Chapter 2: Awkward Explanations and New Boundaries

Our high school must be nuts, making us run laps even after evening study hall.

Only in the Midwest, I thought, where even summer evenings felt like bootcamp for varsity hopefuls. The track reeked of fresh-cut grass and old rubber, and my legs still ached from sprinting past the football field where guys tossed a ball under the floodlights.

Grumbling, I pulled out the massage gun I bought on Amazon and switched it on.

The cheap plastic buzzed in my hand, and I wondered if the neighbors could hear it through the wall. I flopped onto my bed, phone face-down beside a pile of overdue library books.

A tingling numbness instantly spread from my thigh.

It started as a tingle, then radiated upward, erasing the sharp ache from my run. My toes curled in relief. Outside, the mailbox creaked—probably just the mailman finishing up late.

The pleasure shot right up to the top of my head.

I closed my eyes, letting the sensation roll over me. For a second, the world vanished—just the low, satisfying hum and the warm ache in my legs.

I couldn’t help but sigh in relief—when suddenly, the door slammed open.

The old brass knob clattered against the drywall, making me jump so hard I nearly knocked over the lamp. My heart hammered in my chest.

Uncle Mason stood in the doorway, backlit, eyes shadowed and unreadable.

He looked like every tired parent in a sitcom—shirt sleeves rolled up, dark circles under his eyes, a man one bad day away from falling asleep at the dinner table. The hallway light spilled in behind him, making him look ten feet tall.

My “ah~” got stuck in my throat. Embarrassed, I immediately sat up straight.

I yanked the blanket up to my chin, cheeks burning. My voice cracked as I tried to play it cool, but it came out all wrong—too high-pitched, almost squeaky. My eyes darted to the massage gun, still humming away beneath the comforter. My fingers fidgeted nervously at the blanket’s edge.

Afraid he’d find out and punish me with more running, I guiltily reached out to turn it off.

In my mind, I pictured him lecturing me about discipline, making me do laps around the living room as punishment. I shot him a quick, sheepish grin, praying he’d just let it go.

But in my panic, my foot kicked it up to the highest vibration setting.

A wild, mechanical buzz erupted from under the blanket, echoing off my poster-covered walls. I froze in horror as the bed practically vibrated under me.

So in the silent room, the only sound was the crazy buzzing of the weird device lying between my legs.

It was the kind of awkward, too-loud noise that seemed to bounce around in the sudden silence. Even the goldfish in my little tank paused mid-swim, as if they knew this was Not Normal.

"What are you doing?" His voice was a little rough.

He sounded like he’d just swallowed a mouthful of gravel. I peeked up at him, my face burning hot, caught between embarrassment and indignation. He stared down at me, eyebrow raised.

"I’m just using this..."

My hands fumbled as I yanked the gun out, waving it for him to see. The moment I did, his gaze darted away, like the sight was too much.

I reached down to grab the wildly vibrating thing, and he suddenly turned his head away.

His jaw clenched, lips pressed together. He stared at the faded baseball cap on the coat hook, anywhere but me. A flush crept up his ears—was Uncle Mason actually shy?

"How can you just show me that so casually?"

His words were sharp, but his voice quivered. He cleared his throat, trying to sound stern, but it didn’t quite land.

"Turn it off."

He sounded like a dad who’d just walked in on his kid blasting death metal at 2 a.m.—more startled than mad.

Is he getting old? Can’t even handle a massager?

I rolled my eyes a little, grinning despite myself. For all his bluster, sometimes he was such a softie.

He works so hard, always hunched over his desk—it must be tough on him.

He was always bent over blueprints or spreadsheets, muttering about deadlines and clients. His back had to be killing him, right?

A wave of sympathy suddenly washed over me.

I almost felt bad for teasing him, remembering when he limped around for a week after shoveling snow off the front walk.

If anyone needed a little muscle magic, it was Uncle Mason. He’d probably act all tough, then fall asleep on the couch with it buzzing away.

So I cleared my throat and said:

I tried to sound like a TV infomercial, all chipper. "No need to turn it off. Come over and try it for yourself."

"It feels amazing."

I held the massager out, hesitating for a second as I remembered the time he iced my ankle after a bad soccer game. Maybe this would help him relax, just like he’d helped me. The offer felt genuine, more heartfelt than I expected. The room felt less tense, just for a second.