“Make sure you have a warm Epsom salts bath tonight, you hear me?” He spins around, back to me. “You were great today. You gave it your all—and you’re definitely going to feel it.”
Ignoring him and his valuable advice, I focus on our previous tit-for-tat dialogue and slowly remove my shorts and tank.
“Nope, tyrant fits better.” I stagger to the table, hoist on the bed, flip onto my stomach, and pull the sheet up to my waist. “I’m already in hell. And tomorrow? Let’s just say I’ll be haunting you from the afterlife.”
He chuckles, and the squirt of oil signals he’s about to begin. “That’s the spirit.”
This—this—is the only part of working out I ever look forward to.
Jonah’s massages are borderline divine. His hands glide over the backs of my thighs and calves with practiced ease, all strength and precision. My body sinks into the padded table as the ache in my legs starts to melt away. I moan, a long, drawn-out, completely involuntary sound.
“Easy there, vixen.” Though face down, I imagine the corner of his mouth twitching with his tease.
I’d be embarrassed, but we’ve long since passed that. The first few times I found myself on his table, I couldn’t control my sounds.
Jonah laughed so hard he cried. Actually cried. Then he nicknamed mehorny vixen. The name stuck for only a few weeks. I’ve since reclaimed my dignity. Mostly.
My apologies stopped long ago; being vocal is part of who I am. I was never silent in bed either. Tried, failed. Unless something was stuffed in my mouth—and not in a fun way—I couldn’t stay quiet.
Pete, my ex-husband, was the complete opposite. Stoic. Mute. I never knew if my pleasure turned him on or off. I never knewanything, really. Not how he felt about our marriage, or me, or sometimes even the kids. I’m not even sure when things changed, when that became our new normal.
And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? He was indifferent, and I was invisible.
Even still, our failed marriage isn’t all on him. It takes two and all that. I didn’t know it at the time, but my inaction—some might even say compliance—made me a participant in my downward spiral.
At first, I couldn’t fathom walking away from my marriage no matter how lonely and miserable I was. Though not a great defense, I was in love or I had been at one time. Our relationship spanned decades, things were great for at least half of it, and I had my children to think about. Yet, I lost sight ofme.
That part of my life is over now. I’m here, working onme, finally coming back to life. I’m living on my own terms and running my own business.
Eyes closing, I banish any thoughts of the past and relish Jonah’s magic. His hands are firm but careful, knowing exactly how far to push, how to read the tension in my muscles. It’s…
Nice. Not the touch itself, but the care behind it. I can’t really explain it, yet there’s a belonging or security in it. Being touched with care and kindness settles something in my soul, calming me in a way that I didn’t know I needed.
After the massage and a scalding hot shower, my limbs are half-gooey, but in the best way. I towel off, slick on moisturizer, and slip into my newest outfit—an investment piece.
In the mirror, I twirl. The hem of my red skirt flounces just right, feminine and fun, while the white peplum top hugs my waist and shows off the curve of my hips. Strappy black heels give me a little height and a little swagger.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. I’m finally at a place where I like what I see.
No, scratch that. Ilovewhat I see.
Strong legs. Brighter eyes. Confidence blooming just beneath the surface. I’ve worked hard for this—for her. I’m not all the way there yet, but I’m coming back to myself.
My phone buzzes with a text. Pete. Again.
Dinner? Tonight? Would love to talk.
No. I’ve already said no. Twice.
He wants to “rekindle” things—his word, not mine. But there’s nothing left to rekindle. The flame’s long gone, and all that remains are ashes that I’ve already swept away.
I leave him on read. Again.
Back in Jonah’s home gym, he’s finishing up, wiping down equipment with practiced efficiency. His house is massive, designed so the business side doesn’t bleed into the personal.
He looks up and whistles. “Whoo-eee. You headed to work or a hot date?”
“Work.” My hands smooth down my skirt. “Is it too much?”
