Getting Warmer (15 page)

On the table next to me, similarly prone and clad (or un-clad, as the case may be) lay Jonathan. His masseuse was named Rona. Rona was one of those post-menopausal women who refuses to go down without a fight. Her gray hair hung down her back in a heavy, steely braid. Her forearms were so sinewy, she could probably break bricks with her bare hands. I wouldn’t want to piss Rona off.

Jonathan’s face was relaxed, his eyes closed. He looked utterly at ease under Rona’s hands, at one with the eastern-influenced New Age music that plinked in the background. On the counter, a tabletop fountain tinkled over rocks and bamboo.

All that tinkling made me have to—well, you know. I cursed myself for drinking so much cucumber water while waiting in the pre-treatment lounge and tried to focus on the scent of sandalwood that drifted through the room.

Marcus repositioned my towel and started kneading my upper thigh. Together, his muscular hands, the oil, and my not-so-muscular thighs created an embarrassing squishing noise. I tensed a bit.

“Is that too hard?” Marcus asked, truly concerned.

“No, no, it’s fine,” I said neutrally, as if a waiter had just asked if my coffee was too hot. I shifted my weight in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure on my bladder.

After squishing away at my other thigh for a bit, Marcus murmured, “Would it be okay if I rubbed your abdomen?”

“Um, sure, that would be fine,” I said—because, really, how are you supposed to answer such a question?

Marcus held my towels in place while I hauled myself over. I caught Jonathan’s eye as I settled down onto my back. He smiled slyly, clearly hoping my towel would slip. I checked the wall clock: only twenty-five more minutes left in our hour-long massage. That wasn’t so long. I could hold it.

Marcus adjusted the towels around my chest and hips and poured some more warm oil onto his hands. Behind me, the fountain tinkled relentlessly.

Marcus placed a slippery warm hand on my stomach and pressed. I yelped.

“Does something hurt?” he asked, a note of fear creeping into his normally placid voice.

“I just—I, um, I have to use the restroom.” I swallowed.

“Oh, of course! I wish you had said something. We’d never want you to be uncomfortable.” Was he kidding? I’d never been more uncomfortable in my life. My bladder was the least of it.

“You know where it is?” he asked. I nodded. “We’ll leave the room for a moment so you can put your robe on.” Marcus and Rona slipped out the door, closing it soundlessly behind them.

Jonathan was still lying on his stomach. He raised his head and propped it up on one hand, resting on his elbow. His shoulders were muscled, I could see, and he had the perfect amount of hair on his chest: enough to be masculine but not so much as to evoke any zoo animal images. “Too much cucumber water?” he asked.

“Way too much.” I sat up awkwardly, clutching the towel to my chest. My white terry robe hung on a hook on the door, where Marcus had left it. I’d gotten myself onto the massage table by lying facedown in my robe, pulling a towel over my butt and then wriggling out of the robe and chucking it onto the floor.

I slid off the table clutching the top towel to my breasts with one arm, the bottom towel with the other. As soon as I stood up, the bottom towel started slipping, and I hunched over to hold it in place before realizing how ridiculous I must look. Jonathan watched me intently.

Slowly, I straightened. I let the top towel fall away. I moved my other hand to my side, and the bottom towel slid down my legs and landed in a pile at my feet.

Jonathan drew in a breath. “Damn,” he whispered. “You kept your panties on.” It took all of my self-control not to sigh audibly as we passed through the resort gates on the way out. I was unused to luxury. I mean, I’d actually been pretty excited by the idea of going to a movie theater: at nine dollars a pop, I almost always waited for the DVD. And, while I found the whole massage experience a little icky, I loved the fluffy robes, the firm showers, the Jacuzzi tub and all those complimentary lotions and potions.

“That was nice,” I said, inadequately.

“I thought about booking us a room,” Jonathan said. “But I didn’t want to be presumptuous.” He shot me a look to check my reaction. I gave the most mysterious half-smile I could muster.

The sun had fallen low in the sky as we drove back through town, lending the rocks an almost surreal glow.

“Do you need to get back?” Jonathan asked. “Or can I show you one last thing?”

We turned onto a steep road, passing signs for the Sedona Airport, and winding up, up and up some more.

“Are we going on one of those little airplanes?” I asked, trying to keep the fear out of my voice.

“No flying,” he said. “Sorry.”

Relief flooded me, followed by the tiniest twinge of regret: no fatal airplane crash meant no easy way out of my predicament.

We parked along the side of the dusty road, joining a mass of cars. Jonathan pulled a folded Mexican blanket from the back. We crossed the street, and I caught my first glimpse of the main attraction: sweeping, vertigo-inducing views of Sedona.

“This is amazing,” I said.

“This is nothing.” Jonathan glanced at his watch. “Give it another twenty minutes, and you’ll get amazing.”

Sedona sunsets are a staple of southwest calendar manufacturers and postcard producers, but nothing prepared me for the light show that lay ahead. Like a hot new Broadway show, there was competition for the best seat in the house. We secured a spot by a boulder. Jonathan spread out the blanket and settled himself against the rock. I planted myself between his legs, using his torso as a backrest.

Around us, a crowd of maybe fifty tourists, clad in T-shirts and shorts, milled around, waiting for the show, while stocky Native American women hawked silver jewelry spread out on colorful blankets.

As the sky began to turn, the crowd quieted and stilled. The sky seemed on fire, the clouds flaring orange and red, while the rocks glowed like piles of burning coals. Jonathan held me tightly, his breath gently touching my cheek, his heart thudding against my back. The clouds changed, growing more pink than orange. Tourists took pictures. The Indian women kneeled in front of their blankets, their backs to the view.

A hush hung over the crowd until the great orange ball finally slipped below a mountain, a fiery sliver seeming to burn the top of the cliff for a shining moment before being snuffed out entirely. We were quiet for one last instant before the crowd broke into applause, giving Mother Nature a well-deserved ovation. Women began drifting over to the Indian blankets, bending over to see the silver Kokopellis as the sky turned to a mellow pink and a soothing purple.

I twisted my head to look at Jonathan’s face. “That was something.”

He leaned around and kissed me. I shifted in the dirt until I was facing him. I put my arms around his neck and combed his hair with my fingers. As we sat there, lip-locked in the fading sunset, I thought of the halls of Agave High, lined between classes with students locked in hungry embraces, without a thought of how they looked to everyone around them. Then Jonathan kissed me some more, and I forgot about everything but him.

When we finally pulled apart, my heart was pounding, my face hot. “It would have been okay if you had booked a room,” I whispered.

 

 

The only available room at the resort had a kitchen, a dining room, a sitting area and a beehive fireplace.

“This can’t be cheap,” I said tactlessly.

I picked up an apple from a bowl on the counter (that’s how nice this place was; they had free fruit) and tossed it up lightly before catching it. “You must really want to get me into bed,” I said, congratulating myself on my boldness even as I felt a blush bloom on my cheeks.

Jonathan smiled. He reached over for the apple and took a bite before returning it to my hand. “You’re on to me.”

I wandered into the main room. “Speaking of beds, um, there aren’t any.”

“There are Murphy beds. The maid will pull them down later.”

“So, you’ve . . . stayed here before?”

“The guy at the front desk told me about the beds.”

“So you haven’t stayed here before.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t say that.”

“You’re being evasive.”

“I am?”

I looked him straight in the eyes and raised my eyebrows. “Well?”

He put his arms loosely around my waist. “Let’s just say I’ve never been this happy to be here before.”

I smirked at him.

“What?” He broke into a grin. “I thought that was a pretty smooth answer.” He kissed me, effectively ending the inquisition. Suddenly, I felt nervous. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

He looked at his watch. “We could. Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“I’m not really hungry, either.” He walked over to the fireplace and hit a switch. The fire blazed to life over a cluster of artificial logs. “Is this too smooth?”

“No,” I said. “That’s perfectly smooth.”

He took me in his arms and covered my mouth with his. We stood there kissing, standing in front of the fireplace at first and then shuffling over gradually until we settled onto the overstuffed couch. We stayed like that—kissing mouths, nibbling ears, licking necks—for what seemed like ages until I felt his hand fiddling with the buttons of my green blouse. I cursed myself for not wearing sexier underwear, for not owning sexier underwear, but my doubts fell away when he gently pushed the blouse from my shoulders and sat back to gaze at me. A small smile played on his lips as he reached for the front of my bra (which sports a highly unsexy front closure) and eased it open. He looked at me—well, okay, at my breasts—for a moment before slowly reaching forward to stroke them. A groan escaped from my lips.

He leaned forward and placed his mouth on my neck, kissing me gently as he worked his way down my throat.

There was a pounding on the door. “Housekeeping!”

“Oh, shit!” I yelped, surprising myself with the epithet. I bolted up from the couch and grabbed my bra and blouse.

“Just a minute,” Jonathan called out in a strangled voice.

I scurried across the enormous, high-ceilinged room and shut myself in the bathroom, hastily refastening my bra and buttoning up the blouse. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was startled. My cheeks were pink, my eyes, shiny. My tousled hair was still too short, but it was starting to grow out and had stopped looking so severe. I looked—was it possible? Yes. I looked pretty.

I looked like I was in love.

I blinked at my reflection, then suddenly laughed. I covered my mouth, though of course no one could see me.

When Jonathan knocked on the bathroom door, I was sitting on the closed toilet, my knees clasped against my chest. The sudden knowledge that I was in love was followed by the frightening realization that I had more to lose.

“We have beds,” Jonathan said when I opened the door.

“We were actually doing okay without them.”

“Shall we unpack?” He held up two Kmart bags. We had stopped off on the way back from the sunset. While I allowed Jonathan to buy me lunch, a massage and a night in the nicest hotel room I had ever seen, I had insisted on buying my own toothbrush and underwear (cotton Hanes, in a three-pack). I had even sprung for the communal toothpaste. I am nothing if not independent.

I took my bag over to a set of drawers and slid the package of undies inside before Jonathan could see how boring they were. I’d considered leopard polyester, but I knew I’d feel—and probably look—ridiculous in them.

“I bought you a present,” Jonathan said, walking over with his bag.

“Oh, you didn’t have to buy me anything,” I said, suddenly feeling like too much of a taker. “But thank you.”

“Don’t thank me before you see it.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a pink shirt with Southwestern lettering that read SEDONA.

 

He handed it over. It was ugly and borderline tacky, but it made me absurdly happy.

He reached back into the bag. “I got myself one, too. We’ll match.” His was bright yellow with identical lettering. “Think they’ll let us into the restaurant wearing these?”

“Maybe we should just order room service.”

“An excellent idea.” He put his arms around me. “Did you like the massage today? You looked kind of uncomfortable.”

I bit my lip. “I loved the spa. And I loved spending time with you. I just, well . . . I don’t really like strangers touching me.”

“And me?”

“Oh, you can touch me anytime.”

“Perhaps I should give you a massage, then.” He ran his hands down my back.

“That would be okay.”

“Okay?”

“Nice.”

“
Nice
?”

I looked up at him. “That would me amazing. Incredible. Heavenly. A dream come true.”

“Well, then.” He stepped back. “Let’s get you set up.” He went into the bathroom and came back with a fluffy towel. “Get yourself ready—I’ll wait in here.” He went back into the bathroom and shut the door softly.

My heart pounding, I scurried over to the bed and pulled down the bedspread. I unbuttoned my shirt. My hands were shaking. I dropped my clothes on the floor and wrapped a towel around me. I walked over to my drawers and put my dirty clothes in with my new underpants and T-shirt. Then I dove back to the bed and lay facedown, the towel covering my bottom half.

I lay there for a moment, wondering whether I should call out to Jonathan. But the bathroom door opened softly. “Are you ready?” he asked quietly.

“Mm-hm,” I said, trying to keep my breathing under control.

He had put on a white terry robe. He had a tiny bottle of the hotel’s moisturizer in his hand. He sat next to me and popped open the top of the lotion. He squeezed some into his palm, and then rubbed his hands together to warm it. He put his hands on my shoulders and rubbed in circular motions. Then he moved up to my neck, and down each vertebrae. My breathing slowed and my body relaxed. He put more lotion on his hands and then worked his way down one arm and then the other, taking time to stroke each finger. He put his hands back on my lower back and pressed gently.