Feisty

by Julia Kent

  “What are you doing here, all sweaty and in tight shorts and... sweaty?” Hasty asks, losing her point as quickly as she lost her morals – the second she met her husband.

  “Just finished a century bike run.”

  “Century?” Hasty asks.

  “Hundred miles.”

  “You rode a hundred miles on a bike?” Sharon asks. “Did your car break down? Cellphone battery dead?”

  “No, Mrs. Monahan, I do it for fun.”

  “First of all, Christopher, how many times do I have to tell you it's Sharon now? You're twenty-nine years old, for Pete's sake. And second, who rides a bike for a hundred miles for fun? There are so many other activities you can engage in that are fun!”

  “Like going out on a date with a nice person!” Perky pipes up, elbowing me.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Monahan–Sharon,” he chokes out. “We all have different ideas of fun, don't we? I like long, punishing rides where I use my body to accomplish my goals.” Eyes darting to catch mine, he burns me with one long look.

  Hasty begins fanning herself with a veil brochure.

  Bzzz.

  Somewhere in those painted-on bike shorts, he has a phone. Reaching behind him to pull it out of a zipper pocket, we all get a nice big eyeful of all the ways Fletch's body accomplishes his goals.

  “Why are you not screwing this man senseless?” Hasty whispers in my ear. “I would ride him like a butter churn.”

  Holding the phone to his ear, he waves to us all before walking back to his bike. Then he stops, turns around, and shouts, “FIONA!”

  “Oh! It's like the end of The Graduate, when Dustin Hoffman begs Elaine to run off with him and–” Sharon whispers.

  “You left a sports bra at my gym. Cleaning crew found it, along with a six-pack, in the box from the sponsor. You can come and get it any time.”

  His grins makes it clear what it really is.

  And then he's off.

  “Hoo boy,” Hasty mumbles. “You're crazy not to tap that.”

  “If I were thirty years younger and single...” Sharon says, voice dropping off at the end.

  Maybe I am crazy not to tap that.

  Raye just laughs at us. “I had such a crush on his sister, Candi, when we were younger. The Fletcher attractiveness genes are strong.”

  Hasty's stomach growls. “Mom? Time for lunch? We just got quite a show in, didn't we?”

  “Yum! Yes, let's get ready for some great food from Pedro!” Sharon announces.

  “Please tell me we're not going to Taco Cubed,” Perky says, alarmed. I grip her shoulder in solidarity.

  Sharon gasps and says, “Of course we are! It's Mallory's favorite and you know how she is about her Mexican food.” Just then, Mal emerges from the dressing room, out of the perfect dress and back into street clothes.

  Raye slides a look our way and mouths, What's wrong?

  “The perfect dress,” Mal says as we shrug into our coats and grab purses. “The perfect future husband. The perfect wedding party,” she adds, as we pour onto the sidewalk and wait for her to exit.

  Just as the door closes, she whispers conspiratorially in Raye's ear, just loud enough to send shivers down my spine:

  “And now – the perfect ratio.”

  Chapter 12

  Sports bra, huh?

  I know that in the rush to get the hell out of the gym on the day of the shoot, I may have left a bra there, but a follow-up text from Fletch last night, after the wedding dress fitting was over and I was back in my apartment making schedules for parent-teacher conferences, mentions a six-pack.

  Six-pack. Mmmm, Fletch's six-pack. Or is it an eight-pack? I try to remember the scene of him wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

  Eight. Definitely eight.

  Squeezing my eyes hard, I try to banish the image.

  I fail.

  “Stop it!” I chide myself, working hard not to think about Fletch's hard body.

  There's only one car in front of his gym, a white compact in a handicapped spot. No divining rod needed for this small shopping center. Free parking galore is the name of the game when you locate your business in a glorified strip mall. I pull in next to the white car and look at Haverly Fitness.

  Am I really back here? What am I doing?

  No, really. What am I doing not dating him? The Leaf Peeper festival drove some of that home. The wedding dress fitting made it clear he's objectively hot (not that I need anyone else's opinion on that). My jealousy at the mere idea of Hasty getting her hands on Fletch leaves me with a surprising amount of uncontrolled energy inside.

  Of all the weeks for Jolene to be attending a past-lives regression workshop in Tahoe.

  We've reached early November weather, where New England moves out of “crisp” season and into “remember that year we had 148 inches of snow?” territory. My leggings and tunics and long fall dresses aren't cutting it anymore. It's ski jackets, jeans, and shearling boots time.

  As I open the door, classic rock plays on the sound system, a heavy beat that makes me want to jump on a Stairmaster and climb my way to heaven. The only people in the small gym are Fletch, who is wearing a tight-as-hell, long-sleeved red workout shirt, and an older woman about my mom's age, with mostly grey hair, a very pain-filled face, and the sweaty look of someone who’s about to clutch her chest and drop from a coronary.

  “Stephanie, you can do it,” Fletch says, the two of them completely focused on whatever's going on behind the boxing bag blocking my view.

  “It–my arm doesn't want to do it.”

  “But your mind does. Let your mind do it. Let go of the anxiety.”

  “It doesn't work! The doctors were right,” she says in a defeated voice. I sense she's losing because she's giving up, and not the other way around.

  “The doctors don't have to be right, though. Prove them wrong,” he urges, voice encouraging but tough. “Lift it. I'm spotting you if something goes wrong.”

  “I don't want to hurt my wrist again. What if that happens?”

  “What if it doesn't?”

  The kindness in his voice melts me. Tipping her face up, she gives Fletch such a vulnerable look, the kind of hope that requires the other person to give a little piece of themselves, a mere loan of willpower. Motivation. Sheer grit.

  Which Fletch has in spades.

  “What if what doesn't?”

  “You're prepared to fail, Stephanie. More than prepared. But I want to see that you're prepared to succeed.”

  Blinking hard, she looks down, taking it in. As I step closer, I see the walker, an aluminum contraption with bright pink tennis balls on some of the feet. Stephanie is far too young to need one.

  Which means this is a more complicated training session than your average client.

  “Everyone tries to tell me I can be the exception,” she whispers, wiping away a tear as Fletch bends down and makes eye contact, his presence so solid, so strong, so willing. Most men shy away from emotion, but he's drawn to it.

  “You can.”

  “But it feels like so much pressure. Always being the one who beats the odds. And then when I admit I feel this way, it's like–it's like I'm ungrateful. Like I don't get to feel whatever I really feel about having this stupid condition. Like I'm supposed to meet everyone else's expectations, be an outlier and overcome obstacles, and do it with a smile on my face and record it on Facebook and Instagram, too!”

  She gives a half smile that Fletch mirrors.

  “Have MS. Recover from an MS flare. Beat the odds with MS. Become the poster child for women over 50 with MS. And make sure your eyelashes are perfect,” she says quietly. “Hashtag self-care.”

  “Hashtag self-care,” he repeats, musing over it.

  “Hashtag bullshit. Self-care feels like yet another thing I'm supposed to put on my to-do list and then fail at, too.” She shoots him a cynical smile. “Bitter Gen X-er here. I shouldn't be so jaded around a millennial.”

  “Eh. We're jaded, too. But before we b
ond over our shared cynicism, you need to do these reps with eight pounds. I know you can. And the stronger you make this arm, the easier it'll be to use it for mobility. Legs are next week. You're not leaving here until you get this arm exercise done.”

  “I'm due for my four o'clock coffee!”

  “Then I'll use caffeine as a hostage to get those reps.”

  “You are a bully! A java bully!”

  “If you say so.” He hands her the weight. “Come on. Five reps.”

  Her arm shakes as she tries, barely getting one rep in.

  On the second, she pauses, but gets the rotation in, the curl jerky but done.

  “Two,” I say aloud, making them turn. Stephanie nearly drops the weight.

  “Fiona?”

  “Hi, Fletch. Just here to get the–”

  “THREE!” Stephanie grunts, the word loud and exhausted, but done.

  “You can do it,” I encourage, her entire arm shaking as she goes for four.

  “Make sure there's no pain, no tearing. Shaking's okay. You're re-connecting neurons and muscle fibers here, Stephanie.” He cheers her on. “This is great–”

  “FOUR!” I shout with her as she gets it done.

  “I don't think I can do five.”

  “Then don't think,” he orders. “Just do it.”

  “Now you're a Nike spokesman?”

  “Is that what it'll take to get you to do five?” he asks her.

  “I'll run out and get you a coffee now if you do five!” I inform her.

  Shaking her head, she grits her teeth and raises the weight, bracing her feet on the floor. Sweat practically pours off her face and she adjusts her posture, clearly working to draw strength from her core, something Fletch must have taught her.

  Up, up, up the arm comes, and then:

  “FIVE!” I scream, Fletch shouting, the two of us doing an impromptu dance as Stephanie drops the weight, propping her hips against the walker and moving to our imaginary victory song.

  And then she gives me a good, long look.

  “Oh, Fletch! Is this the girl you were telling me about?”

  His eyes get big. Caught!

  #fletchiscaught, all right.

  “I – ”

  “The one who saved all those kids from an attacker at the preschool? The lucky girl who got to kiss you in those Instagram photos?”

  “Uh – ”

  She winks at me. “Good for you two. I've been married for twenty-seven years. Find the person who grows with you and never tries to tell you who you are. My Sal is that way. He married one version of me and has had five more over the years as I changed. As long as we change together, that's all that matters.”

  The front door opens and in walks a guy about her age, wearing workout clothes, a paunch where his waist once was, gold-rimmed glasses surrounding friendly dark eyes. Laugh lines dot his face and he gives Stephanie a big grin as he holds two to-go cups of coffee.

  “Caffeine fix!” he announces, turning to Fletch. “Did she earn it?”

  “Hell, yeah!”

  “Sal, if you don't hand over that latte in the next tenth of a second, I will fry you with my laser beam eyes.”

  “Again? I still have burn marks on my ass from the last time. You really need to stop admiring it so much when I'm turned away.”

  She swats him with a towel as he hands over her coffee.

  “Good workout?” he asks, eyes jumping from Stephanie to Fletch, finally landing on me with a silent question mark.

  “Hi. I'm Fiona.”

  “His...” Sal's eyebrows go up, clearly expecting me to say girlfriend or wife or fiancée.

  “Nemesis,” I finally fill in.

  Every set of eyebrows except mine rises higher.

  “That's a new one. Relationship status: nemesis,” Stephanie cracks.

  “It could be useful,” Sal says, earning another swat.

  “What are you here for?” Stephanie asks me pleasantly.

  “I left my bra here last time we...”

  As I say the words, I realize what it must sound like.

  Stephanie and Sal give us both hubba hubba looks. Stephanie leans on her walker and starts to stand, Sal practically leaping across the room to help.

  “I'm fine,” she insists, standing while holding onto the walker with her left arm, right arm shaking like crazy as she brings her coffee cup to her mouth and sips through the top.

  “You're shaking from exhaustion, not tremors, but that's great control. I haven't seen you use that arm with weight in a while,” her husband marvels.

  “Blame Fletch.”

  “I'll thank Fletch!” Sal claps Fletch on the back a few times. “Steph's been trying this new diet approach from a doctor in Iowa who has MS herself, and we're at six weeks. This is more functionality than she had two years ago. This is awesome!”

  Unaccustomed to effusive praise, Fletch seems to dial down a bit in the face of it. “Yeah. It is. She did all the work.”

  “Pffft. I just whined and you pushed me through,” she says, letting Sal take her coffee as the two slowly make their way to the main door.

  “You're describing marriage, Steph. Not personal training.”

  “See you on Thursday, Fletch! We'll get out of your way so you can do whatever you're planning to do with Fiona's bra!” A series of chuckles follows that, leaving Fletch and me in a state of awkward laughter.

  The door closes.

  We're alone.

  “What was that about?” I ask, voice filled with marvel.

  “Stephanie has multiple sclerosis.”

  “I gathered that. But, wow.”

  “Nothing's wow except her work. She came to me about two months ago. She's fifty-three, a few years out from being diagnosed. Heavy-duty meds caused kidney problems, so now she's taking a holistic approach. Found a neurologist to support it. I'm just here to work on balance and maintaining muscle mass.”

  “You were so encouraging with her. So kind. You pushed her, but you did it in a way that made her want to do the work. Like you're part of her team, urging her on.”

  “I am part of her team. When I work with people, that's my mindset. We're in this together. I'm not just standing there barking orders and watching. Their win is my win.”

  “That's how I feel when I teach. The connection is the lesson.”

  “Then we're not so different, are we?”

  “No. We're not.”

  Heavy silence stretches between us, dark and full of unarticulated emotions. My attraction to him isn't just physical – though there's plenty of that to go around. It's energetic, a pull I can't explain, one I feel more than I think.

  If Mallory or Perky were feeling what I feel right now, I'd admonish them for being a fool for not bridging the gap between their hesitations and their joy.

  Fletch could be my joy. He could be that one man I wondered about, back at the wedding dress fitting.

  Why am I saying no?

  He's respecting my no–all my nos, going back seventeen years.

  What if it's time I respect my yes, though?

  “Fletch?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Does the offer still stand?”

  “Offer?” Now he's just messing with me.

  “To go out.”

  “Are you asking me out on a date, Fiona?”

  “Not technically. I'm asking if your offer to go out on a date still stands.”

  “Sounds like you're asking me out.”

  “I'm asking if you are still interested in asking me out.”

  “Why not just–”

  Crossing the space between us, I take his hands in mine, shutting him up with the touch.

  “Fletch. Do you still want to date me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then... I accept.”

  “You accept that I still want to date you?”

  “Fletch.”

  “What?”

  “You're as annoying now as you were seventeen years ago!”

  “B
ut I'm not trying to kiss you without your consent right now.”

  “What if I consent?”

  “Do you?” He moves closer.

  I don't answer with a word.

  I answer with a kiss. A kiss I initiate. My glasses lift up as our faces meet and I reach up to pull them off, holding the stems in my hand as it lingers at his neck.

  If a kiss can be perfect, this one is, crossing time and space to pull emotional tendrils together. I'm kissing him for seventeen years of confusion and craziness, for seventeen years of rejecting a piece of me that was just fine to begin with, for seventeen years of being defined by a fellow tween’s impulsive move.

  He's kissing me back for his own reasons, and whatever they are, they're mighty fine, as his mouth takes mine and tells it stories that make my heart smile. Hands around my waist, he pulls me close, belly to belly, my coat still on but unzipped, the press of his flat torso and muscled terrain achingly tactile. My hands go up behind his neck, fingers brushing the ends of his short hair as his tongue uses a kind of energy I have never encountered before.

  Breathless, we break apart, then come together again, the world spinning slowly without us, our bodies here but the rest of us, on every plane, lost in each other.

  The cool air against my lips is the first sign that he's pulled back. I open my eyes to find him so close, staring deeply, chest rising and falling as the scent of him mingles with the frankincense and rose oil I put on earlier today.

  “So?” he asks.

  “So... what?”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “You think that was a no?” One arm still around him, unable to let go, I cover my mouth with my hand, laughing.

  “I think I need a clear yes, Fiona.”

  On tiptoes, I kiss him lightly, then drop back, body pulsing.

  “Yes, Chris. Absolutely–yes.”

  Chapter 13

  He told me to dress in workout gear and to bring a coat, hat, mittens, long johns, and ski pants.

  But lightweight shoes.

  This is brutal.

  The suspense is killing me.

  And that doesn't even include any of the anxiety around going on a first date.

  Yesterday I said yes.