"You seem distracted today," Cindy said, squinting at him, "Everything okay?"
James scrambled for a plausible answer.
"It's just... the trip's going by so fast," he blurted, hoping to sound misty and nostalgic, "I wish we could slow it down and savor it more, you know?"
His mother’s tone softened, her eyes twinkling behind oversized sunglasses, "Aw, Amy. You always were the sentimental one."
James forced himself to keep breathing. For a wild moment, he considered telling Cindy the truth—just blurt it out.
He looked at the sea, waves breaking into crescents of white. A couple of kids were building a lopsided sandcastle too close to the water, every fresh set rippling at the mud-caked battlements. James envied them—envied the simplicity and smallness of their disasters.
It wasn't until the group was rinsing off in the outdoor showers, trying to clear the beach grit and sea salt from their bodies, that James felt real panic claw up again. Frank pressed in behind him, crowding Amy's—his—body, lips near his ear.
"How about a couple’s massage. Just the two of us. We’ll order champagne, get all slippery and relaxed. Maybe take a little nap together before dinner,” He ran his hands over James’ bare stomach, lingering just long enough to threaten scandal, “What do you say?”
“Um. Sure,” James could barely hear his own voice over the rushing blood in his ears.
He shot a pleading look at his mother, but Cindy was toweling off, deep in conversation with George about some beachside restaurant she wanted to check out. No help there.
“You mean right now?”
“Yeah, why not? Let’s just book it,” Frank said.
—
“We’d like the lovers’ massage,” Frank announced.
The hostess beamed at them, “Wonderful! If you can change into these and return to the relaxation area, your masseuses will collect you in a few minutes.”
She handed them two fluffy white robes.
James ducked into the women’s locker room, grateful for a moment of isolation. He stripped mechanically, folding the bikini and slipping it into the little cedar locker. The robe was so soft it felt like wearing a cloud, and for a moment, he let himself just feel the sensation, the weightless luxury of being someone else.
Then Frank appeared, perfectly at home in his own robe, grin wide as a gull’s wingspan, “You ready, beautiful?”
James nodded.
Frank led him to the relaxation lounge. The spa was both palatial and womb-like, all soft lighting and the faint hum of piped-in rainforest sounds.
Two women in matching polo shirts ushered them down a fragrant hallway and into a dim, high-ceilinged room, its air thick with eucalyptus and lavender. There were two massage tables, draped in crisp linen, nestled side-by-side.
James hesitated, just a heartbeat, before slipping out of the robe and climbing face-down onto the table. Amy’s hair cascaded to one side, the unfamiliar weight of it tickling his cheek.
He heard Frank settle in next to him, heard the rumpled shuffle of linens, and then the room went nearly silent except for the faint whoosh of the air conditioning and the distant murmur of the rainforest soundtrack.
James lay there, feeling the unfamiliar weight of Amy's body pressing into the plush massage table. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes tightly, trying to center himself in this borrowed form.
James kept his eyes clamped shut, surrendering to the strong, anonymous hands that kneaded Amy's muscles, working scented oil into every inch of her exposed back, legs, and glutes.
It was a kind of voyeurism, but of the flesh rather than the eyes. The massage was firm, almost painful, and the masseuse seemed to know exactly where Amy's muscles carried the stress of years—between her shoulder blades, in the mound of the left thigh, along the delicate vertebrae of her lower back. James was mortified at first, especially when the woman's hands slid under the towel to work the deep muscles of Amy's hips, but after a minute the shock faded and a sort of melodic surrender took over. He thought distantly of the fate of sandcastles, how every child secretly wants the tide to come in and sweep away their dumb, fragile fortifications.
You okay over there, honey?" Frank whispered.
James grunted an "mm-hmm" that seemed to satisfy him.
Eventually the massage ended. The women left, and Frank slid from his table and pulled the sheet around his waist. He reached over to squeeze James’s hand with sudden, humble affection.
“You’re glowing, babe,” Frank said softly, “I haven’t seen you look this relaxed in years.”
James snuck a glance in the little mirrored sconce on the wall. He looked radiant. Or rather, Amy did. Her skin was flushed, her eyes gentle and open, her mouth curled in a dreamy, vulnerable smile. The real Amy, wherever she was now, would never believe it.
He blushed, ducking his head, drawing the sheet up like a child. Frank just laughed warmly and squeezed his hand again.
They redressed, the post-massage haze thick between them, and padded barefoot down the tile corridor back into the light.
It was getting easier to pretend, and that frightened him the most about the whole body-swap debacle.
On the walk back to the room Frank didn't let go of James's hand.
In the elevator, Frank leaned his back against the wall and pulled James close. For a moment they stood, faces inches apart, Frank’s breath heavy with anticipation.
James saw himself reflected in the stainless steel. Amy’s face, flushed and starry-eyed, was inches from Frank’s. He felt like a marionette, every string pulled taut.
Frank leaned in and kissed him, hard and careful.
The elevator dinged. Frank squeezed James’s hand and led him out, down the echoing hallway to their room.
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