“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.
I smile to myself, pleased that I still have it in me to win a battle or two.
I show the cashier my salad, and she weighs it, then subtracts a quarter since I brought my own container, though that’s not why I do it. It’s the same reason I fill my own water bottle from the tap—I don’t want to add more waste to the landfill after every meal.
I grab a table and dive into my salad with gusto, enjoying the crunch of the fresh green beans. As I spear a cherry tomato, I open a new email to send my mom a cute shot of Nicole, Penny, and me from the other day. My mom is my rock, and she loves seeing pictures of my friends and me.
When the phone bleats a second later, I swear it’s not me who nearly knocks her water bottle over in a mad rush to see who’s calling. That’s my evil twin sister sliding open the screen, cheering like a Sweet Valley High teen to see the number is a New York cell.
“Hey, this is Delaney.”
“Hey, you.”
And that damn stomach of mine? It flips like a flapjack in the skillet. “Hey there. I’m eating a salad.”
I’m eating a salad? Why the hell did I just announce my lunch menu? So much for winning at words.
Tyler laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Can I take from that you still won't eat anything with a face?”
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Me and green beans, we’re as tight as we’ve ever been.”
“Excellent. The lady still loves carrots. I’m taking notes. And does bacon still win for the meat you’d least want to eat?”
I shake my head as a bespectacled woman at the table next to mine barks into her phone at a million miles an hour about who’s picking up the laundry. “Ham, actually,” I say, glad my conversation sounds more fun than hers. “It overtook bacon in a long, but well-fought, race.”
“Poor ham,” he says wistfully.
I scoff. “Poor pig.”
“For the record, bacon is way better. Anything wrapped in bacon is pretty much a perfect food,” he says, and I laugh.
We used to tease each other mercilessly about my devotion to a vegetarian lifestyle and his to a carnivorous one. I don’t believe in eating animals; he prays at the church of the almighty barbecue.
“And does your affection for snack food still remain strong? Pretzels and peanuts for the win?” I ask.
“Always. But only as long as there’s beer,” he says, and I remember he used to joke that beer warded off hiccups, and he was one of those unlucky people who was prone to them.
Wait.
I turn down the volume on the memories. I’m not supposed to be talking, or joking, or laughing with him. This is far too easy. I slipped into old habits with him in a heartbeat, like we were pre-lubed and ready to go.
“Anyway,” I say, resuming my all-business tone as I pick up my fork. “How did you get my cell? It’s not on Facebook.”