“I’ll tell her, but she’ll be fine. We both will. Now go. Have fun. I don’t want to see you again for at least twenty-four hours. Maybe longer.”
I head back to my car and wave one more time before I pull out of the driveway.
The urge to head straight back home is tempting. Really tempting. The house is going to be empty, with Grant at his game and April here with Margo. It’ll just be me, alone, for the first time since we moved in.
The thought should be exciting and even liberating. But now that I’m faced with the reality of what spending the night in that big-ass mansion all by myself will look like, I’m honestly sort of dreading it.
So even though I start off driving home like I normally would, I surprise myself by pulling up in front of the spa fifteen minutes later.
Kristina is at the front desk when I walk in, and she treats me like an old friend even though we’ve only met one time before now.
“There she is.” She beams at me as she comes from behind the desk to shake my hand, no doubt leaving the receptionist thinking I must be someone famous, or at least very important. “How have you been, Heather? Your sister told me that you’ve been working too hard lately and refusing to treat yourself.”
“She’s probably right,” I admit. “But I’m here now. I’d love if you could work some of your magic on me tonight. I felt like I was floating on clouds for at least two or three days after the last time we were here.”
She leads me to a changing room and hands me one of those impossibly soft robes that feel like a warm, fluffy hug.
“Now, you just sit down over there and put your feet up. I’m going to give you the most heavenly mud mask you’ve ever had, and something refreshing to drink while you get comfortable. Then we’ll move to the massage table and focus on releasing all of that tension you’re carrying around. I can already tell your shoulders are a mess.”
She’s not wrong, and I’m already feeling like a queen as two more women come in with the refreshments and the supplies for the mask. It’s easy to see why Margo raves about the service here—it’s a full-body, all-five-senses experience that’s as relaxing as it is refreshing.
But my mind keeps drifting to Grant’s hands on the wall beside my head in that hallway, to the rough growl in his voice when he said he wanted to bend me over the sauna bench, and to the way he looked at me at the bar—all protective and possessive in a way that should probably bother me but doesn’t.
“You’re tensing up again,” Kristina says as she applies the mask. “Try to relax. Can you hear those waves in the background? Let your thoughts drift away on those waves.”
I’m trying. I take a deep breath and do everything I can to stay present in this wonderful, warm, luxurious moment instead of replaying every interaction I’ve had with Grant over the past week.
It works, mostly.
By the time the mask comes off and we move to the massage table, I already feel more relaxed and centered. And by the time Kristina and her magical hands have finished massaging out all the stress and tension in my body, I feel like I might even be able to enjoy the rest of my evening without spiraling into an anxious, over-thinking mess.
I change back into my clothes, drink my complimentary cucumber water, and thank Kristina profusely before heading back out to my car. The drive home is quiet, the streets are relatively empty, and I’m feeling calm and centered enough to let myself enjoy the peaceful silence as I take the long way back.
When I finally pull into the driveway, all the lights are off except for the porch light that Grant likes to leave on when we’re all gone. It’s just another reminder that the house really is empty, and that I still have the whole night to myself.
And I last about forty-five minutes alone before I can’t take it anymore. It’s too empty and way too quiet. I keep walking from the living room to the kitchen to the living room, convincing myself I want a snack, then going back again to sit mindlessly in front of the TV without truly watching whatever is on.
Yeah, this isn’t going to work.
Not when I’m so used to April’s chatter and Grant’s quiet-but-steady presence in the background. All that time—not to mention Margo’s money—I spent at the spa trying to relax and get into a good headspace is going to be for nothing if I don’t get out of this house and find something else to distract my traitorous brain.
So I change into a dress I haven’t worn since before I was pregnant with April. It’s black and fitted, but just stretchy enough to flatter the curves that came with motherhood. I put on actual makeup, rather than the swipe of mascara and lip gloss that I barely manage on a good day. I even dig out a pair of heels from the back of my closet.
I’m not trying to impress anyone in particular tonight, but I’ve been given this pass by my sister and Grant and the universe, maybe, to go out and experience my life the way it used to be. Back when people saw me as something other than a mother or a sister or a friend. Back when I felt like a woman inmy own right, even if I wasn’t always completely comfortable in my own skin.
So yeah, I’m going to make this night count. I’m going to wear this little black dress and these painful heels out to a bar downtown that I’ve passed a dozen times but never even considered stopping to check out. It’s the kind of place that oozes sophistication and money, which are two things that I don’t normally have in huge quantities. But hey, this is my single-woman fantasy, and nobody else needs to know the truth or the reality that will come crashing back down around me when I come back to this big, empty house at the end of the night.
The bartender is at least ten years younger than I am, but he has a friendly smile and he’s definitely pretending not to check out my cleavage as I walk up to order a drink, so it already feels like I’ve won a minor victory as soon as I walk through the door.
I order a glass of white wine and settle onto a leather barstool like I belong here. Like I’m a woman who goes to upscale bars alone without worrying about getting hit on by strangers or whether I have lipstick on my teeth. Like I’m confident and single, with no other plans than enjoying some time to myself.
The bartender brings my wine and I take a slow sip, determined to savor the crisp, cold taste. But the more I try not to think about Grant, the more my brain tries to sabotage me.
So I do what any grown, rational adult would do when they’re trying to get someone off their mind. I down the glass of wine and immediately order another.
The bartender raises a brow, but doesn’t ask any questions. By the time he pours another glass and slides it across the bar with a smile, the first one is starting to kick in. I’m starting to feelmore comfortable here, more able to look around and take in my surroundings.
Like the way there are three separate guys who keep glancing my way, and how it feels surprisingly good to be noticed even if it’s also completely unfamiliar territory for me.
