Page 14 of Return To You

He looks at me. I know it’s useless telling him his setup is dangerous, and even more asking him to give me a hand with the planks. Everyone else is gone, so I climb the bleachers two by two.

Fuck.

I should have warmed up this morning.

My back is tight, and I feel the pain radiating down my spine to my leg.

Am I actually getting old, or is this from riding the bike? I set the planks nice and snug, admire my handiwork, then straighten, a hand on my lumbar region like that’s gonna help.

“Jeez, man, you look just like Dad,” Logan jokes.

“You got any Advil, smartass?”

“Nope. I think they have an emergency tent somewhere, though.”

Yeah, I don’t need that.

I wobble down the bleachers and walk around to see if anyone else needs help.

Cassandra, a woman I remember from way back when, stops me. I’m ashamed to say, my friends and I used to lurk around her lingerie shop, trying to get a glimpse at whatever she was selling inside. Her windows were always PG 13, showing only modest nightwear and photos of white wolves in snow-capped landscapes.

But somehow, we knew what was inside and we were insanely curious.

She asks me with genuine interest what I’ve been up to, then tells me, “you know, if your back is hurting, there’s someone over there giving free massages.” She points me to a tent where a few people are lined up. “You should try it.”

A massage, me? Not a chance. “Sure, thanks.”

I go toward the enclosures where the pigs are kept. Several people recognize me. “Hey man, you’re back! What’s with the limp?” someone I went to school with asks.

“Nothin’. Just my back. Carried too much shit.”

“Tell me about it. Some mornings I feel like I’m a hundred.” He waves toward the tent where the line is growing. “I just went there. She did a pretty good job. Plus it’s free. What’s her name again? She was a few years behind us… Anyway—Give it a try. I’ll see you around, I gotta catch up with someone.”

I turn around to look at the piglets then figure, what the hell. My back isn’t getting any better. Might as well get a massage sooner than later.

There’s a line of people waiting in front of the tent, next to a small table where the high school girl working at Colton’s—Tracy?— is scribbling notes.

I limp to the tent. “My back is tight, and people said you could help?”

She flashes a bright smile. “Aww! Mister K! Sure thing! There’s a thirty-minute wait.”

“Can I put my name down and come back in thirty?”

A burly man at the head of the line cuts into our conversation. “You go on right ahead.” The people behind him nod. “Saw you help with all those tents the other day. And the bleachers now.”

The line shifts and someone says, “Thank you for your service.”

I nod to the man who said that. He looks vaguely familiar. I don’t want preferential treatment. It’s not right. It’s just a pulled muscle. It’s not like I got wounded in combat. “Nah, I’ll wait. Thank you, though.”

Ms. Angela comes out of the tent, patting her hair down, and stops when she sees me. “Massage table is ready. You’re up next.” Her tone accepts no discussion, and I’m her four-foot tall, obedient student again.

So I nod and go in.

It’s dark inside the tent, and my eyes strain to adjust. A sweet and relaxing scent fills the atmosphere. Oriental-type carpets cover the ground, giving the space a sense of being elsewhere. There’s a chair next to the entrance and a massage table in the center.

To the back, there’s the silhouette of a woman busying herself at a small console with lotions. My heart ba-booms at the shape of her shoulders, the tilt of her head. Jesus fucking Christ, she’s thousands of miles away. Not here. And even if she was here, what does it matter? Shake it off, man.

But her dark, curly hair stirs something deep inside me, and I hold my breath.

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