False Start

by Barbara Valentin

  Before she barely got her last word out, Nick replied, "Yeah, well, I've been a runner since I was ten, and I'll make damn sure you cross that finish line, even if I have to drag you by your hair every step of the way. So what's your question?"

  Mattie appeared a tad horrified at the image he invoked. "I'm not so sure I want to ask it now."

  They stared at each other for an uncomfortable minute.

  She started slowly, carefully choosing her words. "Do you think I can"

  "Yes."

  Mattie gasped. "You didn't even let me finish."

  "I didn't have to. You want to know if I think you can finish the marathon. I don't think you can; I know you can."

  More uncomfortable silence ensued.

  When she glanced out the window, Nick leaned forward and clasped his hands together. He caught the surprise in her eyes when they met his. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't think so."

  The corner of her mouth curved into a slow smile. Pointing her fork at him, she said, "You want to know what I think? If we play this right, we can change the world."

  Nick let out a hearty laugh as he eased back in his seat. "What are you talking about? All I'm on the hook for is getting you across the finish line in October."

  "And all I'm on the hook for is to write about it. But with your rules and my column, we have the power to make a huge difference in people's lives."

  She waved her hands over the table, adding, "Bolster confidence, raise self-esteem, eradicate bullies. All the things you keep yelling at me about."

  "I don't yell at you."

  "You do, Nick. All the time. And it's all right. That's what coaches do, right? They yell. And you're my coach, so…"

  You're my coach.

  He liked how that sounded when she said it. It made him feel a little warmer on the inside. Even if her passion was directed more at his rules than at him, he liked being on the receiving end of it for a change.

  Picking up his sandwich, he asked, "So what does this have to do with what they're doing at the paper?"

  "They've been looking for an angle, a gimmick."

  She scrunched her face up and asked, "How does 'Team Plate Spinner' grab you?"

  He frowned at her and set the last bite of his sandwich back down. "Wait a minute. You're the Plate Spinner?"

  "Yep, going on two years now."

  He studied her, recalling the caustic tone of the few columns his mother had shared with him, mostly for their entertainment value. He made a mental note to look up the rest online.

  "I thought you always wanted to be a big time journalist," he started.

  Then, looking as if he had just taken a swig from a pickle jar, he asked, "Why are you writing an advice column?"

  Given Mattie's reaction, he may as well have asked, "Is that really your natural hair color?"

  The rare and wondrous light that had been sparking in her eyes clicked off. Just like that. He could barely hear her when she looked down at her nails and said, "I thought we were keeping the past in the past."

  Nice going. Why don't you ask her how much she weighs while you're at it?

  Back-pedaling as fast as he could, Nick offered, "Well, my Mom is a huge fan. She loves your column. She reads it all the time. She even keeps a binder of her favorites."

  Schmoozing was not his forte.

  "That's because she doesn't know I'm the one writing it."

  Nick shook his head. "Not true. She likes you. A lot." He cringed at the slip.

  Just stop talking.

  "What? How do you know?"

  "Listen, forget about that. Tell me more about your idea for the promotion."

  He waited, hoping for the spark to return.

  Instead, she checked her watch. "You know what? Never mind. I'd better get back to work. Thanks again for meeting me on such short notice. I'll see you in the morning."

  "Oh. Yeah. Sure."

  Nick watched her leave, wanting nothing more than to find a way to re-ignite the light in her eyes. What he found instead was what she had left behind.

  * * *

  Rushing straight to Dianne's office, Mattie found her editor sitting at her desk with her head down and bouncing her knee while twirling a pen between the fingers of her right hand.

  "Hey there. Ready for my idea?"

  Dianne started. "Hold that thought. Les is waiting for us."

  "No, please. I need to run it by you first." Mattie dumped her coat in a nearby chair and made her pitch. She left nothing out—Nick's rules and the profound affect they were having on her all the way through to her promotion ideas, including use of the banned video clip of her first workout and hosting beginner running clinics.

  After waiting an interminably long time for a response, Mattie watched as Dianne squinted at the ceiling.

  "Team Plate Spinner? I like the sound of that."

  Mattie scooted up to the edge of her chair. "I know, right? We can sell T-shirts, sweatshirts, caps, beach towels. All sorts of stuff."

  Dianne smiled and asked, "And you have his permission to use his rules?"

  "Yep."

  "Seriously. Are you sure about this, kiddo? A couple of weeks ago, you were begging me not to use your picture. Putting your name and face out there, it's a big risk. That kind of exposure always comes with a price."

  Gripping the arms of her chair, Mattie announced, "I'm not worried. Besides, what's the worst that can happen?"

  Dianne considered this for a moment, resting a hand on her throat before responding, "You mean besides losing our jobs?"

  Mattie dashed around the desk and gave her a quick hug. "You worry too much. If this takes off the way I think it will, we'll be able to start our own media company."

  Patting her arm, Dianne chuckled, "All right. First things first. Let's see if it'll fly with Les. If it does, rest assured, I'll have your back. But if it doesn't, we're back to square one."

  The two women made their way up to Lester's office and burst through the door without knocking.

  Dianne announced, "I've got it."

  Lester was sitting with his feet up on his desk and his hands folded in his lap. He couldn't have looked more serene if he had just gotten a deep tissue massage. Smiling at her, he replied, "Too late."

  Dianne dropped into the same chair she had occupied earlier that day and gasped, "It's not even two o'clock. You said to meet you back here at two."

  That was when Mattie noticed they weren't the only ones in the room. In the corner behind them, leaning on Lester's credenza, was Nick.

  Feeling goose bumps spread under the sleeves of her sweater, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

  He held up a bag from the restaurant. "Your salad. I thought you might want it later."

  "Oh. Thanks."

  When Mattie reached out to take it from him, she noticed a sleek dark brown leather clutch resting against his hip. "What are you doing with my purse?"

  He picked it up. "This? You left it on your seat. I went to your cube first, but you weren't there."

  She tried yanking it from his grasp, but he held firm.

  Not letting go, she whispered an obligatory, "Thank you."

  His reply was hushed. "You're welcome. I didn't open it, I swear."

  As he released it, her mind flashed back to the note he delivered to her on the playground when they were kids.

  I didn't read it, I swear.

  He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "I'm lying. I had to open it just a little to make sure it was yours, Mathilde Jean Ross."

  Mattie gasped. Her heart plummeted into her stomach.

  "You looked at my driver's license?" she hissed.

  Nick DeRosa was now in possession of two vital pieces of information she would have killed to keep private—her weight and her address.

  Breathe, in through your nose, out through your mouth.

  As she tried to recall if there was any other item in her purse that would provide fodder for recrimination, like a crumpled french fry wrapper or a rec
eipt from her favorite pizza place, she heard Dianne ask again, "What do you mean I'm too late?"

  Lester nodded toward Nick and said, "According to Coach, Mattie's already nailed it."

  Mattie peered hard enough at Nick to drill holes into the wall behind him.

  I did?

  Nick nodded his head in Lester's direction. "You're on."

  Mattie faced Lester. "Yes, I did."

  After pitching the story to him, much the same way she did to Dianne, Lester looked at Nick and said, "You're right. I think that title is a perfect fit."

  "Title?" Mattie glanced at Nick, frowning.

  "The title," Lester shot back. "It's catchy, personal, familiar, and provocative. It's exactly what I was looking for. You know, I really admire you for putting yourself out there like that."

  Confused, Mattie spun back toward Nick who was still leaning against the credenza with his arms folded. He raised his eyebrows as if to ask, "What?"

  Holding a hand to the side of her face to prevent Lester from seeing her, she mouthed, "Team Plate Spinner?"

  Nick shook his head back and forth before looking down at his shoes.

  Running out of patience, she let out a sigh, turned back to Lester and said, "I'm sorry, Les, but I came up with a couple of different titles. Which one are you referring to?"

  "You know, I wish I had known earlier that you were bullied as a kid."

  She was perplexed. "Uh, well, it's not exactly the kind of thing that comes up in everyday conversation."

  "I gotta tell you," he continued, "Nick is the perfect medicine for what ails you. I should know. I speak from experience. What he did for my son."

  Lester paused to look at photo of Bobby, beaming in his cross-country uniform, on his desk.

  "With what you've gone through and Nick's enormous talent, you two are made for each other. I couldn't have asked for a better pairing for this piece. Our numbers are going to go through the roof on this one."

  Edging closer to him with her eyes narrowed and hands balled into fists, Mattie asked, "What's the title, Les?"

  He continued as if he didn't hear her. "Damn shame you're already married. You two are a match made in heaven."

  Standing directly in front of his desk, Mattie leaned down and placed her hands on top of it. "Tell me the title."

  Lester grinned like a man who had just won a lifetime supply of hundred-year-old scotch. Shifting in his seat, he put both feet on the floor before announcing, "We're going with 'Fatty Mattie Meets the Comeback Kid.'"

  To Dianne, he said, "Run it."

  "What?" Mattie gasped.

  After making an uncharacteristic fist pump, Dianne was already on her way to the production department, and Lester was busy dialing his phone.

  Next thing she knew, Nick was at her side. Taking her by the elbow, he escorted her out of the office.

  In the hallway just beyond, she stopped and faced him. Flabbergasted, she asked, "Do you mind telling me what just happened in there?"

  He checked his watch. Then, focusing on his jacket zipper that hadn't worked right since she snagged her dress on it, he replied, "Sure. You just got what you wanted. All you have to do now is run with it."

  Mattie let out a short laugh and clapped her hands together. That was way too easy.

  Adrenaline pulsed through her veins. So much to do. She had to tweak her first piece, setup a special blog and social media page, and plan out her monthly submission schedule from January through October.

  As her mind raced, she heard Nick say, "Yeah, well, you can thank me later."

  He turned toward the elevator bank.

  About to burst with excitement, Mattie tugged the arm of his jacket. "Nick. Wait."

  What would a married woman do?

  With perhaps a bit too much exuberance, she took both of his hands in hers, squeezed them and said, "Thanks so much."

  Then, in a move that surprised even her, she reached up to kiss him on his cheek. His clean-shaven, deodorant-soap-scented cheek.

  Hesitating for just a second, Nick leaned down to receive it when Mattie remembered the boundary she herself erected between them.

  No kissing.

  Her forehead bumped against his jawbone. Releasing his hands, she smiled at him again and turned away flustered, but certain of one thing.

  I am so selling this ring.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "I always cook with wine. Sometimes I even add it to the food."

  – W.C. Fields

  As expected, the Gazette launched the new feature on the Sunday prior to the New Year. It got a prominent mention on the front-page banner and made the front page of the weekend section. Mattie had to admit that the high school photo from her freshman year that she volunteered certainly was impactful. Under a mound of hair pulled back by two woefully inadequate barrettes stationed on either side of her head, was the weak half smile of a chubby, self-conscious teenage girl.

  During the week that followed, a few walkers and runners braving the cold blowing off the frozen waters of Lake Michigan spotted Mattie and Nick as they jogged along their usual route. Some pointed. A few even waved. Considering the many layers that covered them from head to toe, Mattie found this surprising. By the second week, a dozen or so actually followed them. By the end of the third week, people stationed themselves along the path just to, cheer her on.

  Mattie loved it. Nick, not so much.

  With her first 5k a little over a week and a half away, he was hoping to push Mattie to go three miles without stopping. Instead, they were interrupted three times by fans either wanting to take a picture with her or have her autograph something.

  "We're gonna have to change our route," Nick told her during their cool down.

  "You're just jealous that nobody asked you for an autograph," Mattie observed.

  Her attempt to impress him with her spot-on deductive reasoning fell flat.

  "Unlike you, I'm not in it for the recognition." His voice was gruff as he leaned against an overpass pylon to stretch the backs of his legs.

  Mattie put her gloved hand on a streetlight pole and pulled her right ankle up behind her with her right hand.

  With her defenses already on high alert, she let out a laugh, "Since when? From what I recall, you could never get enough."

  The dark cloudy skies above cast a menacing shadow across his face. "That was a long time ago."

  Releasing her right ankle and pulling on her left, Mattie replied, "I see. So, now, you're just in it for the money. Is that right?"

  "Damn straight."

  "That must be one hell of a bonus they've promised you."

  "Now who's jealous?" Nick huffed as he bent down and grabbed the tips of his shoes.

  The horn of a car tearing through the intersection nearby blared as a taxi cut into the flow of traffic. Exhaust fumes filled the air, and Mattie started feeling tiny pelts of sleet sting her already-raw cheeks.

  Tired of his crabby mood and the repartee that was not going in her favor, she tried changing the subject. "Any exciting plans for the weekend?"

  Nick stood up straight. "No. You?"

  Since Tom had to work the graveyard shift, Mattie planned to spend the night with Claudia, watching a chick flick marathon until he got home. Big fun.

  "No," she sighed.

  Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, Nick asked, "Really? Nothing?"

  Then, citing topics of Plate Spinner columns past, he continued, "No family game night or cookie-baking for kids or making chores fun with Mr. Plate Spinner and all your little saucers?"

  If Mattie's eyes could throw knives, he would've been a dead man.

  Instead, Nick stood before her with his hands on his hips, sweaty and bothered—about what, she wasn't exactly sure, but she was about to find out.

  "I've been reading your old columns."

  A cold chill ran through her. "And?"

  "I noticed the damnedest thing."

  She was afraid to ask, but did anyway. "What?"

  "
You were already married when you were about to marry my brother."

  * * *

  "So what did you tell him?" Claudia gasped as she lifted a sleeping baby off of Mattie's chest. An empty bottle tumbled to the floor, depositing drips of formula on the hardwood.

  "Nothing. I was speechless. I just walked away."

  "Very smooth."

  Claudia patted her youngest son's back until she heard a burp, then turned to deposit him upstairs in his crib. "I'll be right back."

  Feeling a chill where a warm little body had just been snuggled against her, Mattie leaned over and wiped the formula off the floor, then got up and added another log to the fire. After depositing the baby bottle in the sink, she sat back down on the couch and spread the afghan their mom had crocheted in happier times over her legs.

  Not exactly the ideal way to spend a Friday night, but she understood Claudia's concern about Tom working so late in one of the roughest neighborhoods for first responders.

  "How about a glass of wine?" Claudia asked when she returned.

  Mattie tried to remember the last time she had any. Thanksgiving was her best guess. Even though it was on Nick's "to-don't" list, she was feeling more than a little rebellious.

  "Sure, why not? I get to sleep in until seven tomorrow morning.

  Returning with a bottle tucked under her arm and two glasses, her sister handed one to Mattie, sat next to her on the couch, and uncorked the wine.

  "I told you no good would come from wearing that ring."

  Mattie nodded. "Yes, you did."

  She looked at her once-coveted relic. The gleam was gone. She couldn't recall the last time she cleaned it.

  "How many weeks have you been running now?" Claudia asked.

  Mattie looked toward the ceiling and thought for a moment. "Eight."

  Crinkling up her nose, her sister tilted her head. "Really? It seems longer than that."

  "It does, doesn't it? Well, there's no looking back now. I'm just glad they decided to start off small with the campaign then build to a big crescendo in October. I'm not sure I'm ready to see my face plastered on the side of a bus."

  "I still can't believe you agreed to let them use your old nickname."