Physical Therapy (2 page)

He turned to rummage through several drawers and retrieved a pile of towels and two small bottles before continuing, “We’re going to have to strengthen your core to support your shoulders, but for now let’s get those muscles relaxed. How’s a massage sound?” He winked again, knowing the answer.

“Anything that doesn’t involve me moving sounds amazing.” I let myself smile at him without holding back, and the bottles slipped through his fingers as he lost his grip.

Hmm. Nah, he couldn’t possibly be interested in me. He was a Greek god and I was a mere mortal, freakishly pale and awkward as hell. Dumped in favor of a South American model. Still, Greek gods were always after mortal women, weren’t they? True, but only the unspeakably gorgeous Helen types who could do yoga successfully and had alien butts of perfection. Bummer for me.

“Slippery,” he muttered, before gesturing for me to hop up on the table. “Lie face down and keep your bad arm down by your side.”

He hesitated, shuffling his feet for a moment, then went on. “Would you feel more comfortable with a nurse present?”

“Who? Ginger witch? I’m sure she’d love that.” I successfully lightened the mood again, and he relented.

“It’d almost be worth it. All right, this may feel cold at first, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Let me know if you’re uncomfortable at all.”

I waited to feel his hands on me, but the stretch of non-contact seemed interminable. He seemed afraid to really touch me, but that was probably my imagination again. It must be the therapist thing. He drew the back of my gown open and undid the ties that held the sleeve on my bad arm, chastely tucking the fabric against my side. I heard the cap of a bottle click open, and I was so focused on waiting for his touch I was entirely unprepared for its reality.

Some sort of spice-scented oil straight from heaven coated his palms, making his flesh feel like satin as it glided across my back. He never put much pressure on my overheated self, but he somehow managed to knead out the tension from my whole body. It was bliss. He manipulated my shoulder every once in a while, but I was too zoned to notice. I finally couldn’t hold in a groan anymore, and let out the same noise a diet-starved actress makes when she sneaks into a closet with a box of Krispy Kremes.

“So good,” I muttered with my face buried in the table hole.

He stilled his hands, and I could hear him breathe in the silent interim before he spoke. “Good. Don’t want to overdo it though. Let’s get some heat on you to relax.”

Seriously? An Ethan massage could never be overdone, and I was combusting on the inside without the need for extra heat. He had magically prepared some sort of damp hot-pad he wrapped around my shoulder. The position demanded that my bad arm extend out a little, and I could feel cooler air suddenly hit the side of my chest, exposed now as the fabric of my gown shifted. I didn’t care one bit.

“Just relax for a few minutes and I’ll be back with your exercise regimen.” He turned toward the door.

I couldn’t halt the verbal avalanche that affected me while in his presence. “Wait! I mean, could you stay? You know, nerves and all?”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, his brow wrinkling as he considered how bizarre I was. “Are you sure you can relax with me standing here?”

“Of course not, that’s weird. You’ll have to talk.” Where was this crap coming from? I was flirting. I didn’t flirt!

A small laugh escaped. “Give me a topic.”

“Chipmunks,” I said, simultaneously trying to understand the pathways of my own brain.

“Hmm. Well, they’re kind of creepy. I’ve never actually seen one in real life, but that Alvin fellow is just dark. It’s like he uses his freakishly high voice to hypnotize children into wandering into his lair of twisted psychedelic mania. I also—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” I laughed outright. “You can talk about anything, so how about therapy. Why are you here giving massages to men?”

“What are you implying?” And the crooked smile was back. “The lack of variety in my clientele is not my choice, let me tell you. You’re the highlight of my day.” His face grew more thoughtful as he explained, “I used to play a lot of sports and had to come to places like this when I got hurt. It was always hell, and when I got to college I had the choice to become a coach for some Podunk high school, or do this. I wanted to help people, you know, make this a less awful experience.” He shrugged and flashed his gaze to the linoleum.

Okay, seriously, did this guy have a flaw? Maybe he was stupid. That was a stereotype, but he had to be. “Don’t be embarrassed, I think that’s great. I really expected this to be awful, and it isn’t, because of you.”
Too honest, must change subject.
“Next question, what do you think of Proust?”

I always asked this on a first date, not that this was a date at all, and a guy would always respond in one of three ways: a dumb blank stare, some sort of canned response learned from a college prof (which told me he had never actually read Proust and had no opinion whatsoever), or, well, this…

“Proust, huh? I could only get through one of
Remembrance
’s volumes. I know that’s more embarrassing than my magically inspiring career story, but seriously. That whole thing with the madeleines and all that crap about memories you don’t really remember shaping your life. It’s all just nonsense to me. I’m not going to spend my life trying to regain the lost thoughts of my childhood when I could spend it being a functional adult.” He paused for a moment and looked down. “Suddenly, I really hope you don’t like Proust.”

Well, okay. Not stupid.

“No, actually I hate Proust. Living in the past is boring, and I don’t like being bored.” We smiled at one another, which had become my new hobby. “So if not Proust, then who’s your favorite?”

“It changes weekly, but probably Hemingway. I know, it’s such a guy choice, but he just told it like it was. Didn’t suffer fools, and I think he captured the idea of courage within and not hiding under anything false. Okay, except for
The Old Man and the Sea
. That was rubbish. You?”

Now why didn’t I expect retribution? “Well, this is such a girl choice, but Charlotte Brontë. No good reason except she put in words what women really want.”

“And what do they want? Poet shirts and really tight pants?”

“Yes, actually, but that’s not primary. Women want men to be dashing and unattainable until they fall madly, irrationally in love with them, but in a way that’s really painful so they have to decide if giving up their bachelor lifestyle is worth it.”

“That’s cruel,” he commented as he laughed.

“Yep.”

“So what profession do you call your own?”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher.”

His mouth hung open. “Seriously?”

“Um, yeah. Why ?”

His eyes grew wider before he exhaled sharply. “Nothing, sorry. I like to guess what my clients do before they tell me, and I had you pegged as a grad student…or a school teacher.”

“Explain.”

“Well, when I went to get your file, you were flipping through magazines in the waiting room and you had this look of disgust on your face because there’s nothing out there but junk. Most people settle for an inane rag, but you didn’t. I thought something studious might fit.” He took a deep breath. “And then in here, your laugh is just really joyful. Carefree, like a child would laugh, so I thought you might work near kids. Sorry, that’s really lame.”

Was he even real? Not likely. I had raised myself up on my elbows, the heat wrap precarious on my back and the gown slipping dangerously low on my chest. I still did not care one bit. “Actually, that’s really sweet.”

He shuffled his feet. “I guess I’ve become a sort of amateur psychologist to keep myself entertained. Why did you become a teacher?”

“My mom taught elementary school, so I sort of fell into it by default. I really love it, though. Kids aren’t jaded by the world yet; they keep me honest.” I laughed at my ridiculous self-analysis.

“I think that’s great, Tasha.”

Dear Ethan, please stop saying my name or I’ll jump you.

I leaned forward a little, and the pack slid onto the floor, jarring the sudden stillness.

“Okay then, we shouldn’t leave the heat on too long anyway.” He began to clean up the items he had used, carefully not looking at me and my abundance of exposed flesh.

“I’ll just step out for a moment so you can dress.” He turned to leave, still avoiding my gaze.

I could hear the smile in his voice. I very, very hastily put my clothes back on. When he returned after the socially-acceptable light-knock-yes-come-in exchange, he carried a set of dumbbells. Crap.

“Now, now, don’t look so disgruntled!” he chided in smirky way. “You know you have to exercise to get better.”

“Ugh.”

“Glad you’re so cooperative.”

“Yeah, yeah, just tell me what to do. I’ll be a good girl, but I won’t like it.”

I couldn’t read his expression, but he quickly began to explain my new routine. “Just a few gentle stretches to begin with, and then five reps of each exercise. Don’t do more even if you’re feeling good. Many patients get worse because they go overboard.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. There’s zero chance of me exercising more than I actually have to.”

“Not the active sort, eh?”

“Physically, no. Mentally…that’s another story.”

“Well, now, that’s something I can be on board with.” His smile was wide. “But for now, I have to pull the fitness card.”

He moved to stand behind me and stretched my bad arm, taking a long time so my muscles could acclimate. “Okay, so hold the dumbbell like this, and slowly lower it to your side, then up. That’s one rep.”

I really hoped I could remember what I was supposed to do, because all I could concentrate on was the feel of his skin as he guided my arm into the right motions. He showed me the other exercises I was supposed to do, and then his skin was gone and I pouted.

“Does it hurt worse right now?” he asked with what seemed like very genuine concern.

Shoot. He saw the pout. “Um, no, not really. I’m just not looking forward to figuring this out without guidance.”

“Oh, you have guidance. We’re in this together, and you can call me here whenever you need to.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Yeah, really. I want you to get better. Can’t have you chasing after those little kids with such a disadvantage!”

I watched the muscles of his back scrunch under his polo as he led me from the appointment room. “Come on, let’s get your appointments set up.”

We headed to the front desk where Sabrina was, thankfully, absent. Ethan circled the counter to face me and put together a packet of the exercises he’d shown me.

“Instructions are on the front, but these are just reminders. I’ll keep updating what you should do at every appointment.” He handed me the dull-looking sheaf with a grin. “Also, your injury is fairly severe and recovery will be slow so you don’t strain your muscles. I think you should come three times a week for a while. I can monitor things better that way, and I’ll check in with the doc to renew your prescription.”

More therapy? Thank you, God.

“Sure, yeah, that’s fine.” I stumbled over my words, trying not to sound too eager.

“What time is best for you?”

“Probably Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays. Don’t you have a schedule though?”

“Nothing problematic,” he assured, leaning over to the lady at the desk. “Flora, put me down for Ms. Dupont…”

“I heard.” She winked at him. “You have Mr. Newtown on Wednesdays, though.”

“I’ll just get Casey to cover for me then. Newt’s almost done.”

I could feel myself blanching. I didn’t want anyone else touching me!

He looked up quickly and fixed his gaze on my pallor.

“For Newt, not you,” he whispered, leaning across the counter. “Sorry, but you’re mine now.”

He unleashed that crooked, sexy grin, which I felt myself matching. Flora handed him the file for his next appointment, but he seemed reluctant to leave. At least, I let myself see it that way.

“Bye, Tasha. See you on Wednesday.” The grin lingered as he finally sauntered away. Therapy was suddenly something to look forward to and definitely an occasion that called for fancy underwear.

****

“Hell!” I screamed. “Hell, hell, hell, hell, hell.”

I was doing Pilates, on a Saturday a few weeks later. According to Ethan’s instructions, I needed to start doing gentle exercises to build up my strength so I would supposedly not be as injury-prone in the future. I used that as an excuse when Nell asked me what I was doing, suddenly reversing my own personality and working out every day that week. So what if I’d been determined to lead a life of laziness and sedentary flap-expectation? I would never have a Brazilian boom-boom.

But I had to admit that my contentment with being toneless had vanished when I set eyes on Ethan. I didn’t want him to think me flabby, or that I didn’t take care of myself. Of course, I’d never paid particular attention to exercise since I was naturally unflabby, but the little things bothered me now that Ethan’s hands freely roamed my flesh three times a week. A lot more than when Sean had criticized me at the beach or when he flaunted Miss Brazilia at the wedding of a mutual friend.