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SOPHIA
Mahatma Gandhi once said that to lose patience is to lose the battle. This is the quote I repeat to myself over and over as I strain to keep my fidgeting digits still and my breaths even while the aesthetician smears creams around my face.
“You have a beautiful complexion. I see a couple of blackheads. Do you mind if I work on those?”
My eyes are closed, and I can’t see the kind, gentle woman, but I’ve endured enough spa treatments to know that if I decline, she’ll just find something else to do to my face to fill the fifty minutes. I respond with, “Sure,” and an orange-red glow pierces through my eyelids.
Once I’m done with this treatment, I’ll go sit in the relaxation room, drink tea, and flip through magazines for hours hoping I coincidentally run into Gemma. I would prefer to be there right now, and considered simply buying a spa pass, but they don’t offer those here at this spa. A guest must endure a spa treatment in order to partake in the spa facilities.
Over the years, my stepmom and I have done the spa thing together over and over. Dad loves to pamper us, and somewhere along the way he decided spa treatments are a fantastic gift. I truly do love that my dad found Ava and derives so much happiness from spoiling her. And, typically, I possess the ability to calm down and let someone dig into my pores and scrub the calluses on my feet.
But today the process is akin to torture. My body pulses with the energy of a live wire. I laid the groundwork yesterday. Gemma will recognize me. I’m almost certain. Thanks to my shopping venture, she saw me as someone like her. I’m going to nail this first assignment, even if it is an innocuous, boring mission.
Patience.
I’m going to prove myself and become such a valued, impressive CO they’ll have no choice but to place me in roles where I can make a real difference.
Patience.
The bright light transitions to black, and latex covered fingers smear another layer of cream over my face. A crisp, herbal fragrance almost has me asking what products she’s using, but instead I focus on the gurgling creek and high pitch chimes emitting from nearby speakers.
Fisher’s probably correct. It’s unlikely Dad has anything to do with my current situation. But if Dad did somehow pull strings to get my old bodyguard assigned to work with me, can I really hate him for it? He’s a protective father because he loves me. When I pull this off, Fisher will see I’m capable, and he can reassure my dad that he doesn’t need to worry.
A soft squeeze on my shoulder brings me back into the room. “How do you feel?”
“Fantastic. Thank you.”
“I’ll be right outside with some fresh water. Take your time.”
I swing my legs off the table and lift the spa robe off the hook on the wall. The luxurious robe has plush, absorbent cotton on the inside and a satiny smooth exterior. A glimpse of deep red hair jolts me, and I do a double-take at my image in the small mirror. I take a second to smooth a few strands and braid the ends so they fall neatly down my shoulder. But no, the reflection is too schoolgirl. It’s not Gemma. So I toss my head down, fluff my hair, flip it, and let it cascade loosely over one shoulder. My cheeks flush against pale, dewy skin. The deep red hair overpowers my unnaturally dark eyebrows and pale skin.
Before visiting the relaxation room, I stop by my locker and apply eyeliner, mascara, and lip gloss. Not enough for it to register that I'm wearing makeup, but enough my face won’t blend into the wall.
My locker key jangles in the oversized spa robe pocket. It’s early in the day, but the spa is booked at capacity, and other guests have assumed several of the chairs in the relaxation room. A roaring gas fire lights one end of the room. The room overlooks a breathtaking view of the Coast mountains. Beyond the glass door, wafts of steam rise from a circular hot tub nestled into the concrete patio. And that’s where I spot Gemma holding a champagne flute of what I suspect is a mimosa.
Cold air punctures my skin when I hang my robe, and I scurry in my heavy plastic spa sandals to the edge of the hot tub, drop my towel, step out of the slides, and submerge my body into the piping hot water. Gemma smiles and lifts her glass as if in a toast.
“It’s gorgeous out here,” she says.
“It’s ten below zero.” She’s from Colombia. How on earth is she taking the freezing temps so easily?
She holds her glass in a haughty manner benefiting royalty, just above the water, with her hair wrapped up in a twisted towel. Artfully applied black eyeliner flatters her dark brown eyes, mascara lengthens her lashes, and there’s a hint of rouge on her cheeks. Deep red lipstick mars the edge of her glass, although little evidence remains on her lips. She empties the glass and rises to place it on the patio behind her. A waitperson appears out of nowhere.
“Would you like another?”
Gemma eyes me. “Are you going to have something?”
“Was that good?” I point to her empty glass.
“Sí.” Gemma looks to the waitperson. “Two, please.” As the woman walks away, she says, “Thanks. I don’t really like to drink alone.”
“Any time. I love a good mimosa.”
“Well, they’re a little stingy on the champagne and the oranges aren’t freshly squeezed, but it’ll do.”
“Yeah.” I wave a hand at our stunning surroundings. “This’ll do.”
Gemma laughs and dips down lower in the water until she’s submerged up to her chin.
