She wants to run? Fine.
But I'm not letting her run far.
I know where she works.
Calming Spaces is in a nice part of Tallahassee, the kind of neighborhood with coffee shops and boutiques and women in yoga pants carrying tiny dogs.
Not my usual territory.
But Ingrid's been working here for three years now, manager of the place her mom and Fern own, Calming Spaces.
The only part of her life she can control, she once told me.
The only place she feels competent.
I park my bike out front, cut the engine.
Through the front window, I can see the reception area—soft lighting, calming music probably, that generic spa aesthetic that's supposed to make you relax.
A blonde woman sits at the desk.
Not Ingrid.
I push through the door, bell chiming softly.
The receptionist looks up, smiles that professional customer-service smile. "Good morning! Welcome to Calming Spaces. Do you have an appointment?"
"No. I was hoping you had an opening for a back massage. Today, if possible."
She clicks through her computer. "Let me see... We have a 2 PM with Ingrid, or a 4 PM with?—"
"Two PM with Ingrid is perfect."
"Wonderful! Can I get your name?"
"Gunnar."
She types. "And is this your first visit with us?"
"Yeah."
"Great! Ingrid will take excellent care of you. She's one of our best." The receptionist hands me a clipboard. "Just fill out this intake form—medical history, areas of concern, pressure preference. Ingrid will go over it with you before your session."
I take the clipboard, scrawl answers to questions about injuries and medications and whether I prefer deep tissue or Swedish.
What I really want to write is:
I slept with your manager last night and she ran before sunrise and I need to know why.
But that probably wouldn't get me the appointment.
"All set," the receptionist says when I hand it back. "See you at two!"
I kill time at a coffee shop down the street.
Stare at my phone.
Consider texting Ingrid a warning that I'm coming but decide against it.
