s baths. I watched him go, bemused. He was so . . . chipper today. It was cute.
I shuffled into the ladies’ bath area and located my locker. Already, I’d caught sight of more flesh than I was used to seeing all at once. The old women were especially flagrant, blow-drying their hair in the mirrors with their towels draped uselessly over their shoulders. The younger women seemed almost as unperturbed; there were groups of them huddled together, giggling and gossiping like they were hanging out in a café. It was like any women’s locker room except none of us were wearing clothes.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a bikini, let alone naked with a bunch of strangers. I’d been too self-conscious, hyperaware of the stretch marks on my bum and the stubborn bits of cellulite around my thighs. But even my brief time on ob-gyn had forced me to be gentler to myself. I saw so many bodies all the time, many with features that I hated on myself and found human or even beautiful on others. After I disrobed, grabbed a towel, and showered, it was finally time for a bath. There were multiple baths at different temperatures, and I played like Goldilocks, dipping my toes in each one until I found one to my liking. Gingerly, I sank into the almost painfully hot water and closed my eyes. Around me, the sound of bubbling water mingled with the din of hushed conversation, and I let my mind go blank.