Hot Pickle: A Best Friend's Sister Romantic Comedy

by JJ Knight

  My anger reaches a fever pitch. “I hope you know who you’re hero worshiping. Because this son of a bitch is about to get thrown off the circuit. AND I’ll get you thrown out of this gym. I hope these new friends of yours have bail money because you’re going to need it. The cops already pulled your insurance card out of the dash.”

  Franklin sits up slowly with a smirk on his face. “You’ll do none of those things. Because we’re blood. Because I saved you more than once.”

  He has me there. I close my eyes a moment, my hands tightening into fists. But this is too much. He committed a criminal act.

  “What were you thinking, Franklin?” I ask. “You made it impossible for me to date anyone. And when I finally find someone great, you have to wreck it for me?”

  Franklin lies back on the bench. “Rack up ten more pounds. I want to push my limit today. I’ll come back stronger at the next meet. I got screwed by the judging today.”

  One of the young men jumps up to add a plate to his bench press.

  Apparently, I’m dismissed.

  “Call our parents,” I say. “I told them you crashed your truck.”

  Franklin continues to ignore me, so I head back out the way I came.

  I knew this was all going to fall apart. My whole life has been based on this teetering stack of bricks, none of them mortared together.

  My parents are no help. And the ways my brother and I found to make our way in the world didn’t do us any favors.

  He’s toxic. And by association, I’m toxic. As soon as this gets out, my career is going to be wrecked. Nobody will want to touch me.

  I have to get out. Away from Franklin. Find my own way, far from L.A. As long as I’m near his circles, I won’t be free of him.

  And how can I face the Pickle family when my brother has wrecked one of the delis and ruined their grandmother’s anniversary?

  I know exactly what I need to do.

  Take the opportunity that has been given to me.

  Time to call Amy and get on the road.

  35

  Max

  My brothers and Dad are up all night. One of the cops hangs out with us, waiting on the insurance adjuster and the cleanup team.

  By the time the photos are taken, and the place is cleared of rubble and secured, it’s time to head to the airport.

  Nova, Jason, and Dad decide to fly home. They have a lot to do for the anniversary.

  Anthony chooses to stay behind. He has an idea about doing a tent party in the parking lot, a way to keep my crew hired and hold the party even though it will be weeks before we can reopen the dining room.

  He points out that the kitchen is perfectly functional, and we can route customers through the back to the bathrooms as necessary.

  I will take a hit, but it’s a small setback. We’ll fix up the deli and get back to where we were.

  I haven’t reached out to Franklin, and I haven’t gone to Buster’s Gym. As the days pass, mostly working outside, marking off the parking lot and figuring out how to set up, I realize I have no time to deal with finding a new trainer or a new gym.

  At first, Camryn takes off to help with the work, but I tell her not to worry. We have it well in hand and there’s no reason for her to cancel her tans.

  I haven’t made a decision about Nationals. If I don’t go, the person with the next highest points at the meet will take my place. Without a training partner, and unsure about my ability to follow a workout schedule during the rebuild, my bodybuilding career is on pause.

  It’s family first.

  We set up a new curbside delivery system, and within the week, we’re back in modified business. By the time Anthony leaves town, freeing me up to see Camryn alone, I can tell things have changed with her. Her responses are short and often delayed, as if she’s struggling with what to say to me.

  On Friday, I text her from work to suggest she come over but she’s noncommittal.

  And when she appears at the back door of the deli an hour later, I can tell from her face that she’s made some hard decisions.

  The staff goes quiet as we walk through the busy kitchen to my office.

  Only when the door’s closed, and we’re both seated, can I screw up the courage to ask her, “So, is this it?”

  She won’t meet my gaze, so I brace myself for her words. And they’re not easy.

  “I’ve decided to leave with Amy. I’m going to finish out one more competition here, but I’m transitioning all my clients to other tanning artists.” She gives me a half-smile. “Just not Ride ‘em Shiny.”

  I have to force the grin. My heart is in my shoes. “You don’t even want to try to work this out?”

  She stares down at her hands, folded together in the lap of her pale-blue sundress, the one she wore when we went to the beach that day. I wonder if she chose it deliberately. I don’t know what it means.

  “I wish I had a good plan for what to do,” she says. Her voice breaks, and I lean forward to take her hand, but she pulls them closer to her body. “It’s a lose-lose situation. If I report him to the circuit, what does that say about me as a sister? If I don’t report him, what does that say about me as a person? He could go off on anybody, especially where I’m involved.”

  “You can’t be responsible for how your brother acts.”

  “I know. I need a break from the scene. And this opportunity gets me away, keeps me paid, and gives me some space to figure things out.”

  Her eyes are cast to the floor.

  “I’d like to see you at the end of it. I’ll wait.”

  “I don’t know how I’ll be by then,” she says.

  “You’ll still be the same Cam to me.”

  She fiddles with a loose string on her skirt. “I hope you don’t give up on the competitions. You’re good.”

  “I need to focus on what’s important, too,” I say. “Leaving Buster’s Gym to Franklin and his buddies is the best thing to do.”

  “I heard you decided not to press charges.”

  “Also a hard decision. The insurance people definitely didn’t like it.”

  She does meet my gaze at that. “Franklin predicted you wouldn’t. He knows you’re a nice guy, and he used that against you.”

  “The deli will recover. But he’s costing me more than I can bear.” I reach out to touch the loose fabric of her skirt.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She gets up as if to flee, but this time I grasp her hand. “Can I text you? Can we talk at all?”

  She won’t meet my gaze. “Of course. I’ll do my best.”

  And with that, she’s gone.

  I plunk back down and brace my head in my hands over my desk. We took the wrong path, and it cost us. We should’ve told him from the beginning. I made the wrong choice.

  And now I’ve lost Camryn.

  36

  Camryn

  This day is crazy.

  I have six bodybuilders to tan from scratch in the next two hours. All of them want shadowing and extra work.

  There needs to be three of me.

  I dash down the hall of the arena, spotting Amy only in passing. She’s also on the run.

  We have too many clients to deal with. And many of them are absolute divas.

  And I’m talking about the men.

  I burst into a dressing room, where two bodybuilders wait for their final tans before their prejudging. Both are monstrous, veiny super-heavyweights with legs that weigh more than I do. Each.

  “Where the hell have you been?” one of them booms.

  I ignore his tone as I assess the paler one. “You first because I might need to do two rounds.”

  “But I go on before him,” the other yells.

  Good God. I force a smile. “I promise I am fast and thorough.”

  I glance around the room. The rack of tan canisters isn’t here.

  Great.

  I jerk my phone out of my pocket. I quickly text out a question to the runner who’s supposed to move the tanning cart from the wom
en’s side to the men’s.

  No answer.

  This is too much.

  But I force another smile. “Just a second. Let me go locate the tanning solution.”

  Both men grumble as I take off in the dead sprint down the hall. This is only the second competition we’ve done in Italy, and I’m already over it. The runners don’t speak English, and I’ve taken to carrying around pictures on my phone to show them what I need.

  And despite being told we were recruited because the bodybuilders wanted English-speaking service providers, a good third of them are from other countries and don’t speak English themselves.

  So, the communication has been painful and difficult, and I’m pretty sure I screwed up the color on at least two clients last weekend.

  I can’t imagine keeping up this frustrating pace for three more months.

  But I signed a contract.

  I dash into the women’s main dressing area and spot the rolling rack of canisters. I check to make sure all the colors are loaded and begin pushing it toward the other side again.

  A job like this is the world’s best weight loss program. I may not have a lot to lose, but I am definitely dropping pounds.

  If we had time for strolling along the streets of Italy, sampling gelato, and the many pizzerias, maybe I would enjoy myself.

  But that is not even within the realm of possibility. The schedule is jam-packed, and the travel is grueling, red-eye flights and train stations before dawn.

  But we all keep going. One more day. One more competitor. One more tan.

  The only thing good about my life right now is I drop dead asleep every night, and never have time to mourn the loss of Max.

  We finally catch a break three weeks in. It’s time for Nationals in New York, and even though we’re not working the event, the recruiters are expected to market to the bodybuilders who qualify for the international circuit.

  So, we descend on the city with forty-eight hours to spend on our own.

  Amy and I wander everything that’s free. Central Park. Chinatown. We eat hot dogs from street vendors and duck through the museum gift shops.

  “One day, I’m going to come here with so much money that I can do anything I want,” Amy says. “I’ll rent a helicopter and fly over the Statue of Liberty.”

  We both lick ice cream as we wander down a side street on the Upper East Side.

  We’re half the island away from the bodybuilding events happening over the next two days. I try not to think about them.

  But Amy finally asks. “So, is Max here? Is he competing?”

  I shake my head. I haven’t talked to him in a few days, but I know he dropped out early to allow the other competitor to make travel plans.

  “I think he’s taking your advice. Dropping fifteen pounds. Getting into light heavyweight territory where it’s not quite so competitive.”

  “You can’t make it big unless you’re a heavyweight, though.”

  We pause at the crosswalk with a dozen other New Yorkers. I feel out of place. My shoes are wrong. My jeans don’t have the right cut. But it’s all good. The city is busy and alive.

  “He’s got a new workout buddy. He’s not at Buster’s anymore.”

  “That’s too bad. He brought them so much publicity.”

  “It was Franklin’s gym first.”

  “Still sucks. You seeing him when you get back?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Now that we’re separated, it’s easier to see the problem stretching out across our entire future. What if we got married one day? Do we invite my brother? Snub the whole family?

  Amy punches something into her phone. “Let’s go this way,” she says. “Google says there’s an interesting stop over here.”

  “Is it free?” I toss the trash from my ice cream cone into a bin.

  “Totally.”

  We wander along the sidewalk, window shopping, and I notice that up ahead a crowd has gathered outside of a storefront.

  Then I recognize the style of the green and white striped awning.

  “Amy, you didn’t.”

  She threads her arm through mine. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like he’s here. You said yourself he didn’t come to New York for Nationals.”

  I glance up at the giant sign.

  Manhattan Pickle. Max’s dad’s deli.

  “Why are so many people here?” I ask.

  “It’s a hot place for lunch,” she says. She holds up her phone. “Look. Five stars. Average forty-minute wait.”

  “Wow. They do better than the one in L.A.”

  “It’s the original. And it’s huge.” Amy lowers her sunglasses and stares up at the building.

  “I do love their hot pickles,” I say, and bite my lip to keep myself in check. The thought of those moments with Max is hard to bear.

  We move forward, and I can almost see inside the place. Only when we get close to the door do I notice the giant banner on the opposite windows.

  “Fiftieth anniversary party for Alma Pickle.”

  Oh no. This is the big event they were planning.

  Max said he was going to be here for this.

  I take a step back and run into an elderly man behind me.

  “Watch where you’re going,” he grumbles.

  “So sorry,” I say. “Amy. I can’t go here. It’s the anniversary. Max is probably here.”

  She holds on to my arm. “Then we should see him.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t drop in unannounced.” I step to the side and almost ram a baby carriage.

  “Watch it,” the mother growls.

  I’m not in California anymore.

  And I have to get out of here.

  I duck out of line, looking both directions to figure out which way to escape. The line behind me is long, but the sidewalk is clear on the other side of the door.

  So I make a break for it.

  “Camryn!” Amy calls.

  I’m almost past the door when an elderly lady steps in front of me with a tray. “Free sample?” she asks.

  I have to stop or run her over.

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  Her eyes twinkle. She wears a bright green satin shirt over navy pants and orthopedic shoes. She’s got to be over seventy but the ethereal beauty of her face beneath her cotton-candy gray hair reminds me of someone.

  “Oh, I must insist,” she says. “We have juicy pickles, spicy pickles, sweet pickles. I’m partial to the hot one.” She winks as her long finger points out the pickle I remember well from Max’s deli.

  “Okay,” I say, and lift the clear cup with a slice of pickle inside.

  I’ll eat one, for old time’s sake.

  I try to step away, but she moves with me. “We should get you a glass of water for that. It’s quite hot.”

  She neatly sidesteps me, blocking my escape. With the line to my right, the only way to go is into the deli.

  “I should wait my turn.”

  “I’ll tell them you’re with me.” She presses her hand to my back. “Your friend can come, too.”

  I glance back and see Amy waving. No way. She got me into this.

  We head into the dining room. Every table is packed with people, and a long counter four times the size of Max’s lines the entire right side. Panic rises as I glance along the row of workers for any of the Pickles. I’ve met them all.

  But they’re all employees. Nobody I know.

  Along the left side, a big stage is set up. A group of musicians cluster together, the keyboardist plunks a note and a guitar player tunes his strings.

  Looks like something is about to happen.

  The woman leads me to the drink counter along the back wall.

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “Nonsense,” she says. “Humor an old lady.”

  We fill a plastic cup with water, and the woman waits patiently for me to eat the pickle.

  I hesitate, not wanting my mouth to die like before. “Last time I had this, M— I me
an, the person I was with suggested I try it with the dill cream cheese to cut the heat.”

  Now her eyes practically sparkle. “I bet so. I’ve taught that trick to many people. Let’s get you some.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t mean we had to do that. I’m nervous it will be hot.”

  She sees something behind me, and her eyebrows lift up and down like a signal.

  I whip around.

  It’s Anthony Pickle.

  Oh, boy.

  “Hey,” I say. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “I didn’t know you were in New York!” he says, but I can tell his innocent act is exactly that—an act.

  “What is going on?” I ask.

  “You tell us,” the old woman says. “You’re the one who came to our deli. Looking for someone?” Her face lights up with happy mischief and the resemblance settles into place.

  This is Grammy Alma Pickle.

  37

  Max

  It’s five minutes until the big ceremony and Anthony has disappeared.

  Dad, Jason, Nova, and I crowd inside Dad’s office at the back of the main kitchen. We’re supposed to be heading to the stage to give our spiel about how much we love the Pickle franchise.

  But Anthony left to check on the musicians, then came back, grabbed Grammy, and took off again.

  “Should someone go find him?” I ask. I don’t know why no one else is anxious about this.

  Jason claps me on the back. “For someone who gets up on stage wearing nothing more than dental floss, you sure are nervous about this shindig.”

  “For someone who grew up in New York, you sure picked up a lot of Texas words. Like shindig.”

  Jason laughs. “You’ve been grumpy since you got here. Somebody needs to get this boy laid.”

  Dad glances up from his phone to pierce us with a stern glare. “None of that locker room talk at work.”

  To Jason’s credit, he shuts his mouth. Though he is right. Not about the getting laid part. But about my bad attitude.

  Dad stands up from his chair. “Go time.”

  I ponder what Jason’s said as we file out of the office and through the kitchen. I am on edge. This New York trip looks nothing like the one I once planned. Showing Camryn around New York. Introducing her to Grammy and the cousins.