Page 45 of Ship Happens

The group separates, everyone heading into the appropriate changing rooms. As he’s placing his clothes and his phone in a locker, Owen spies Jacob walking out of a changing booth, tying his robe around his waist.

He gives Owen a smile, but Owen doesn’t return the gesture, thinking back to Kaitlyn’s catching them in this act.

He’d let Jacob get too close last night. Something that he can’t let happen again.

Before Jacob can say anything, Owen slams the locker door shut, pulling the coiled wristband over his hand as he marches out of the locker room, grabbing a pair of flip-flops that he realizes too late are two sizes too big, but he refuses to go back into the locker room to grab a smaller pair.

He’s barely sat down on the bench outside the spa entrance before the large glass doors slide open. A man dressed in a white polo with the logo of the cruise embroidered over his chest steps out, his teeth far too white, hair perfectly sculpted as if he slides it on every morning like a Lego minifigure.

“You must be . . . Kevin?” the man asks, looking down at the clipboard in his hand.

“Owen,” he corrects.

“Right, right.” He nods, not looking up. “If you’ll follow me this way.”

“Uh . . . should we wait for my friends?” Owen gestures toward the locker room. “They’ll be out soon.”

“It’s okay! The sessions are one on one.”

“Oh . . . uh . . . all right.” Owen stands and follows the man through the spa entrance. One-on-one mineral baths sounds odd, but Owen’s never been to a cruise spa before. Maybe this guy is there just to make sure Owen doesn’t overfill the tub or drown?

“How are you today?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Owen replies. “How are you?”

“Splendid!” He smiles at Owen, showing off too much gum. “My name is Brandon, and I’m going to be taking really good care of you today.” The words are so monotone and rehearsed that they send a shiver down Owen’s spine.

What are the odds I’m murdered here? Owen thinks to himself.

Hopefully the cruise line has all of Brandon’s information on file, so at least his killer will be easy to find. He’s led past a larger, more open area. Owen can feel his hair frizzing up as they walk past a heated pool, steam rising from the rippling surface as other passengers step into the water. Past another set of sliding-glass doors, spa-goers are receiving manicures, pedicures, foot massages. Owen’s sure he sees a small pool filled with those fish that eat dead skin, and someone with dark circular marks all over their back. Finally, after turning down one last hallway, Owen follows Brandon as he walks past door after door, all of them similar enough that Owen has to wonder how he knows which one is his.

The room is tiny. That’s the first thing Owen notices as Brandon swings the door wide open. There are a handful of already lit candles that give off a warm orange glow, leaving Owen to wonder about the potential fire hazard before he realizes that they’re all plastic. There’s a table much like the one that Owen tattoos on, and a large cart filled with various supplies: extra towels, dozens of bottles of oil and creams, face masks, rollers, cups, cleaning supplies.

There is something calming about the smell of the Bengay that overpowers the burning incense. Jacob used to tease him for always smelling like the cream. “Like my grandpa,” he’d say, before taking a big whiff, nose pressed to Owen’s wrist.

“Okay, feel free to take your robe off, you can keep your underwear on,” Brandon tells him, patting his hand on the massage table. “And lie down on your stomach when you’re ready.”

“This is for a massage?” Owen asks, his worst fears confirmed.

“Yep!” Brandon says cheerily as he starts to lay out his oils.

“Yeah, but I didn’t want the massage,” Owen explains, unable to convince himself that he hasn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t lie or say something he shouldn’t have. He just went where he was told. “I have arthritis,” he blurts, hoping that’ll somehow be a valid enough excuse to get out of this.

Normally he wouldn’t love outing himself like that. As Jacob would say, Owen’s condition is between him, his doctor, and God. No one else. Hilariously, though, it feels like a much more believable excuse over “I don’t like to be touched.”

Brandon barely looks up, much more focused on setting out a bunch of small bottles. “Our massages aren’t just therapeutic, but have the potential to offer a myriad of health benefits.”

Owen takes a second to process the words “the potential to offer” before he realizes that’s not important.

“Just lie down and we can get started!” Brandon says again, motioning for Owen to spin around.

Owen hesitates, wondering if he should just walk out.

But his back is tight, and it’s not like he hasn’t gotten massages before. They’ve just always been from Jacob. The man had a sixth sense for knowing exactly where the tensest spots in Owen’s body are.

“Do you have any problem areas that we should work on?” Brandon asks.

“My back, I guess,” Owen tells him, still nervous. “I spend a lot of time hunched over.” Owen unties his robe, hanging it on the wall, bracing for Brandon to make a comment about his body or the tattoos like most people do.