The Hot One

I’ve mastered all three for work. While my cousin has often said I charge out of the gate when it comes to work, he’s also acknowledged that I’m in love with details, and they counterbalance my relentless pursuit of unconventional deals.

All those tools are in my arsenal on Thursday morning.

I dress for work. Charcoal gray slacks. A black leather belt. A crisp white shirt. And a forest green tie. It’s too warm to wear a jacket, and who needs one these days anyway?

I grab my phone and wallet and leave my apartment, sliding on my sunglasses, since the big yellow orb in the sky is shining brightly. I take that as a good sign as I walk across town, passing the usual neighborhood haunts—the bodega on the corner, the dry cleaners, the organic café.

All around me, New Yorkers are talking, walking, moving. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, but this city energizes me like no place else as I put one foot after the other on the pavement. I’m not a car person; I’m a man who gets around by foot, quickly and with purpose.

Today’s goal is singular.

Some might call it a Hail Mary.

Some might say it’s a leap off a cliff.

I say it’s a strategic bid for a second chance. The past week on the phone with Delaney—however brief—has only cemented this desire. I loved her like crazy in college, and when we talk now, I can still hear the parts of her that I fell for. The way we connect pulses with its own energy.

The chemistry is still there. I just need her to know I’m sorry.

So it’s time to say it like I mean it.

When I reach my destination, I yank open the door and walk inside. Nirvana Spa is the opposite of the crisp, quick, do-it-now-ness that pervades my law offices, and that makes it perfect for a spa. It’s soothing from the second I enter. Lotions and potions perch on shelves. Lavender eye pillows flank them, along with yoga mats, a tray of jewelry made from recycled glass and metal—there’s a sign that says so—and greeting cards featuring photos of faraway island enclaves, snow-capped mountains, or sandy beaches.

I check in at the front desk. The receptionist peers at the screen, her nose-piercing shining in the morning light that filters through the windows. She looks up and smiles. “Mr. Pollock,” she says. That’s the first detail—the name I gave when I booked my appointment. “Welcome to Nirvana. Delaney is finishing with someone else right now, but she should be with you shortly.”

“Excellent.”

“Have you been to Nirvana before?”

Considering Nirvana is a synonym for heaven, a perfect place, or one’s happy zone, I’d have to say yes. “In some ways. But not this spa. I hear it’s the best.”

The woman nods happily. “Would you like to change into a robe? We have a relaxation zone in the back. You can wait there and have a mug of tea or some cucumber water.”

I hold my hands out wide. “How can you go wrong with cucumber water?”

“You just can’t. It’s the best. I’ll have Felipe take you back,” she says, and a few seconds later a slim young guy with kind brown eyes and fully inked arms strides into the reception area.

“Welcome to Nirvana,” he tells me, then holds open a wooden door, and I follow him into the rest of the spa.

That’s another detail. Knowing the terrain. Mapping out a strategy.

I called earlier in the week and asked a few casual questions about the whole massage protocol here so I could plan properly. The woman on the phone walked me through the details, and that’s what I need to navigate next as Felipe escorts me to the robe portion of the plan.

“So glad to have you here today, Mr. Pollock,” Felipe says. I canvas the hallway while we walk. A heavy man walks ahead of us, and a lady with purple hair darts into the women’s room. There’s no sign of Delaney popping out early from her current appointment, and I’m glad of that.

When we enter a locker room that’s more like a quiet sanctuary, Felipe hands me a white robe, pats a locker, and gives me a key for it.

“These robes are amazing. So soft and comfy,” he says, like he’s cooing at the clothing item.

Well, then. “You don’t say? I probably won’t want to take it off now.”

He smiles and laughs, then tells me he’ll be back shortly to “fetch” me and take me to the Rainfall Room. He points a finger at me and adopts a playful grin. “With your robe on, Mr. Pollock.”

“Ten-four. I just need to hit the little boys’ room first,” I say, since that’ll buy some time.

Now it’s time for the loophole. Because once he leaves, I’ve got my window.

He exits, and I briefly stare at the robe in my hands. I don’t really see the point of one. A robe to me represents a lack of commitment—you’re either naked, or you’re dressed, plain and simple.

I set the material on the bench, and now I’m ready for the detour.

I push open the door, poke my head into the hall, and scan up and down. Coast is clear. I step into the hall, find the Rainfall Room, and hope.

This is the part that could trip me up. I’m assuming she won’t be using the same room for her client before me, but that was a detail I couldn’t procure. So, I’m winging it.

My shoulders tense as I turn the knob, and I breathe a sigh of relief that the room is empty. I wouldn’t want to walk in on someone else’s rubdown.

With a soft whoosh, I push the door so it’s barely ajar. I toe off my shoes, pull off my socks, and then I unknot my tie.

I work open the top buttons on my shirt when I hear the footsteps. A flurry of nerves spreads inside me. Partly because I hope to hell Felipe’s not coming in here, hunting me down like the Robe Police.

Mostly, though, I’m nervous because I’m flying blind from here on out.

I’ve no clue how Delaney is going to respond. But the woman made the path to forgiveness crystal clear. Say you’re sorry. Make it believable. Mean it.

The evidence from our calls in the past week points to our rekindled chemistry—so I need to lean on that for my apology.

I slide another button out of its hole.

A soft rap sounds on the door, then someone pushes it open wider, and soft feet pad into the tiled room.

“Hi Mr. Pollock, so glad you—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, meeting her brown-eyed gaze. She frowns.

I slide open another button. “I’m sorry for the calloused way I ended things.” I reach the hem of my shirt. “I’m sorry for the juggling comment. That was cold and cruel.”

Her lips purse, like she’s trying to ask a question. As I move to the tie and unknot it fully, leaving it undone around my neck, I keep up the words—I’ve always loved words, and shaping them into just the right argument to make a point. Now, I need all the letters of the alphabet to let this woman know I want her to look beyond the idiot I was eight years ago. She prizes honesty, so I give her more of the bare truth. “I was a stupid, twenty-two-year-old cocky, conceited jerk.”

She blinks as I pull my shirt from the waistband of my slacks. “What on earth are you doing here?” She waves wildly at my unbuttoned shirt, like I’m a brainteaser about two trains in opposite directions entering a one-way tunnel at twelve o’clock.