“You know what I mean.”
“No, he didn’t touch my p-word.”
Rory makes a gagging face, then drops the subject.
We finish our tea, pack up our suitcases, and check out again.
The sun is setting as we start the drive back home.
I feel tired, but also rejuvenated. Rory’s skin looks great from the sauna.
“Thanks for bringing me with you,” I say once we’re on the highway. “You know you could have sold the prize for cash, but I really appreciate you bringing me.”
She’s quiet, and I pull my eyes off the road to look at her.
Rory is crying silently, tears glistening on her cheeks.
My throat tightens. Rory almost never cries.
“What’s wrong?” I return to facing the road, giving her some privacy.
She sniffs. “I didn’t win the getaway. I bought it to cheer you up, because you always get so sad this time of year.”
My eyes burn, and now I’m on the verge of crying.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say softly.
We drive for a while in silence. The sun is gone, and the sky is cool blue, and getting darker.
After a while, I say, “Thank you for this weekend, Rory. You know I love you, right? You’re my boo.”
She sniffs again.
“I’m holding you back,” she says.
“Don’t be silly.”
“You should have a boyfriend. You’re pretty and smart and funny. And you don’t have some major psychological issue that prevents you from kissing or holding hands. All our other friends are moving on, getting married, having kids. The only reason you’re still single is me.”
“I wouldn’t say that’s the only reason.”
She turns and climbs over the seats to get the tissue box from the back window. She returns and blows her nose.
We drive in silence. The inside of the car feels cozy compared to the midnight blue around us.
“I should let you go,” she says.
I laugh nervously. “Rory, are you breaking up with me?”
“We should take some time apart.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve been single for a year, and I’m still getting dumped. Life isn’t fair.
She sniffs again. “Or you could go on some dates,” she says. “Maybe once a week. Then I’ll know I’m not holding you back.”
I stare at the dotted yellow line on the highway, thinking over what she’s said.
“I love this song,” she says, turning up the radio.
It’s a woman singing a cover of Fields of Gold, by Sting.
The lyrics are about someone asking to be remembered when they’re gone.
The song reminds me of my first love, who died two months after graduation. But that’s because every sad song reminds me of him.
Whatever’s holding me back, I don’t think it’s Rory.
Chapter 6
It’s been two weeks since my massage at the resort. I’ve been thinking about Mr. Big Hands. A lot.
Monday morning, I’m lost in my head, walking down Baker Street on my way to open the store. A sign in a window catches my eye:
Massage Therapist On Duty Monday-Friday
There’s a massage therapist working at the chiropractor’s office. Of course there is. I wouldn’t need to drive out to the hot springs to get a massage.
I linger at the window, trying to get a peek inside. I wonder if the therapist is a guy or a girl.
There’s a brochure-holder box near the front door, full of brochures and business cards. A bunch of the shops around here set out material like this, for the people who come by the restaurants in the evening.
I’m reaching for a card when I hear a deep male voice.
“What on earth are you doing?”
I jerk back my hand guiltily and turn to see Luca Lowell. He’s wearing biker boots, jeans, and a plain gray shirt that’s straining to contain all his muscles. There’s something different about his handsome face. His hair’s a bit longer, letting its waves show, but he’s less scruffy today. He’s clean shaven, with kissable smooth cheeks.
One thing hasn’t changed. Those bright blue eyes of his are once again taking my breath away.
I stammer,“Wha-what am I doing? Nothing. Just walking to work.”
He lowers his head and gives me a chiding look. “You don’t seem to be in any hurry. That explains why I’ve been out in front of your shop for the last ten minutes, waiting for you to open.”
“The hours posted on the door are more like guidelines. That’s why there’s a little star-shaped symbol next to all the times. The hours are flexible.”
He gives me a sideways look. “Are you going to get over there and help me out, or not?”
I jump into walking again. “Right this way, sir.”