My massage therapist insulted my body in her language, so I ruined her career in court.

The Client Connection And The Half-Truth

The weekend passed in a blur of family activities. David seemed to be making an extra effort, bringing me coffee in bed, suggesting we watch my favorite movie after the kids went to sleep, holding my hand whenever we were together.

Either he was genuinely trying to reconnect, or he was overcompensating for guilt.

Monday arrived with Emma announcing she needed supplies for a school project due Wednesday. After dropping the kids at school, I headed to Target, list in hand.

In the parking lot, I saw a familiar white Honda with a dancing hoola girl on the dashboard. My heart stopped. Mey was here.

I abandoned my cart and followed her into the store, keeping my distance. She moved through the aisles efficiently picking up shampoo, vitamins, a birthday card, normal things, human things.

It was strange seeing her outside the spa context. She got in line at checkout.

I positioned myself two lines over, pretending to browse magazines while watching. That’s when I saw him. David’s client, Robert Peterson, appeared beside me, carrying a basket of groceries.

He kissed her cheek, casual and familiar. They chatted as they waited, clearly together. My mind reeled.

Me was dating David’s biggest client, the one whose case was keeping him at the office late. They left together, and I abandoned my shopping to follow them to the parking lot.

They got into Peterson’s BMW. Me leaving her Honda behind.

Back home, I Googled frantically. Robert Peterson lawyer brought up his firm bio. Divorced, two kids.

Robert Peterson girlfriend yielded nothing. But on his Facebook page, which was mostly public, I found photos from a charity gala 2 months ago.

There was me, stunning in a red dress, tagged as guest of Robert Peterson. 2 months ago, right around when David started working late more often on the Peterson case.

My phone rang. David, hey, just wanted to let you know I’ll be late again tonight.

Peterson wants to go over the depositions one more time with Peterson. I asked carefully.

Yeah, we’re grabbing dinner to discuss strategy. Probably be home by 10:00.

Another lie. Or was he actually meeting with Peterson? And if so, did he know about me?

Okay, see you tonight.

I spent the afternoon constructing scenarios. Maybe Peterson had recommended elements to David. Maybe that’s how David had met me.

Maybe Peterson knew about the happy endings and had encouraged David to partake. Maybe they had some kind of arrangement.

Or maybe I was creating connections where none existed, seeing patterns and coincidences.

Emma and Jay came home needing help with homework. Dinner needed cooking. Permission slips needed signing.

I went through the motions all while my mind churned with possibilities.

David came home at 9:45 looking exhausted but pleased.

Good meeting? I asked.

Great. I think we’ve got a solid strategy. Peterson’s confident we’ll win.

That’s wonderful. Hey, do you know if he’s dating anyone?

David looked puzzled by the nonsequittor.

Peterson. Yeah, he’s been seeing someone for a few months. Nice woman. Met her at some charity thing. Why?

Just curious. You mention him so much. I feel like I know him.

You should meet him sometime. Maybe we could do a double date when this case is over.

A double date with me, who’d possibly given my husband a happy ending. That sounds nice. I managed.

Tuesday crawled by. I accomplished nothing at work. My mind fixated on the next day’s appointment with me. I’d rehearsed what to say a hundred times, but nothing sounded right.

That evening, our second counseling session with Doctor Winters focused on rebuilding trust. David participated earnestly, suggesting we share our phone locations, have regular check-ins, plan more date nights.

He seemed genuinely committed to fixing whatever was broken.

“I still sense hesitation from you, Susan,” Dr. Winters observed. “What would it take for you to fully trust David again?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

“I guess time, time, and consistency,” she agreed. “Trust is rebuilt through repeated positive interactions.”

David reached for my hand. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Looking at his earnest face, I almost canled the appointment with me. Almost.

Wednesday morning, I dropped the kids at school and drove to Elements. My hands shook as I checked in.

“You’re seeing me today,” the receptionist confirmed. “She’ll be right with you.”

I was led to the same room where everything had started. The smell of lavender oil made my stomach turn.

When me entered, I forced myself to breathe normally.

“Hello,” she said with a professional smile. “Any areas of concern today?”

“Just general tension,” I said, lying face down on the table.

Her hands were skilled, working out knots I didn’t know I had. We were 15 minutes in before I worked up the courage to speak.

My friend recommended you, I said casually. “Robert Peterson.”

Her hands paused for just a moment.

“Oh, you know, Robert through my husband, David Morrison. He’s working on Robert’s case.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

I see. Robert speaks very highly of you. I continued fishing.

That’s kind of him. Her voice was carefully neutral.

I tried another angle. My husband comes here too.

David, he mentioned you’re excellent. We have many clients, she said.

I don’t always remember names, but her hands had tensed. She knew exactly who David was.

He’s been having back problems. I pressed on. I keep telling him he needs to come more regularly.

Regular massage can be very beneficial, she agreed, her tone giving nothing away.

I switched tactics. Speaking in Thai. How long have you been in America?

She jerked back, startled. You speak Thai?

I taught English in Bangkok for 5 years, I continued in Thai. I miss it sometimes.

Her professional mask slipped slightly. I’ve been here 8 years. It’s different.

Do you ever go back to visit?

Not often. Too expensive.

We chatted about Thailand, about the food we missed, the culture shock of America. She relaxed incrementally, though her hands remained professional on my back.

“Can I ask you something?” I said eventually, still in Thai, woman to woman, she hesitated.

“Okay, my husband, David Morrison, I know he comes here.” Silence. I heard some things from other clients about extra services.

Her hand stilled completely. I don’t know what you mean.

Please, I just need to know the truth. Did he Did he ask you for anything inappropriate?

She resumed the massage, but I could feel her trembling slightly. I can’t discuss other clients.

I know. I’m not asking you to betray client confidentiality. I’m asking as a wife who needs to know if her marriage is real.

For a long moment, she worked in silence.

Then very quietly, she said in Thai, “I cannot lose this job. I have a work visa through the spa. If I’m fired, I won’t say anything.”

I promise. I just need to know.”

Another long silence.

Then, “Your husband is a professional client. Nothing inappropriate has ever happened.”

But the way she said it, the careful phrasing, told me everything. He’d asked, she’d refused.

Nothing had happened, but not for lack of trying on his part.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

She finished the massage in silence.

As I got dressed, she knocked and opened the door slightly. “Your husband loves you,” she said in English.

Whatever you heard, men say foolish things sometimes, it doesn’t mean they act on them.

Then she was gone, leaving me with more questions than answers.

I sat in my car afterward, processing. David had asked for a happy ending. Mey had refused.

But what about other therapists? Other spas? How many times had he asked before someone said yes?

My phone buzzed. David texting about dinner plans, acting normal, being a good husband.

I drove home in a days. The truth I’d sought was somehow worse than not knowing.

He tried to cheat. The intent was there, even if the action wasn’t, or at least not with me.

That night, I watched him help Jake with math homework. His patience endless as he explained the same concept three different ways.

He caught me staring and smiled, that same crooked smile that had made me fall for him 17 years ago.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I lied. Everything’s fine, but nothing would ever be fine again. The doubt had taken root, spreading like poison through every interaction.

When he worked late, I wondered when he got a massage for his legitimate back pain. I wondered when he smiled at a waitress or chatted with a female colleague. I wondered.

Dr. Winters noticed the change at our next session. Susan, you seem more distant than last week. Has something happened?

I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t admit I’d manipulated me into a halfconfession just processing everything.

“David, how do you feel the week has gone?”

“I thought it was better,” he said, glancing at me uncertainly. “I’ve been completely transparent, coming home earlier, checking in more, but I feel like Susan’s pulling away.”

“Susan,” Dr. Winters prompted.

“I need time,” I said. It was becoming my refrain.

We left with homework, trust building exercises, daily affirmations of appreciation. David threw himself into them enthusiastically.

Every morning, he left me notes listing things he loved about me. Every evening, he shared his complete schedule for the next day.

He was trying so hard it broke my heart because I knew now that he was capable of betrayal. Not the accomplished fact of it perhaps, but the desire, the willingness, and that was almost worse than if he’d actually done it.

At least then I’d have something concrete to forgive or not forgive. Instead, I was trapped in a gray area of attempted transgression. Two weeks passed.

I went through the motions of rebuilding trust while dying inside. David noticed my mechanical responses to his affection, but seemed to attribute it to the healing process Dr. Winters kept mentioning.

Then came the firm’s holiday party. Spouses were invited, and David was eager for me to attend.

Peterson will be there, he said. You can finally meet him and his girlfriend. I think you’d really like her.

The thought of making small talk with me made me nauseous. I don’t know. Emma has that science fair project.

Please. David took my hands. I want to show off my beautiful wife. Let everyone know we’re solid.

So, I went. I put on my best dress, fixed my hair, painted on a smile.

The hotel ballroom was elegant, full of lawyers and their significant others drinking champagne and networking.

There’s Peterson, David said, waving across the room. Come on, I’ll introduce you.

My feet felt leen as we approached. Me stood beside Peterson in an elegant black cocktail dress, looking stunning.

Her eyes widened slightly when she saw me, but she recovered quickly.

“Robert, this is my wife, Susan,” David said. “Susan, Robert Peterson and his girlfriend.”

Mey, she supplied, extending her hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

I shook her hand, both of us maintaining the charade. “Nice to meet you, too.”

“David tells me you’re a teacher,” Peterson said, launching into small talk.

I responded appropriately while hyper aware of Mey beside me. David had his hand on my lower back, proprietary and affectionate.

Did she notice? Did she think about how he’d propositioned her while married to me?

“If you’ll excuse me,” me said after a few minutes. “I need to find the lady’s room.”

I’ll come with you,” I said quickly. David, why don’t you and Robert talk shop?

Mey and I walked in silence to the bathroom. Inside, she checked that we were alone before turning to me.

Why did you come? She asked in tie.

He wanted me to. I couldn’t think of an excuse.

This is very uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d be here.

Well, I suspected, but she touched up her lipstick in the mirror. Your husband doesn’t know you came to see me. Number good. It should stay that way for everyone’s sake.

Does Robert know about what David asked you?

She shook her head. Robert is a good man. He doesn’t need to know his lawyer is inappropriate.

We stood there awkwardly. Two women bound by an ugly secret.

I should tell you, she said finally. I’m leaving elements. Robert has asked me to move in with him and his house is too far from downtown.

I’m transferring to a spa near his place.

Relief flooded through me. When?

Next month.

One less reminder, one less source of anxiety.

Can I ask you something? I said. Do you think he’s actually done it with someone else?

She met my eyes in the mirror. I don’t know, but I can tell you this. He’s not the only one who asks.

Many men do. Most are turned down, but some therapists. They need the money or they’re afraid to say no. It’s not right, but it happens.

So, he might have.

I don’t know. She repeated. I hope not. For your sake.

We returned to the party separately. I plastered on my smile, chatted with David’s colleagues, played the supportive wife.

But inside, I was calculating probabilities. How many spas were in our city? How many therapists? How many times had David asked? What were the odds that he’d always been refused?