Chasing The O

by LaBelle, Lorelai

  “Like they’ll trap the next guy who catches a glimpse,” she said, already out the door.

  I found my coat and stumbled after her. “Thanks,” I said, as we got in the car. It was clear her patience was thin. “I really am trying, though.” Silence captured the mood, all the way up to Hawthorne. The gym was on the north side, on the corner of Thirtieth. The four-story building consisted of a parking garage and three narrow levels for equipment. “I can’t believe this used to be that old cement lot.”

  “Didn’t even take them that long to build it,” Danielle said, parking in front of a house on thirty-first. “I’ve never seen a place go up so fast.”

  We strolled up to the front entrance, where a giant sign hung over the door that read “RIPPED CITY FITNESS” in bold red. Glass panes made up the first two floors. The third had smaller windows so no one could see inside unless they stood on the roof of the bar across the street and had a pair of binoculars. A fit, peppy woman behind a tall circular desk greeted us as we walked in.

  “Hi,” I said, “We were hoping to sign up for a membership.”

  “Sure, I’ll get someone to start you up.” She flagged another woman over from a group of desks to the right. “Sam, could you sign these two up?”

  The thin woman smiled, introduced herself, and shook our hands. She then led the way to a large desk and gave us a packet, sitting across from us. “Here at Ripped City Fitness we want to see you reach your goals and we believe that the first step is recording where you are now and where you want to be in three months, six months, and one year from today.”

  I looked down at the list of silly questions and then at Danielle, who had already begun answering hers. “Is there a way we can skip over this and just join?”

  The woman stared at me blankly, as if no one had asked that before. To our luck, she didn’t turn hostile, but replied, “Sure, if that’s what you want, but you won’t be getting the value out of our fitness center and the free three sessions with a personal trainer.”

  I handed back the papers. “That’s all right. We weren’t looking to work with a personal trainer.”

  Danielle shot me a displeased look. She never liked it when I rushed through things—unless, of course, it involved my innate inability to dress myself and get out of the house on time. But honestly, benefits such as free sessions were always a waste of time because we never followed through on stuff like that, and I had never cared for spiels.

  “Okay, well, let me get you the agreement forms.” She searched through several drawers before she apologized and rushed off to the office behind her.

  “Maybe I wanted the free sessions,” Danielle snarled, the moment the woman was out of earshot.

  “Don’t you have to be at work by noon?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “I’m saving us time. We both know you wouldn’t ever work out with a personal trainer.”

  The woman’s prompt return killed the argument. “Here you go.” She slid the forms across the desk. “As you can see, we are a twenty-four-hour gym, and we don’t charge for an all-hours access pass like some of the fitness clubs in the area do. We have a few different options: the basic being a flat, two-month contract for twenty dollars, and fifteen per month after that. You can also select the ‘women’s only’ option, giving you unlimited access to the top floor where men are not permitted, for an additional five dollars a month.”

  Danielle and I regarded each other. “That sounds pretty good,” she said, raising her eyebrows and beaming. It would be a paradise for her. As a glorious “10” on the offensively-inane-yet-widely-used “Attractiveness Scale,” she was constantly approached and pestered for dates by men, so any place she could escape such forward behavior she considered a sanctuary. Plus the obvious: she preferred to check out women.

  It wouldn’t be quite the haven for me. I mean, sure, I didn’t want a bunch of nimrods ogling me, but at the same time I kind of did. Well, maybe not nimrods, but guys in general—potential candidates. “Hard to meet guys with no guys around,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but after Mr. Right scoops you up, you’ll want privacy,” Danielle said, adamant that we shell out the extra five a month.

  The woman didn’t mind our conversation. She was probably used to worse than women talking about meeting men.

  “All right, fine,” I said. “You win, but I think you should pay my extra five.” She ignored me and signed up for the monthly twenty. I circled the same plan and filled in the rest of the information. “Is the sign-up fee really only ten?”

  “Actually,” the woman started. “Any time the owner is at the gym, the sign-up fee is waived, and he’s working out right now.”

  If I’d been a cartoon character, I’m sure my jaw would have hit the floor. “I like that policy. Is he in here often?”

  “He comes in every few days,” she answered. “He likes to rotate between the three branches.”

  I thought about asking her to point out Mr. Generous, but on a second assessment it sounded too forward. After ten minutes of paperwork and a quick run-through of the three different levels and equipment, Danielle and I made for the second story and the cardio equipment.

  We chose the taller ellipticals in the back next to the stair steppers. Treadmills formed the line in front of us, and the stationary bikes were in the row ahead of them. Free-weights lined the wall in front of all the cardio equipment. The level was virtually empty. No one else was using the ellipticals, and only three people ran on the treadmills, as more cycled than anything else. Two men were lifting weights in front of the giant floor-to-ceiling mirror that made up the wall.

  “I bet that guy has a huge cock,” Danielle said ten minutes into our workout. She jerked her head toward the beefier of the two guys pumping iron. They were hard to make out from across the room, but it was clear that one was a lot slimmer while the second was an unattractive hulk of muscle. The descriptor “heavenly fit” came to mind as I gazed at the lean but incredibly toned guy.

  She frequently made comments like that, even though she was gay. She did it just to get me to blush or react in some way. She also loved to talk about tits, clits, and pussies, which I liked to call “v-spots.”

  “Shh!” I shrieked. “Why do you always have to try and embarrass me?”

  “Embarrass you? I’m trying to help you break through your prudish barrier,” she said.

  “I’m not a prude,” I defended, almost slipping off the elliptical.

  “Saturday night you told me the only position you’ve had sex in is missionary.”

  “Danielle!”

  “That makes you a prude,” she continued without skipping a beat. “I mean, I’m still grappling with the sad reality that you’ve never had an orgasm.”

  “Would you keep your voice down?” I urged her. “If you’re going to talk like that, there’s no sense in letting the whole room know.”

  “See, that’s what I mean.” She eyed me. “It’s two thousand eighteen, Maci. People don’t care. You can talk about sex without being persecuted.”

  “Not everyone has to be as open on the topic as you are, Danielle.”

  “Just say it,” she said. “I won’t stop bugging you until you do.”

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize we were still in middle school.” I started to slow down, distracted. “I’m not going to say it just because you want me to.”

  “Fine,” she snapped. “Anyway, I think they’re gay, so it really doesn’t matter.”

  I squinted at the pair, trying to make their features out. At twenty-five, my long-distance sight was failing me, starting to slip, and every few months it seemed perceivably worse. “What makes you think they’re gay?”

  “Uh, hello, I know things you don’t,” she answered. “And even if they weren’t—which they are—it still wouldn’t matter because you wouldn’t do anything about it.”

  I halted the elliptical. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means you’re way too shy around men.” She kep
t going like everything was cool. “You went out with Ryan for two weeks before you kissed. And before he came along, it had been, what, eight months since you went on a date?”

  “I’m not shy,” I said, “I’m just not as confident—”

  “And that’s the strange part,” she cut me off. “You’re so certain and resolute when it comes to business and the bakery. You’re like some unstoppable machine, but then when it comes to men, you’re a completely different person.”

  “What is with you lately? You just keep attacking me.” I climbed down from the cardio machine, staring at Danielle. My temper flared.

  “I just don’t want you to get stuck in the same rut you always do after a breakup,” she said, looking down to meet my eyes. “I want you to find someone like I have.”

  “And saying c-o-c-k”—I whispered the letters—“will help me do that?”

  “What? No, that’s a completely different subject. I think asking one of them out would.” She glanced across the room and I followed her eyes, landing on the fit guy. “That’s one way to see if they’re gay.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Danielle.”

  “Think what kind of story that would be though,” she said. “Asking your future husband out to win a bet.”

  “To prove he’s not gay,” I said, wiping the sweat out of my eyes. That was a big reason why I hated gyms: I sweated ten times more indoors than outside. Plus, I felt so trapped and restricted on the machines. “Romantic.”

  “Just do it as a confidence booster, to show yourself it’s not so scary to ask someone out.”

  The idea sounded good in my head. I could use more confidence around men—there was no kidding myself there—but asking a complete stranger out was something else. I had no intro, no way to transition from unfamiliar to familiar. I needed something to settle my nerves before I met someone new. I was staring over at the two men while Danielle waited for a reply. “If you do this today, I won’t bug you about anything date- or sex-related for a week.”

  It didn’t sound worth it. “Just a week?”

  “Isn’t that better than a few hours?” she said, nudging me forward between the ellipticals.

  “All right. All right. I’ll do it.” Her face lit up as I spun around. I took a step toward the two men and my heart rate instantly escalated, my throat dry and swelling. Talking to potential dates never came easy for me. At work it was easy to talk to customers. It was routine.

  The sweat I had built up from the workout now seemed to be clinging to every inch of my body. I stuck out my chest as I walked, but by the time I was within a few feet of the fit guy, my shoulders had hunched, and I had grown smaller. The excessively buff friend had disappeared, probably to the bathroom.

  The odds were now a little better that I might string a sentence together, but not by much. About two feet stood between us as he set a pair of thirty-five-pound dumbbells on the floor. He was sitting on the bench, inclined, breathing hard—as hard as I was sweating.

  “Excuse me?” I said, realizing as the words stumbled out that it was the driver from the car accident, but by the time my brain told me to retreat, the sole of my foot rolled over something and my balance faltered. My legs buckled, launching me right into his lap, and I stared straight into his warm brown eyes, petrified.

  3

  WHEN MACI MET HARRY

  Our eyes were glued to each other’s. My heart was running wild, pumping in my ear, and my thoughts were so scattered, I couldn’t form a coherent sentence to save my life. And underneath it all, as he held me in his sweaty arms, which had swelled to the size of my head from exertion, I had the supreme urge to kiss him. It was as though there were a magnetic force pulling me to his lips. A spark permeated through my body, alive with electricity from his touch. His face had a soft innocence to it, hiding some inner darkness that his piercing eyes gave away. His forehead soaked the tips of his thick curly brown hair—hair that made me want to glide my fingers through it. But it was those eyes that stirred me, attracted me, compelled me. They were sweet and alluring, yet at the same time, cold and distant.

  After the car accident, my vision had been distorted, and I never saw him clearly that day. I also couldn’t make out any of his features from a distance. But now it was different. Now he was holding me inches from his face and my eyes drank in every last bit of his glory. He was so striking, so appealing to the eye; there was no way I could look anywhere but directly into his gaze.

  “Hi,” he said, somewhat brusque, breathing hard.

  My face was already flushed, but now I could feel the heat radiating from my cheeks and neck, my body afire. The same intoxicating effect took hold as it had when I first heard his voice, but now it seemed somehow amplified, and my head spun. “Hi,” I squeaked.

  He didn’t move to release me or set me back on my feet, his left hand hugging my breast. “Are you all right?” Care attended his tone, his concern genuine.

  Before I actually took the time to heed any pain signals from my body, I nodded, my head whipping up and down. “I—I was just wondering if—if you were done with the bench,” I said, inventing some reason for my presence. I shifted and he brought me to my feet, holding me still for a moment so that I didn’t fall over before I regained my balance. He stood up and displayed his magnificence from head to toe, and I slipped into a dumbstruck stare, reveling in his gorgeous body. His well-defined chest screamed at me to run my hands across the muscles.

  He surveyed the front of the room and the row of empty benches, then smiled, his stunning white teeth capturing my attention. “I—”

  “I guess not,” I interrupted, snapping out of my paralysis and backing up. I had to escape before he realized who I was, if he did at all. My eyes downcast, I noticed a cat’s eye marble on the floor, the culprit behind my clumsy tumble. I bent down and scooped it up. “Marble,” I laughed. “Sorry to bother you.” I turned and bolted back to Danielle as fast as I could without running. I could have won a speed-walking race. “We have to go!” I whispered, but it bordered on a shout.

  “What happened?” she asked, slowing the elliptical until she could hop off. “It looked like you fell.”

  “I’ll tell you at the bakery,” I said, collecting my sweatshirt and water bottle. I didn’t wait for her, hurrying down the stairs, passing the bulky man, whom I then registered as the passenger from the accident.

  I shot out of the front entrance and hit the sidewalk, considering whether to walk the three blocks to the security of my office or wait for Danielle. I rounded the corner to the car. Danielle was sprinting to catch up. “What the hell, Maci? What’s going on?”

  “I just want to get to the bakery,” I said, short on breath. What happened? I wasn’t exactly sure myself. I didn’t have the words to relate the unnerving experience.

  “Maci?”

  “It was them,” I burst out, ducking into the car.

  Danielle pulled out and drove north toward Salmon Street. “It was who?”

  “Them—the guys from the accident.”

  “From Sunday?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Them. It was the driver. I almost asked out the driver.” I had almost done more than that. I had almost kissed him. The urge had barely been controllable.

  “You’re kidding,” she laughed.

  “It’s not funny,” I clipped.

  She turned down Thirty-fourth. “It kinda is.” After I shot her an annoyed look, she asked, “What’s the big deal? So you almost asked out the guy who we hit. Some people might call that fate.”

  “It was embarrassing, Danielle. I felt like a fool.”

  “Did he recognize you?” she asked, turning onto Hawthorne and then into the alley between the Herb Shoppe and the Road to Tibet gift shop. The parking area behind the bakery was small, but it meant I didn’t have to contend for street parking, which was one of my biggest pet peeves about the city.

  “I don’t think so,” I said, heading for the back door into Friends Bakery and Brunch House, the bakery I co-
owned. Bridgett was sitting at her desk in our shared office when I rushed in.

  Danielle was at my heels. “Then what’s the problem?” She turned to Bridgett. “Hi, Bridgett.”

  “Hey.” Bridgett swiveled her chair to face us. She was a cute, short, plump woman, with dirty blond hair. Twenty-eight, recently divorced, and the most austere person in the world, she made for a great business partner. But she was much more personable when she was drunk, and lately she liked to hit the bar scene after hours, searching for her next bed-warmer since her husband left. “Problem?”

  “I just freaked out, that’s all,” I said, sinking into my chair. I was unable to formulate the right sentence to describe what had happened, and on the other hand, I wasn’t sure I wanted to describe it at all. No man had ever affected me like that.

  “What happened?” Bridgett asked, curiosity drawing her into the conversation.

  “Maci almost asked out the guy we hit on Sunday,” Danielle explained. “But she’s blowing it up into a huge thing when it isn’t.”

  Bridgett rocked in her chair. “Ah.”

  “I’m not blowing it up,” I contended. “I was embarrassed and had to get out of there. I mean, I fell into the guy’s lap for Christ’s sake.”

  “You fell into his lap?” Bridgett remained calm, on the edge of disinterest.

  “Fell on this.” I produced the marble from my sweatshirt pocket.

  “A marble,” Danielle observed. “You tripped on a marble?”

  “What’s a marble doing at a gym?” Bridgett asked coolly.

  “How the hell should I know?” I placed it on my desk and stared at it for a second. “All I know is that I give up on dating for a while.”

  “You didn’t even start!” Danielle exclaimed.

  “I don’t have time,” I expressed with a sigh. “We just opened the bakery two months ago and are struggling to keep our heads above water. Things need to settle, you know?”

  “Not really,” Bridgett said. “I don’t think things will ever settle, for one. For two, if you don’t make the time, you’ll never have the time. What you need is to find someone online.”