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Oh, I know exactly who Lance Romero is. He’s number twenty-one for Chicago. I saw him for the first time in more than a decade just over a year ago—not that he remembered me from when we were kids. If I could never see him again, that would be awesome, and extremely preferable to being locked in a room alone with him. For an hour. Where I have to touch him. With my hands.
I don’t say any of that, though, because then I’d have to offer an explanation. No thanks to that.
“Can you trade?” I ask again.
“I would love to, but I have Ms. Thong next, and that won’t fly. What’s the deal? Why wouldn’t you want to get your hands all over this guy? Maybe he’ll want a glute massage.”
Sometimes we nickname our clients. Ms. Thong is seventy-six years old and wears the kind of panties you’d find on a stripper. Usually I think that’s funny, but right now I’m panicking.
“April.”
“Seriously, Poppy, what’s the deal? Why’s your face red? Why don’t you want to treat him? Do you have a secret crush on him? Do you lurrrve him?”
April and I have become good friends over the past year, since we took massage therapist positions at this clinic. We were in the same program in college, but we had opposite schedules, so we only ever saw each other in passing. We’re pretty close now, though.
Sometimes we even go out on the weekends together. Most of the time we just watch movies, because I’m not much for partying, and most of the time neither is she. On rare occasions we’ll go to a bar and laugh at the ridiculous guys who try to pick us up. But I have never, ever talked to her about the time I spent the night at Lance Romero’s house. Not in his bed. Oh no, my no-longer-friend Kristi was the one who had the pleasure of messing up his sheets. I know all about how outstanding Lance is in bed, thanks to her detailed recount.
Not that I’d want to sleep with him—or would have had opportunity presented itself. He’s an absolute dog. Who’s apparently amazing in bed. And a real giver.
I offer April a version of the truth. “I went to school with him.” And he’s the first boy who ever kissed me with tongue.
“No way!”
“It was grade school. It’s whatever. It’s not like he’ll remember me. We were kids. It’s not important.”
Mostly I’m trying to convince myself. He didn’t remember me last time. I can only hope it’ll be that way again. Otherwise this hour is going to be the worst. I wish my face didn’t feel like it was on fire right now.
April narrows her eyes. “Why do I feel like there’s way more to this story?”
The little buzzer goes off, signaling my next appointment, who happens to be the first guy I ever crushed on.
April points a finger at me. “We will talk about this later. I want to know why you look like you’re about to burst into flames.”
I ignore her and grab fresh sheets so I can dress my table.
April stops before she opens the door. “I can’t believe you went to school with him. I want a firm ass report.”
“Way to keep it professional.”
She slips out of the room, leaving the door open a crack. I finish putting fresh sheets on the table and arrange the pillows before I take a few deep, cleansing breaths to prepare for what is likely going to be a painful hour.
There’s so much irony in this situation. If this was a year ago, I probably would’ve fainted at the sight of Lance’s name scrawled across a patient sheet. But no matter how I feel, I need to put aside my personal issues and focus on the purpose of him being here. People come to see me when they’re in pain. If Lance is here, it’s likely an issue that’s impacting his ability to do his job, and my role is to help. I manipulate the human body in simple, gentle ways to help make that pain go away. I can keep this professional.
Armed with my clipboard, I walk down the hall to the waiting room. Lance is impossible to miss. Despite the fact that he’s wearing a sweatshirt and the hood is covering half of his face, he’s more than six feet of broad, hockey-playing man.
He’s so wide his shoulders encroach on the chairs on either side, which would explain why no one is sitting next to him. He’s slouched down so his head rests on the back of the chair, and his hands are clasped in his lap, a baseball cap hanging off one knee. His lips, plush and soft—I know since I’ve had them on mine; it might have been a decade ago, but I remember it clearly—are parted. He looks like he’s asleep.
