“The administration?” I scoffed. “Ha! No. There’s no point. They’ll tell me that I should work on accepting feedback.”
“Then what are they there for, huh? What do they get paid the big bucks to do if not protect you—”
I smiled lazily, watching him rant about the injustice of my mistreatment with genuine indignation. The sunlight poured through the windshield, setting his golden skin aglow. Poor Camila. She had no idea how good she’d had it. There was no way her new meathead boyfriend was getting this charged up about her work drama. Though to be fair, I thought, Ricky and I were friends. Friends listened to each other. Maybe if we were dating, he would have been different.
And then I stopped that thought in its tracks, because we were not dating, and, contrary to popular Sanity Circle opinion, I didn’t want us to be. Or, more correctly, I was content with keeping our relationship as it was. What we had now—singing along to Ricky’s “top 40s from the early 2000s” playlist, joking about his problematic clients, enjoying each other’s company without any expectations—was more than enough.
Too soon, we were pulling into the surprisingly packed parking lot of King Spa.
“This is it,” Ricky announced, shifting into park.
The entrance to King Spa was flanked by two statues of lions, appearing simultaneously grand and gaudy in its surrounding strip mall. Inside, a hypnotic flute melody played over the speakers. Ricky bounced with excitement all the way up to the reception desk.
“Maximum relaxation is ahead of you,” he assured me. He gave me an earnest smile. “I promise, this place is the best. It’s like a serotonin factory. I come out feeling great every time.”
Ricky paid for both of our entrance fees （“You can buy me dinner when we get inside”） and showed me how to use the bracelet key to open my locker.
“Have a nice soak. I’ll meet you in the sauna area in half an hour?” he said.
Then he left, heading toward the men’s baths. I watched him go, bemused. He was so . . . chipper today. It was cute.
I shuffled into the ladies’ bath area and located my locker. Already, I’d caught sight of more flesh than I was used to seeing all at once. The old women were especially flagrant, blow-drying their hair in the mirrors with their towels draped uselessly over their shoulders. The younger women seemed almost as unperturbed; there were groups of them huddled together, giggling and gossiping like they were hanging out in a café. It was like any women’s locker room except none of us were wearing clothes.
A few years ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a bikini, let alone naked with a bunch of strangers. I’d been too self-conscious, hyperaware of the stretch marks on my bum and the stubborn bits of cellulite around my thighs. But even my brief time on ob-gyn had forced me to be gentler to myself. I saw so many bodies all the time, many with features that I hated on myself and found human or even beautiful on others. After I disrobed, grabbed a towel, and showered, it was finally time for a bath. There were multiple baths at different temperatures, and I played like Goldilocks, dipping my toes in each one until I found one to my liking. Gingerly, I sank into the almost painfully hot water and closed my eyes. Around me, the sound of bubbling water mingled with the din of hushed conversation, and I let my mind go blank.
Who knows how many minutes later, I was awakened by a splash on my cheek; a little girl, maybe eight years old, had jumped into the water. Her mother bobbed her head in apology, but I waved her off, searching the walls for a clock. I hadn’t expected to fall asleep. Well, I supposed, if Ricky wanted to be in my life, he was going to have to get used to me being late.
Eventually, I made my way out of the baths and into the standard-issue spa uniform. I giggled at myself in the mirror—the pink oversized shirt and baggy shorts made me look like a twelve-year-old—and followed the signs to the saunas.
The sauna area was unexpectedly grand, beautiful in an eclectic way. Dozens of similarly dressed spagoers lounged on the plush couches, played checkers on squat tables, ducked in and out of saunas with elaborate entrances and names like the Ocher Room. I watched people at the far end of the room bring steaming trays of food over to tucked-away dining tables. I scanned the space for Ricky and found him sitting on one of the couches. Our eyes met, and he beamed, jumping to his feet.
“So? How was your first King Spa soak?” he said. He had a towel draped around his shoulders and his hair tied into a wet topknot.
“A little weird at first, but nice. Sorry I made you wait. I dozed off in the bath,” I admitted. “I like your Starbucks bun.”