Weather Girl(36)

AS IT TURNS out, Russell didn’t just book a couple’s massage for Torrance and Seth.

Somehow, he booked a couple’s massage for all four of us.

“It did seem a little pricey when I talked to them on the phone,” Russell mutters as we’re ushered back into changing rooms in the lodge’s spa, after they’ve told us they don’t do refunds. We’ve already checked into our rooms, which are wooden floored and rustic, with sweeping views of the surrounding forest. “Even with the retreat discount.”

“Come on, Abrams.” Torrance is already unbuttoning her coat. “Don’t tell me a massage doesn’t sound incredible after four hours in the car.”

That’s how I end up facedown on a massage table, underneath a too-thin white sheet and naked except for my underwear, sandwiched between Russell and my boss. Both of whom are also naked, to unknown extents.

I love this. I have never been more relaxed in my life.

“You can take off your underwear if you want,” my masseuse says as she adjusts the sheet.

“Oh, I’m okay,” I say in this squeaky voice that’s even higher-pitched than my niece’s. The table is heated, at least, and the lavender essential oils are doing their best to soothe my chaotic brain. I try to focus on the soft piano melody playing in the background.

Still, our tables are so close together that I can hear every sigh, groan, and grunt of satisfaction as a masseuse works on Torrance.

And on Russell.

“Let me know how the pressure is,” his masseuse is saying. “If you need it to be more or less firm, just tell me.”

“That’s good.” Russell lets out a low moan—quiet, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear him but just can’t help himself. “Perfect.”

I will myself to get swept away by the music. It doesn’t work. Because of course I can only think about Russell’s sounds in other contexts. My death is simply unavoidable. It’ll be tragic, perishing almost naked in the middle of a massage, but my brother won’t make too many jokes about it at my funeral. Probably.

“You’re very tight.”

“What?” I say, maybe a little too sharply.

My masseuse, a woman named Sage, chuckles. “Your shoulder muscles. I haven’t felt shoulders like yours in a while.” Oh. Obviously that’s what she was talking about. I immediately want to apologize, like my body has done something wrong by holding on to all this anxiety.

She beckons over another masseuse. “Anita, come see this. Feel how tight she is.”

Another pair of hands joins Sage’s. “Wow. A lot of stress?”

I nod miserably into the face hole. I hear the sound of Torrance’s muffled laugh.

“Sorry,” she says. “That might be my fault.”

“No,” I rush to say as my masseuse attacks a knot beneath my left shoulder blade. “Work’s been fine. It’s just . . . been a rough couple months outside of it.”

“Too much talking,” Seth murmurs from Torrance’s other side.

“If you fall asleep, you won’t be able to enjoy it,” Torrance says in this mocking singsong, but she’s wrong. I’d give anything to fall asleep right now, especially as Russell’s masseuse hits a spot that he seems to really, really enjoy.

When I think I’m finally about to relax, my masseuse pats my back. “All done.”

Oh. Okay then.

There’s some awkwardness as we navigate how to leave in our varying states of undress, and I decide to keep my head down as long as possible. The masseuses encourage us to use the sauna so the heat can melt away the toxins in our systems. There’s one in the women’s locker room and one in the men’s, so we split up. Here it is, my chance to talk to Torrance one-on-one.

I wrap myself in a towel, not relaxed enough to show my boss my boobs. And yet there’s Torrance, letting it all hang loose. Actually, loose is the wrong word because Torrance Hale has a phenomenal body. If I looked like that at fifty-five, I’d be prancing around in the nude, too. She must notice my comfort level isn’t quite where hers is, though, so she grabs a towel and cinches it around herself before we make our way to the sauna.

I sink down onto the wooden bench, idly wondering if my crush on Russell is a toxin the sauna can whisk away.

“Breakup, right?” Torrance says. Her blond hair is piled on top of her head, and this might be the first time I’ve seen her without makeup.

“Sorry, what?”

“The source of your stress. I’m guessing part of it was your breakup?”

Torrance knows only the basics, not the ugly details. If I open up to her, like with Seth, maybe she’ll be more likely to open up to me. So even though Garrison isn’t a source of stress for me, not right now, I make a feast of ugly details for her.

I nod. “My fiancé ended things in October. It wasn’t the most cordial breakup.” Not entirely a lie.

“I remember when you got engaged,” she says. “That was a beautiful rock.”

That’s surprising—not that she remembered, but that she isn’t quick to denounce marriage, tell me I dodged a bullet.

“It was a surprise, but in retrospect, it was for the best.” I’m nowhere near ready to tell my boss the real reasons for the breakup, so I go with a vague, “We weren’t a good fit.”