Happy New You

by St John Brown, Brenda

  Some things never change. I grew up and got fit, but Allison doesn’t see me any differently. I’m still Matty, her nice-guy friend. And fuck, I want to be that. I’ve always wanted to be that. But that was never all I wanted. The timing was never right, but now...

  “Matty, did you see that?” she says again.

  I grin at her excitement. “Good job, Al. Maybe you’re a natural!”

  She bites her lip, eyes shining. “You think? I’ve never been a natural at anything physical in my life.”

  Seth slings an arm over her shoulders. “I sincerely doubt that, doll.”

  She shrugs his arm off. “Do you call women ‘doll’ so you don’t have to remember their names?”

  He cackles and catches my eye. “Your girl’s got me figured out already.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re not very subtle in your douchiness, dude.”

  Clem claps his hands again, getting our attention. The man takes his axe throwing very seriously. I sidle up next to Allison, saying under my breath, “Think he has axes at home? He tosses them around his studio apartment for fun?”

  She lets out a snorting giggle, covering her mouth to keep quiet and not catch Clem’s ire.

  “Be nice to Clem. He’s probably all of twenty-two. And I picture him in more of a ‘seven roommates in a two-bedroom’ situation.”

  “That’d certainly make the axe throwing more dangerous,” I say.

  She turns her face up to look at me, grinning. “Clem lives on the edge.”

  “You actually like that guy?”

  “Clem? Seriously?”

  I nod.

  “He’s cute, in a very young kind of way, but no. He’s my first attempt at resolution number six. A twenty-something lumberjack isn’t exactly the type of guy I can bring home to Mom. I’m just practicing.” She pats me softly on the chest.

  We go back to listening to directions for a minute. Well, she seems to listen. I’m digesting her words. Is her type of guy dressed in a designer suit, with an office above the thirtieth floor in Midtown, who summers in the Hamptons and winters in the Berkshires? ‘Cause if so, I’m fucked. I summer and winter at work. Never had an office, and Nike is my designer of choice.

  I remember the dude she dated during law school. Steven? Brian? Leonard? Something stupid. He’d had a guaranteed spot in Daddy’s firm after graduation and never let any of us plebeians forget it. I never thought he was a good fit for her. He was Type-A—just like her—but without her inherent charm, kindness, or gorgeous legs.

  I tap her nose. “Just so you know, I’m still as competitive as I was back in high school.”

  She cocks her head. “Oh yeah? I’m hearing a challenge.”

  “You win, I’ll take you out for ice cream.”

  “And if you win?” she asks.

  “You’ll take me out for ice cream.”

  “You eat ice cream these days?” She waves in the general direction of my abs. “Those things let you?”

  “I don’t eat an entire carton anymore. But yeah, I can’t live without some sugar, and ice cream is my vice.”

  She rubs her hands together evilly. “Now I know your one weakness. You’d better stay on my good side!”

  Fuck, if she only knew she was my weakness. Screw ice cream, give me Allison Gottlieb with a cherry on top...or on the bottom. I’m not picky.

  The rounds of axe throwing get started and I have to go back to my lane with Hillary. She’s pretty and sending fairly obvious signals she’s interested by touching me at every opportunity and laughing when I haven’t actually said anything funny. Normally, I might try to get to know her, see if we have anything in common, but I’m shit company tonight. When it’s not my turn to throw, all my attention is on Allison...and Seth.

  Seems her attempts to flirt aren’t over, and Seth is lapping that shit up. I finally broke down a couple weeks ago and told him all about my history with Allison, so he knows how I feel about her. He’d never go against bro code and make a move on her, but he also can’t pass up an opportunity to fuck with me.

  Al tosses her ponytail over her shoulder in a jerky motion and Clem stops next to her, looking concerned. “Ma’am, did you hurt yourself on that last toss?”

  She frowns at him, fists at her hips. “First of all, when did I become a ma’am? And secondly, why do you ask?”

  His eyes go wide and he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his tight jeans. “Um...I’m sorry...Miss? I just thought you looked like you were having some pain in your shoulder, with the way you were moving it...and, never mind.” His uncomfortable gaze darts anywhere but at her. “I see another group that needs my help.”

  His Timberland-clad feet carry him across the room as quickly as possible, leaving Al with pink cheeks and a confused expression.

  Seth passes her an axe. “If it’s any consolation, I like the way you move, Miss Allison.”

  She walks up to the line and does what I think is supposed to be a seductive hip shake, but it looks more like she’s got actual ants crawling around in her pants. Still incredibly adorable and endearing. At this point, I’m wondering if there’s anything she can do that I won’t find attractive.

  Allison lands bullseye after bullseye. It’s pretty incredible, actually. I’ve accepted she’ll never be an athlete, and I admire the effort she’s put forth in our training sessions. So who knew she’d saunter into City Axes and own the joint? I’m no slouch, but Allison and Seth beat us easily. It’s like her class president campaign all over again. She decided she wanted to do it, so she did.

  She’s jumping up and down again, her ponytail and breasts bouncing, like they’re celebrating right along with her. Seth grabs her in a hug, swinging her around in circles. When he sets her down, it’s right in front of me and she’s smiling and laughing, her chest heaving.

  “You owe me an ice cream,” she says.

  I push a flyaway hair behind her ear. “I’ll gladly pay up. I’m impressed.”

  “Didn’t know I had it in me, huh?”

  “Will you be mad if I say no?”

  She shakes her head, still smiling. “Nope. I didn’t know I had it in me either. Maybe I was a Viking in a past life.”

  I pretend to consider the idea, crossing my arms and tilting my head. “I can see that.”

  We ditch everyone else—although Hillary makes it clear she’d like me to stay...with her—and find the closest ice cream shop. I make sure it’s not one of those designer ice cream places with flavors like lavender honey or some weird shit like jalapeno. I’m a progressive guy, but when it comes to my ice cream, I’m as old-fashioned as they come. Give me creamy chocolate on a sugar cone any damn day of the week.

  Allison orders cookies and cream in a cup and I order my chocolate; then we find a seat by a window. Not much of a view, but it’s good enough.

  After taking a few bites, she sets down her spoon. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  Her eyes shift to the window for a beat, then back to me. “Were you trying to set me up with Seth?”

  I almost drop my cone. “What the fuck? No, I was not. Why? Did he say something?”

  She shakes her head vehemently. “No. Not at all! I just wanted to make sure, because he’s nice, but we didn’t really click like that, and I despise being set up…”

  I touch her hand. “Al, no. That’s definitely not what tonight was about.”

  Her shoulders relax and she smiles. “Okay, phew. Because the last time I was set up, it was a complete disaster.”

  “I gotta hear this.”

  “My mom insisted I had to go out with the son of her friend from temple. Her vivid description of Jonathan’s gorgeous teeth and job as a dentist should have been a red flag.”

  “Bad teeth?”

  “No, his teeth were lovely. But he was five foot nothing...without heels. The guy wore man-heels on our date. Which, okay, whatever. It’s quirky, but not a death sentence. But all he talked about was teeth the entire night
. Gingivitis, cavities, root canals...I had trouble brushing my teeth without gagging when I got home.” She shudders at the memory and shoves a heaping spoonful of cookies and cream into her mouth.

  “I promise never to set you up on a date.” I take a lick of my ice cream. “But can we discuss the flirting?”

  She sighs. “It was a flop, right?”

  “You don’t need—” I wave my hand wildly in the air, “—all of that. The winking and the hair tossing. You don’t need it.”

  She pulls at her ponytail self-consciously. “It would have gone better if I’d remembered to wear my hair down.”

  “I like it like that. I can see your whole face.”

  Her eyes sweep up to mine. “You’ve always been the sweetest, Matty.”

  Right. Sweet, nice-guy Matty. If she only knew the thoughts I had about her, what I’d like to do with that ponytail…

  Changing the subject, I say, “And you are a kick-ass axe thrower.”

  She smiles smugly. “I know, aren’t I? I want to do that again. Will you take me?”

  I chuckle. “Liked the rush, did you?”

  “I loved it.” She raises her spoon over her head like an axe. “It was like, I am woman—with a sharp-ass axe—hear me roar! That feeling of letting it go, letting it fly, and then actually hitting the target was so empowering.”

  I love seeing her like this. I know this feeling all too well, and it’s amazing to share it with her. “I’ll go axe throwing with you anytime, Al. The thing is, there are a million other things we can do and get that same rush. Or more of a rush.”

  Her eyes glitter with the idea. “Yes! I want that. I want more adventures. I want all of it.”

  I want all of it too.

  We go outside when her Uber pulls up, and I wrap her in a hug. She’s bundled in a heavy coat, so it’s a bit like hugging a pillow, but when I bury my face in her hair, I know she’s my Al. She smells like apples and home.

  “Thank you for tonight, Matty. I’m not going to forget it for a long time.”

  I pull her scarf up higher on her neck, finding any excuse to keep touching her. “Anytime, Al,” I say softly.

  With a wave and one more smile, she’s gone.

  I shake my head as I make my way to the subway. Allison wants more adventures, but the funny thing is, she’s always been my adventure. A bungee cord or parachute can’t even begin to compete with the rush I get being near Allison Gottlieb. Nothing’s ever touched that high, and I’m beginning to doubt anything ever will.

  10

  Allison

  April

  It’s an early spring afternoon and Matty and I are running in Central Park. I feel like I need to repeat that statement because it’s a little surreal. Matty and I are running. Together. And I’m not dying. Granted, I’m pretty sure he has slowed his pace drastically to accommodate me, but it feels like a huge achievement to be running while talking, and not dying.

  “Do you run with all of your clients or just the charity cases?” In my head that sounds like a self-deprecating joke. Aloud, not so much. Oops.

  Mateo gives me a sharp look. “You’re not a charity case, Al.”

  I kind of am because it’s not like I’m paying him. All of my attempts to offer him his usual hourly rate—which according to his website is $125 per hour—have been ignored. He says he’s giving me the “friends and family rate,” but I know for a fact his schedule is jammed with paying clients. One hundred twenty-five dollars per hour isn’t that much after you take taxes into account. Still, I’ve learned my lesson on pushing the subject, so I say, “You didn’t answer my question. Do you run with all of your clients?”

  “Not all, no. I mean, some can’t run due to back or knee issues, and some people just plain hate running.”

  “Ha!” I bark out a laugh that makes a jogger going in the other direction whip her head around. “You don’t say?”

  Matty’s face falls a little. “We can stop if you want? Brisk walking can be just as effective as running as long as you’re engaging your core and using your arms as well as your legs.”

  “I didn’t say I hate running.” I mean, maybe I implied it, but I’m not going to say that either. “But I can see how people do. I was one of those people, if you recall?”

  “You’re coming along really nicely.” Now Mateo grins. “And I’m not just saying that to boost your ego. Think about all you can do now that you weren’t capable of six months ago.”

  “I think you mean three months ago.” I roll my eyes, but my tone is earnest when I say, “If someone told me back in January that I’d be willingly running in Central Park on a Sunday afternoon, I would have laughed myself senseless. You’re kind of a miracle worker.”

  “Can I quote you on that? Maybe hashtag it?” Mateo’s grin widens.

  “You are so not hashtagging me again.” I grin, too. “That was a one-time deal, mister.”

  “My Insta followers would love it. You know they would.”

  “Your Insta followers would love more photos of you in your underwear, too, and I don’t see you rushing to do that. So, sorry, still a no.”

  “Hey. That was for charity.” His tone is sharp, but then he laughs a little. “You put yourself out there and see how you like it. You’ll be wishing social media wasn’t forever, too.”

  “It’s got to be weird.” I’ve never really thought of how weird, though. “I mean, people realize who you are and the picture of you they have in their heads is you in a pair of boxer briefs.”

  “Is that the picture you have of me in your head, Al?” Mateo wriggles his eyebrows at me.

  Sometimes. Lately. Ever since the axe throwing, I’ve had it more and more. I mean, it’s not a bad picture to have—all pecs and abs and that happy trail of hair leading down, down, down… God, all this exertion is going to my head. I slow down a little and say, “Not to obviously change the subject, but do you want to get some food?”

  “Are you okay?” Mateo’s expression turns serious.

  “Yes, don’t worry. I just realized with all this talk of Instagram that I haven’t eaten much today.” My tone turns a little sheepish because admitting this would be embarrassing if it were anyone other than Matty. “I’ve started following a lot of food accounts lately.”

  “Why?” Matty slows his pace another level.

  “Resolutions, baby. Sometime this year I need to figure out a signature dish, remember?” Sweat breaks out on my forehead as we slow to a gentle jog. Maybe regular exercisers are used to this, but I’m continually surprised by the fact I only seem to start sweating as my workout is winding down.

  Mateo nods. “Right. Signature dish. What’s it going to be?”

  “I have no idea. I feel like it should be something meaningful, right? Like, Miriam’s is coq au vin because she and Stephen went to France on their honeymoon and that was their most romantic meal.” I barely resist a puking gesture, because Miriam mentions their romantic meal every single time she makes it. The first seven times it was sweet. Now it’s just annoying.

  “That’s a good reason for a signature dish,” Matty says as he slows to a walk. He places his hands on his hips and breathes in deeply through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.

  He taught me this. Apparently this method of breathing opens up your lungs after an intense cardio workout. But I’m not quite able to manage deep, calm breaths post-run yet and I take a big gulp of air as I say, “I have time to figure it out. It’s only April.”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun, Al.” Matty glances over at me. “Speaking of time, what are you thinking food-wise? I have another client at four and need to get down to Battery Park by then.”

  “You work too hard, you know that?”

  “Seriously? The queen of overtime, herself, is riding me because I work too hard?” Matty raises his eyebrows.

  “Riding you? I’d like to think if I were riding you, you’d know it.” I raise my own eyebrows and my cheeks flush because that did not come out qu
ite right. But I don’t wait for him to answer before saying, “How about we go to Zabar’s, and then we can share a cab downtown?”

  My treat. If Matty’s not going to let me pay him his hourly rate for personal training, the least I can do is pay for things when we’re out. Last week, I got him a protein shake from GNC and gave him a gift certificate to Foot Locker. I said it was a gift from a client to ensure he took it. The week before, it was pad thai and a Benson, Hyatt, and Menski pen. The pen was free, but everything else is an attempt to compensate him for all the time spent with me when he could be working with paying clients. If he’s caught on to my not-so-devious plan, he hasn’t said anything yet.

  “You sure you want to go right for the carbs after such a good run?” Matty asks with a grin.

  “Why run if not to eat carbs?” I feign a shocked expression and then say, “Besides, Zabar’s has salads, too, you know.”

  “Who has a salad at Zabar’s?” Matty gives me that sexy, playful look of his.

  “Well someone must, because they’re on the menu.” I can’t resist a smile.

  “You’re making sure you get your five a day, right?”

  “A little less packaged food, a little more produce is good for everyone.” I parrot back a saying from his Instagram. “On it, boss.”

  “How often exactly are you checking out my underwear pics, Al?” Mateo raises his eyebrows and barely holds back a grin. “I’m flattered, of course, but if you want to see the real deal all you have to do is ask.”

  My face heats again and for the first time I’m glad it’s already red from running. “I told you I’ve been on Instagram a lot more lately and your posts keep clogging up my feed. I can’t help that you post, like, four times a day.”

  “And she’s on top of the frequency with which I post.” Matty puts his hand over his heart. “If there’s something you need to tell me…”

  “I told you.” Emphasis on told. “I’m on Instagram lately. I kind of like it. There’s not a lot of political bullshit and I can see pictures of food all day long. There’s this one woman I follow who actually inspired me to go out and buy turmeric and almond milk.”