But what do I have to offer? A broken body, chronic pain, PTSD I refuse to admit to. I can't even get through a yoga class without my back spasming.
After class, she corners me. "Come to my apartment. I have treatments that might help."
"I don't need—"
"Sir." She uses the title deliberately. First time she's said it. The word goes straight through me. "Let me help you. Please."
The please breaks my resistance.
Her apartment is above the studio. Inside, it's pink everywhere, crystals on every surface, plants hanging from the ceiling. But also organized, professional.
What catches my attention is the massage table in the corner. Professional grade. And the bookshelf full of medical texts mixed with the new age stuff.
"Physical therapy," she says, following my gaze. "I was in school for it. Got halfway through before I dropped out."
"Why quit?"
"My professor said I was too soft. Too eager to please. That I'd never make it in the medical field because I couldn't handle setting boundaries with patients." She laughs, bitter. "He was right."
"He was an idiot."
She looks at me, surprised.
"Being soft isn't a weakness. Being unable to say no is. But you're learning." I gesture at the table. "You don't build a medical-grade treatment room if you're not serious about the work."
"Shirt off," she says quietly. "Lie face down."
I do, suppressing a groan as I settle onto the table.
Her hands start on my shoulders. Gentle at first, assessing. Then she finds a knot and digs in with her thumb. The pain is immediate and intense and somehow exactly what I need.
"You were shot." Not a question. Her fingers have found the scar tissue.
"Three times. Two in the back, one in the shoulder."
"And you never got proper therapy afterward."
"Tried. Didn't take."
Her hands move lower, finding every damaged vertebra, every place the bullets tore through muscle and nerve. "Pain isn't weakness, Geoff. Ignoring it is stupidity."
"Noted."
She works in silence for a while. Her touches are confident, knowledgeable. She finds trigger points I didn't know existed, works through scar tissue. This isn't some spa massage. This is medical intervention from someone who actually knows what she's doing.
When she digs her elbow into a particularly bad spot, I can't suppress the groan.
"Too much?"
"No. Good. Hurts like hell but good."
She works that spot until something releases. The relief is immediate and overwhelming. Better than pills. Better than whiskey. Better than anything my doctor ever did.
"Where did you learn this?" I ask when I can breathe again.
"School. Before I quit. And I've been reading. Practicing on myself. Trying to stay current even though I'm not..." She trails off.
"Not what?"
