My throat grew inexplicably tight. He obviously meant a case of throwing me over his shoulder like he’s want to do as a firefighter, but at the same time my sweet, innocent, little naive mind couldn’t help but think of it in a different way. Couldn’t help but think that’s what a partner might say.
I didn’t think I needed, cared, or even wanted the emotional work that a partner would entail. But those simple words, that easy admission, as though it were nothing at all.
I can carry you.
That was what made relationships so appealing. Having someone there to be able to help bear the load when you couldn’t take it all on yourself. But would I ever be able to help carry anybody else’s with my brokenness? It didn’t bear thinking about. Not only did my throat get too tight to talk, but my eyes also started to burn with the threat of emotion. Abso-freaking-lutely not.
When I didn’t speak, he just moved on with this routine of stretching as if nothing had happened.
He lowered my leg and began to rub my calf. His thumbs moved in firm circles, exactly where knots were forming, hard enough to be just on the edge of too much but not all the way there.
I moaned without meaning to. I couldn’t help myself as his hands moved up my legs to my thighs. The muscles were even more sensitive here, and his fingertips were just inches from my core, and the heavy weight of desire was making itself more known.
I imagined him spreading me out on a bed, rubbing me from head to foot, taking his time on my most intimate areas. I watched his face closely for any sign that this massage mightbe impacting him the way it did me, but his head was lowered, focused on the task. If he was affected at all, he wasn’t showing it. I noted the strong muscles of his shoulders and arms, flexing and relaxing as he worked me.
I saw only him, so fully in the moment, his deliberate attention to me, that everything else seemed to blur away. I wasn’t even thinking about the fact that he had me spread out on the floor for everybody to see. I wasn’t sure if I even cared, and that took me by surprise.
Pace had the wonderful ability to quiet all the swirling thoughts.
When a soft moan escaped me, I sat up quickly. I stood up too fast, and it broke whatever strange trance we had both been in.
“I’m going to go shower,” I said on an exhale.
He blinked up at me, taking a moment to catch up with what I said. He swallowed and ran a hand over his face. “Me too.” He nodded and got to his feet.
“I’m not going to wash my hair, so I’ll meet you up front in fifteen,” I said, collecting my towel and avoiding looking at him completely.
I scurried off to the locker room like a little chicken, and by the time I met him back up front, I had collected myself. He stood waiting, face to the sun, a soft smile on his lips. Beautiful as ever.
I sighed. This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous.
“I thought maybe I’d be up for more,” I said by way of greeting. I had hoped I would be too. “I’m sorry. But I feel exhausted on all the levels.” Early-Morning Me and After-Gym Me were two entirely different people. I needed to go be alone and process everything that had happened, from the shitty comments to the overwhelming power of his touch to the piercing sincerity of Pace saying,I can carry you.
I probably wouldn’t ever be the same again. No big deal.
“No worries. Today was great. You did great,” he said sincerely. He squeezed my shoulder, and a fresh scent of bodywash hit me. I wanted to tilt my head and rub my cheek along his hand.
I didn’t.
“I wished I wasn’t so ... If I could push through, we could knock everything out at once, but this stupid, freaking brain?—”
“Hey. You gotta stop talking about her like that.” He gently pushed a strand of my hair back to softly brush against my temple. “She’s doing her best to take care of you.”
What was with this man and his random nuggets of wisdom? And the touching. He was just so comfortable touching. I blamed post-workout endorphins for the inexplicable emotion tightening my throat.
“Aren’t you supposed to say five nice things to yourself now?” he asked. Of course, he remembered that offhand comment and ran with it.
“I’m still working on that,” I said, shifting on my feet. “The problem is, I’m too self-aware. It’s exhausting.”
“Is it self-aware if you only ever focus on the bad? I would argue that’s a startling lack of awareness,” he said genuinely, but it short-circuited my functions temporarily.
I closed my mouth. “I-I literally never thought about that.”
“Okay. I’ll go,” he said.
I fought an eye roll at his attempt to say five nice things about himself. Those sorts of thoughts probably manifested in his mind before his eyes even popped open in the morning.
“One: It’s incredibly courageous that you’re trying so many things outside your comfort zone. So many people are content to stay in the prisons they built themselves.”
