by Ellie Hall
“What?” the gym rat asks.
“This is Catherine. Catherine, meet Omar. I better get started. You guys grab some mats up front.”
By the time I’ve twisted, lifted, stretched, and planked myself into knots, I’ve learned that Omar is a personal trainer at the gym and wants to give me a free session. He also gives me the address for his website and we trade emails.
“Sweating is hot,” Hazel says when she meets me for a juice at the front of the gym afterward.
“Literally.” My tank top permanently adheres to my skin with sweat. “I’m like a hog when I work out. Meanwhile, you glisten.”
We leave the warmth of the gym as Hazel says, “If I hear you say one more self-deprecating thing about yourself, I’m firing you.”
“Cold as a slap to the face,” I say not sure if I mean her comment or the outside air.
I don’t mean to talk poorly about myself. It’s more of a default. A filter to keep from showing the real me. I’m afraid that if I reveal the confident girl bursting to get out and am rejected, or still feel as stuck as I do, I’ll be laughed at again. The trill of laughter, the knowing glances, the concerned calls… Everyone knew I was dating a cheater and didn’t tell me, but when I found out it was doubly humiliating. I’m smart enough not to let that happen again whether when dating or in my career or regular life.
“Catherine, you’re the one who kept me on track during college. Who encouraged me to go to grad school. You made it so I didn’t screw up and throw away my education. You were always my inspiration and in the last few months, maybe even years now, you’ve been spiraling into a pit of self-doubt and loathing. Enough.”
Her words hit me hard. I pause mid-stride. Maybe it is time for me to change. To get unstuck. To figure out how. I wipe my eyes. “Yeah. You’re right. I’m sorry I’ve—”
“—had so much spinach in your teeth. That’s what friends are for. To tell you these things. I only wish I’d realized it sooner. Oh! How convenient for you to have a revelation right here.”
I look up at the soft glow of the bookstore at twilight, yearning for a paper escape. A beach read, a fiery girl who plays hard to get, a second chance romance—anything that’s one-hundred and eighty degrees from where I’m at now.
“Number four. Your bookstore boyfriend.”
I peer through the glass. He’s of average height with light brown hair. He wears a gray sweatshirt and jeans. I don’t see any sign of tattoos, piercings, a man-bun, or anything out of the ordinary. He seems, in a word, normal. Trustworthy, nice. The kind of guy that would be perfect for me.
“Will you go out with him? Just once. You two can get nerdy together.” She giggles.
“I don’t even know what he likes to read. Next time I go in I’ll ask him to get coffee or something,” I say, grasping at my resolve with shivering fingers.
“I’ll be checking in to make sure you do…unless you just admit it.”
Admit what? I won’t let her finish because I have a feeling it has something to do with the foxy beast. “I’ve developed a theory. Men are like dogs. This isn’t a bad thing because as we know, I really, really would love to have one. But men, they like to bury their toys, they drool and bark, they’re territorial. They’re cute when they’re puppies and then get hairy and shed when they’re old.”
“You’ve thought about this a bit?”
I bark a fake laugh. “Some men are like Dachshunds and do a lot of digging, hiding their bones all over town. St. Bernards are calm and loyal but will drool all over your face. In fact when it comes to kissing some of them are too pointy, too mushy, too slobbery, practically licking your face off.”
“You haven’t been kissing the right ones.”
But I have, well, once, that’s how I know the difference. “Shall I go on? They snore too. Dobermans, mastiffs, and Rottweilers are strong and make you feel safe, but watch out, they’re extremely territorial. There are a select few who retain their wolf-like tendencies—the alphas, who’ll be loyal companions for life, but they’re rare.” I sigh. “Also, have you noticed people tend to look like their dogs? I was reading an article the other day—”
We’re near the corner before crossing to our street when Hazel grips my arm so hard my rambling turns into an ow.
“Okay. I’ll shut up. I’m just trying to—”
Hazel whispers. “Number five or should I say number one. As in OTP.”
“Huh?”
I follow her gaze to a formidable figure approaching with a confident gait, squared-off chin, strong shoulders, and an intelligent, piercing gaze that doesn’t waver from me.
Number Five
Kellan
Like before, Catherine tries to make a break for it in the other direction, but Hazel grips her arm. I silently thank her as a comment she made when I turned up at their new apartment floats into my mind.
She’d said, “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Strangely, Cat and I repeatedly run into each other. I’ve heard that things happen in threes. Maybe this is my last chance to try to make my apology.
She continues to turn in the opposite direction, but Hazel levels her with a glare.
“Hello, number five,” Hazel says as she spins Cat around.
“What’s that?” I ask, confused.
“Funny to run into you again,” Hazel says. “Catherine was just telling me all about you.”
“I don’t imagine they were good things since she ran off—” I try for lighthearted.
In response, Cat flashes me a brassy look.
“Catnip,” I tease.
Her nostrils widen and her lips flatten. If telepathy were real, I imagine she’d be saying, You make me insane, filled with contempt and confusion and something else that I can’t identify, but it’s hot and liquid and makes me want to scream...and cry... and turn into a puddle of goo.
Or maybe that’s how I feel. Molten. Melted.
Or perhaps it’s an occupational hazard and due to my overactive imagination.
Hazel’s phone sounds from her pocket with a rap song. “Sorry guys, I have to go,” Hazel says with a smirk, “I forgot something at the gym,” she calls over her shoulder. “Hope to see you again soon, Number Five, or should I say, Number One!”
“More like she’s got a date,” Catherine mumbles.
“What was that all about? Number five? One?” I ask over the city din, stepping closer.
Her eyes glow and I hold her gaze, mesmerized, but also trying to figure this out. She’s cold, an icicle. Yet I’m warmed by her presence.
“I’d better go too,” Catherine says through chattering teeth.
I fight the urge to draw her closer and into a hug.
Instead, I shift from foot to foot. “It’s been a while. Do you want to grab a coffee or something else? Warm up?”
She glances away. “Something else.”
I don’t want to lose her again. “Can I have five minutes?” Maybe that is what Hazel referred to about number five? Heck if I know.
The steady stream of foot traffic surrounds us and a wall of newspaper boxes at our backs press us closer together. A faint smattering of freckles dot Cat’s nose. When we were younger they were brighter, traceable.
I grip the back of my neck and inhale. “Cat, it’s been a long time since we’ve had the chance to talk. Just a coffee, please?”
Cat, my nickname for her. If I recall, I was the only one she let call her that. The one. Number one? My mind flits along possibilities. An inside joke? I mull it over and think I may have a clue.
Hope lifts in my chest and up to my lips. With a smile, I point to a coffee shop on the corner.
She huffs. “Fine.”
The awkward silence follows us inside as we creep forward in line. Finally, the girl at the counter asks what we’d like. I reply, “Medium coffee just milk and a vanilla latte—”
“A tea actually,” Catherine corrects.
“You used to love vanilla lattes,” I say.
Catherine shakes her head and tells the girl, “I used to love a lot of things.”
My head dips as I pull out my wallet.
Catherine moves to swipe her card in the machine. “People change and I can pay for my drink, thanks.”
“They do change.” My tone is soft. A promise.
She lets me pay.
While we wait for our drinks, the sneaky thought that Catherine has changed flits into my mind. And that it’s my fault. A little yap from a woman carrying a Shih Tzu returns me to my senses.
“What’s kept you in the Big Apple?” I ask while we wait.
“My beloved husband, an Italian investment banker, our beautiful brownstone, and my successful career in publishing. Oh, also the power lunches, galas, soirees. You know, the usual,” she deadpans. I shrug. “You?”
“I ended up in the Marines after... I wasn’t feeling very peaceful. I finished up college on the west coast and then went to Europe. Just got back last week.”
“I knew you went into the military, but Europe? Wow. Impressive. Your parents must be proud.” Her voice is a sheet of black ice.
I’m about to ask what she’s been doing but hesitate. In our parents’ circle, this question is often phrased, And what do you do?, which translates to, Tell me how you spend your time so I can estimate your worth. I remember the game well enough.
I clear my throat. It’s now or never. “Catherine, everything that happened your senior year, I’m sorry. I know now that I should’ve told you instead of expecting my sister to.” This is part one of a two-part apology.
“Many people should have, could have told me. But they didn’t.”
“And I know they regret it. I do. Claire did.” I’ve fought in a war, but even after all this time saying my sister’s name feels like getting hit with shrapnel.
Catherine’s dark eyes shadow as if she plays the knife’s edge of sadness over Claire’s death and anger at her not having been the friend she thought she was.
But that knife’s edge slices me when she speaks. “It’s not only that. There’s guilt. I was so upset I wouldn’t talk to her, but if I had, she wouldn’t have gotten in her boyfriend’s car after he’d been drinking on prom night.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
The sound in the room dulls. Catherine’s eyes hold mine. I could get lost in them, but now is not the time. This is a moment for healing. Forgiveness. If she can forgive herself, there’s hope she’ll forgive me.
She peeks at me with hope in her eyes. “Do you believe that?”
“With every ounce of my being.” It’s true. Catherine couldn’t have known Claire was going to get into that car or what would happen. It was stupid. It was an accident. “My mother told me she wished she hadn’t let Claire go to prom or date that idiot or—”
“Of course it wasn’t Mrs. Connolly’s fault...” Realization and tears well in Catherine’s eyes and drop as if that saltwater washes away her guilt.
I grip her arm and gently squeeze. “No one blames you.”
“But afterward—”
That’s another conversation we’ll have, but the barista calls Cat for her tea, breaking the moment.
We move toward the only available seating along the tall counter by the window. I sit squarely on the stool. Catherine perches on the edge.
“You look like you’re going to fly away,” I say.
Her response is flippant silence.
Time for part two. “I fled. I’m sorry. I should have been there for you.”
My eyes meet hers. She looks away as if scared by the intensity that remains between us. A decade of words unsaid. Emotions felt deeply. But as if she can’t resist, her eyes flit back to mine.
My admission hangs in the air between us. I bite my lip and in a quiet act of assurance, just as we’d done when we were younger, my pinky finger links hers under the counter.
Our touch burns like fire, like ice, like love and hate. I don’t blame her for feeling that way. I hate myself for what I did.
Catherine blinks open her eyes. My reflection in the window shows the furrowed lines of my brow, the softness in my eyes, and the quiet patience of my lips.
I’ve waited for her this long, I can wait a little longer. Leaning closer, the sadness in her eyes matches my own. “I’m sorry, Cat,” I whisper. I grip her finger tighter.
It’s like we have to get through this part, reconciling our mutual loss of Claire, a sister and a best friend, before we can move onto our issues—namely what I did. Rather, what I failed to do.
“I’ve changed.”
“How nice for you. And so have I. I’m not the girl you remember: eager, waiting, naïve...”
“You were never that girl. I would argue that you were and are intelligent, persevering, beautiful...”
She exhales loudly. I would give anything to feel her breath against my skin.
“What do you want from me?”
Everything. But more than that, I want to give her everything—the sun, the moon, my heart.
“Kellan Connolly, whatever you think you’re looking for? I don’t have it and if I ever did, you already took it.” Her voice cracks at the last words.
My chest splinters.
“I don’t mean to upset you. That isn’t what I want at all. I just want to talk. I owe you an explanation.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” she snaps.
“Cat, we both know that I owe you everything.”
“I miss Claire,” Catherine says.
“Me too,” I answer.
Just like that night so many years ago, magnetized by our mutual grief, we move closer until Catherine’s edges blur. The movement in the surrounding room fades. I have the romantic notion that we’re lost in each other’s gaze.
The distance between us decreases by half. In less than a beat, our lips will graze as if we’re picking up exactly where we left off. Being with her is as easy and as familiar as breathing. It’s a moment of tender forgiveness, of unmet longing.
Before our lips brush, the sound and activity in the coffee shop snaps back to life. We lose the moment.
But there’s a spark.
A blaze, a fevered rush of heat, of memory, longing...
Catherine stiffens. “Remember? I hate you after what you did.” The wobble in her tone suggests she’s trying to convince herself.
My expression crumbles. My insides match. Mostly, I hate myself for being so afraid all those years ago. For hurting her.
The coffee burns going down. “The whole thing left us both feeling kind of raw. We were moving too quickly.”
“Kellan, I still feel that way. Every day. Raw. Hollow. Carved out. Broken.” Her throat scratches as though a sob builds there.
“I’m sorry. How can I make it better?”
“You can’t. Unless you have a time machine. I would’ve chosen differently. I wouldn’t have picked you.” The words are flat.
Ouch.
“What do you want?” Catherine repeats as she zips up her coat.
If only my eyes could speak because I’m afraid my voice will crack. I take the risk. “You. Us. Everything we once had, could have had. All of me in exchange for all of you.” Only, my voice is steady, sure. I realize this because I’m telling her the fullest truth I know.
“But you don’t know me anymore.”
“Will you let me get to know you then?”
“We were friends, close friends, both of us teasing the line to become more than friends. Then Zach asked me out, and you played the dating field. End of story.” Her lips form a slim line as if daring me to argue.
I squeeze her pinky with mine. She doesn’t let go. “No, that was the beginning. The beginning of me realizing what, or rather, who I want in my life. You.”
She shakes her head. “Yeah, but after Claire’s funeral...that night. You forgot I existed.”
“I was afraid.”
“Me too.”
She drops my finger and gets to her feet. She wants to ru
n again. I get it. I don’t blame her.
Lifting her chin, Catherine says, “If that was the beginning. This is the end. Thank you for the apology and the tea.”
My stomach coils. I don’t want her to leave. “Catherine. Wait. What was Hazel saying about number five or number one?” I think I’ve figured it out but want to hear it from her.
“Hazel’s stupid dare? You’re the first guy or the fifth.”
“The first and the last? The one and the only?” I lift and lower my eyebrows, trying some bravado, trying to ease things between us.
“No, Kellan. It’s not happening. Not the dare. Not us.” She lets out a long exhale as if she’d been holding her breath.
“What about this? Does this count as a date?”
“Definitely not. See you around.” She sets her empty cup in the bus bin.
“Number one as in one true pairing,” I call out.
Catherine’s lips quirk as if she wants to refute the claim. If I know her at all, she cannot lie.
Several customers turn and gawk.
“What was the dare again? Five dates? Wasn’t there something having to do with Valentine’s Day? What if we up the ante? I’m calling my shot. Fine, go on the dates, including with me. Whoever you like the most, you spend Valentine’s Day with. But I happen to think I’m your OTP so...”
She tilts her head in disbelief. “You sure are cocky.”
“Only about us.”
“You have a lot of brass, Mr. Connolly.”
A young woman by the counter bounces on her toes and claps. “So romantic.”
My lips quirk. “So what do you say, Miss Kittredge?”
Several others chant, “Do it, do it.”
“You’re enjoying this, huh?” she asks.
“Not particularly, but I believe in us.”
Soft chatter fills the room as if people are in awe of the real-life Hallmark movie scene unfolding.
She steps closer to me. “But isn’t Valentine’s Day a little cliché?”
“Valentine’s Day gets a tough rap, but it’s a good holiday. What’s wrong with celebrating love once a year? Didn’t your grandmother say we need to keep Jesus in our hearts every day, every hour? That didn’t stop her from celebrating Christmas.” I remember Mimi fondly.
