“You didn’t say anything before.” I hadn’t remembered feeling it the last time he was here, and there was no way the muscle would pull that tight in a matter of days.

“Why would I?” he asked. I wished I could see his eyes as he spoke.

“Because it hurts?” I pressed harder than normal, and he groaned. The tissue separated under the pressure of my touch. “Because I asked you?”

“Everything hurts,” he said. “My whole body. All the time. I’m used to it.”

He was so casual when he spoke about what his body had been through. I was close to finding out more, but his phone ringing saved him from letting his guard down with me.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

I loved my job. Healing people, offering them relief, both mental and physical, and being able to alleviate pain and soothe others using my hands. My career was my passion. But I didn’t love the stereotypes. I had worked hard to become a massage therapist, taking classes in anatomy, bodywork, physiology, even psychology and ethical business methods. I had practiced countless hours, passed my massage and bodywork exam, got my license. All that and still I had to deal with those classless jokes about happy endings.

I remember the first time someone implied that I was a sex worker in scrubs. He got a gleam in his eye when I told him that I worked as a massage therapist. I had been sitting in a coffee shop, minding my own business, enjoying a latte and a book, when this older guy sat next to me and asked me what I was reading. We chatted for a bit—he seemed nice enough. That is, until the conversation came around to what each of us did for a living. He told me that he was a lawyer at this prestigious firm. I could tell that he was trying to impress me by name-dropping some big clients and talking about billable hours.

I told him that I was a newly licensed massage therapist and that I was really happy to be starting my career; I was going on about wellness and the whole mind-body connection and the undeniable growth of the self-care wellness industry, when he raised his eyebrows, leaned in close to me, and said, “Oh, you work at a massage parlor?”

I explained to him that calling it a parlor was offensive in today’s world, and he let me know how tired he was of being called “offensive.”