Spring Training: Week Two
Ihad never understood the appeal of spa days.
Paying too much money to have strangers in white coats poke at my dehydrated, decidedly unglamorous skin while I tried to identify which pop song had been flattened into elevator music didn’t exactly scream “relaxation.” On the contrary, it was a sensory nightmare waiting to happen.
But this was different.
The steam from the warm towel draped across my chest carried the faint scent of lavender and something earthier, like fresh-cut herbs. I was laid out on the fold-up massage table Parker had lugged into my living room, one sturdy enough to hold bodies of all shapes and sizes.
The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the makeshift oasis she had created. Bowls of creamy mixtures were strewn about my coffee table, a diffuser hummed quietly in the corner, and a playlist of sultry lo-fi music crooned from the Bluetooth speaker.
Parker’s fingers moved in gentle circles over my temples, applying some kind of mask she’d whipped up from yogurt, honey, and oats. “How does that feel?” she asked, her voice soft.
I exhaled slowly, sinking a little deeper into the table.
“Sooo good. I wasn’t sure I would like the mask part because they’re usually too cold and slimy.”
She chuckled, the sound light and reassuring. “That’s because most places use stuff straight out of the fridge. I warmed this up a bit, so it should feel more like hot oatmeal . . . in the best way. But if it gets too much, just say the word.”
“No, please keep going.” I closed my eyes tighter under the towel, letting the warmth seep in. “You’re a wizard, Parker. That’s a gender-neutral term, right?”
“I think so. But I preferenchantress,” she teased.
This was a first for me, really letting someone pamper me like this. I had always shied away from facials and massages—even pedicures were a gamble. It wasn’t the idea of relaxation that turned me off, but rather the overload.
Just last year, Jared had gifted me a massage and facial at a hip place in Portland. Sadly, the appointment had ended prematurely, with me bolting from the room mid-facial because the esthetician’s gloves had squeaked like balloons rubbing together.
I couldn’t help it. Certain textures and sounds had a way of sneaking up on me, turning what should be bliss into emotional warfare.
When Parker had offered to give me a trial run of her esthetician services a few days ago, I’d hesitated. Saying no outright would have felt like kicking a puppy, and I hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. Especially when she was pouring so many resources into our business venture, including her heart.
She’d seen through my hesitation right away.
Parker was good like that, sharp-eyed under all the rockabilly flair. “You look like I just asked you to go skydiving,” she’d said.
“It’s not you, I promise. I just have a lot of issues with textures, sounds, smells even.”
Her face had softened. No judgment, just curiosity. “Well, let’s talk about them. We can customize the perfect experience for you.”
We’d talked it out right then and there. No cold applications; warm everything where possible. Skip the gritty exfoliants forsomething smoother, like a gentle enzyme peel. Keep the lights dim and focus on the natural lighting. Before we’d known it, our chat had turned into a full-blown brainstorm session with Parker scribbling things down on a napkin.
“This is gold,” she’d said. “Just one more thing for me to offer when I open the spa space: customizable and accessible treatments.”
I’d laughed, the knot loosening. “You're turning my weirdness into a business model.”
“Not weird,” she’d corrected firmly. “Just human. Self-care isn’t created equal, butwecan make it equitable. We all have different needs and preferences. Mine is no patchouli. It smells like my ex.”
And now, here we were, her hands working methodically, gently rinsing the mask from my face with a warm cloth without dripping all over the floor.
Parker patted my skin dry with a soft towel and smoothed a light cream over it. One that smelled like fresh laundry and . . . clean man? Well, clean Bennett, at least. Generally, I didn’t go around smelling men straight out of the shower, but this particular scent hit the same notes as his skin after he’d washed and thrown on one of his soft, worn T-shirts he loved.
Like the one I had stolen from his room the other night when I’d been missing him. It was comforting in a way that made my chest ache a little.
Parker must’ve noticed my expression shift. “Too much? I can wipe it off.”
“No, it’s not that.” I touched my cheek again, the cream absorbing fast, leaving my skin soft and plump. “This probably sounds silly, but it smells like Bennett. And I know it’s probably just some generic fresh linen kind of thing, but my brain went straight to him.”
She laughed, low and delighted. “Damn, you got it bad, girl.”
