by M. E. Carter
Crap. That means I have to stop to get the ingredients tonight. Hobbling around the grocery store, even if I’m leaning against the cart doesn’t sound like fun. I wonder how many people would stare or make ugly comments to me if I used one of those motorized carts.
Probably not a good idea. My luck, I’d accidentally drive it into a display, knock everything over, and still end up walking to get help, which completely defeats the purpose. It’s best to stick to hobbling.
Sadly, the idea of going to the grocery store, plus the promise of a nap during exercise, is the only reason I have a teeny, tiny inkling of curiosity about this yoga thing. So tiny I’m not sure if it’s that or pending heartburn from eating too fast.
“Fine,” I finally say with a sigh. “I’ll talk to my trainer about yoga.”
Her eyes light up as she looks at me. “You were serious? You’re working with a trainer?”
I’m not sure how to answer this question. Her friendship indicates she’s just curious. Her facial expression, however, is more like a woman on the prowl. I’m sure Abel doesn’t need another stalker. I’ve seen the way some of the women at the gym look at him. He’s probably got plenty. “Yeeeeees….” I say slowly and cautiously.
“Is he cute?”
I nod and her face shows even more delight. I need to stop this before it goes any further. “And he’s married.”
She immediately deflates. “I knew it. All the good ones are taken.”
“All the good what?”
Francesca and I both bristle at the sound of his voice. Although, I’m honestly surprised we didn’t smell Nolan before he came in the room. He must have run out of Axe while bathing in it this morning. He’ll never smell as good as Carlos, though. Not that I care, or anything. I don’t even really like Carlos, but his fresh, manly scent hasn’t been forgotten. I could get used to a man like that. Without the ego and narcissism, of course.
Catching Francesca’s eyes, I blow an over-exaggerated, centering breath out, hoping she’ll do the same before she loses the cool she tries very hard to hold onto whenever Nolan is in the room. She doesn’t catch my cues, though, so I quietly say, “Namaste.”
“Bless you.”
I glance over at Nolan. “I’m sorry?”
He finishes making his coffee and turns to lean against the counter. Oh, good. He’s planning to stay a while.
“You sneezed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Hmm,” he says as he takes a sip from his cup. It’s clear he doesn’t really care whether I sneezed or not. Which means he has some sort of motivation for being here. Immediately that puts me on high alert right along with Francesca.
The longer we sit in silence, the more curious I become, which I kind of hate about myself. I don’t want to be curious about anything Nolan has to say. I’ve made that mistake in the past and one of two things is generally the outcome—I genuinely don’t care, and it’s wasted my time; or it makes me mad.
Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment though, because I’m the first to cave.
“So, what’s up, Nolan?” The question elicits a kick under the table from my so-called friend.
“Fred Paterson turned in his retirement notice today.”
Welp, it appears the universe does, in fact, read my thoughts. My day has just gone downhill so fast, it will be a miracle if I don’t burst into flames from the impact.
Fred Paterson is the department manager. He’s been here longer than anyone else in the building and he’s a fantastic boss—the kind of man who knows every employee’s name and takes time to ask about their kids. His wife even makes Hanukkah/Christmas/Kwanzaa cookies every year and takes the time to individually wrap each one for hygiene purposes. And yes, she makes sure she equally represents all three holidays, so no one feels left out.
The cookies and his demeanor almost make up for the fact that Fred is slightly sexist. Not in an infuriating “women should be barefoot and pregnant and can’t do the job” kind of way. More like a “your ankles look lovely in those stilettos” kind of way. Seriously, who notices people’s ankles on the regular? A guy with a foot fetish that’s who. I bet his eBay handle is FeetAreLife, and he’s the guy who offered me sixty bucks for my used pink flats. Eighty, if I made sure they were extra stinky.
And yes, I sold them to FeetAreLife because, come on. Eighty bucks for my used shoes? What you do with them in private is none of my business while I spend that money.
While I’m not necessarily offended by the ankle comments in the office, I’m also not stupid enough to think it doesn’t indicate a bigger problem. Namely, gender inequality. I’m positive the fact I was practically born wearing a bra is why I was passed up for the supervisor role. Nolan got it instead. That one stung. Fred said it was because of my experience level, but Nolan was hired months after me, and his sales numbers weren’t as good. I was encouraged to apply again the next time a position opens up, which I plan to. But it’s still frustrating that I know my gender is the reason I didn’t get that job. I just can’t prove it. The only evidence is that I’ve never once seen Fred compliment a man on his ankles or his suit or his new haircut. Well, except when Roger in IT went from having long, blond, rock star hair to a buzz cut. We didn’t recognize him at first. It took the security office almost a week to stop checking his ID whenever he walked through the building.
So, while I’m frustrated with that sexist attitude, I focus on the fact that Fred is more like a grandpa type character to everyone here. He’s always kind and considerate, and considering he’s pushing ninety, I choose to focus on those qualities instead of his flaws. Fred leaving is going to be hard on everyone. He knows everything that happens in this office and makes sure everyone is treated with a certain amount of respect. If Nolan were to somehow step into his position, not only could I kiss any attempts at moving up in the company goodbye, the entire culture would change. “Slightly sexist” would be a thing of the past. “Obviously passive-aggressive” would be the new norm.
The only thing I can do in response to this information is gulp. Loudly. Francesca must understand my hesitation because she’s finally the one who responds first.
“When’s his last day?” She shoves a bite of soup in her mouth, seemingly unaffected by Nolan’s news. I know her better than that, though. The soup is just a way to keep herself from saying something that could have repercussions.
He takes another sip, prolonging his answer, probably for fun. Making sure all eyes are on him, which means only the two of us, but that doesn’t matter to him as long as he has a captive audience, he says, “Six weeks. Just enough time to move someone into his position and get them trained.”
Gotta love Francesca. While I’m practically frozen in place, and this time it’s not because my sore muscles are revolting, she’s acting like nothing Nolan is telling us is a big deal. Like our work lives are not about to be turned upside down. I’m all about people getting promotions and all, but no one needs a passive-aggressive boss. It’s just not good for morale or my ability to control my emotional eating habits.
Wiping her lips with her napkin, she finally adds, “I heard Fred talking about interviewing some outside candidates the other day. I guess that makes sense now. Wouldn’t want to promote internally for a job like that.”
Nolan’s face freezes. “Why not? We have great internal candidates.”
“Too many morale issues,” she says without skipping a beat. “Can you imagine how people would turn on each other? It would be like the Hunger Games around here.”
“The what?”
She looks at him quizzically. “The Hunger Games?”
He continues to give her a blank stare.
“Dystopian book series turned into movies?”
More blank stares.
“Jennifer Lawrence as Katniss?”
That’s when it finally clicks. “Oh, yeah! I loved her in The Jeff Foxworthy Show.”
Francesca laughs through her nose quietly. “Of course, yo
u did.”
“What?”
“Just a tickle in my throat.” Seriously. I don’t know how this woman can run circles around Nolan and he never catches on. “Anyway, I hear the first candidate is coming in sometime this week to interview. I’m sure Fred could give you the schedule.”
Nolan clears his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” He shifts uncomfortably and tosses his now empty cup in the trash. “Anyway. I just thought you should know Fred’s retirement is coming up soon.”
“Okay, thanks.” She takes another bite and goes back to ignoring him. After a few seconds, he either takes the hint or can’t stand not being in the know and bolts out of the room.
I turn to look at my co-worker. I can feel my eyes are still wide. “This isn’t good, Francesca.”
She shakes her head. “Not at all.”
Then something occurs to me. “Wait, is Fred really looking to hire from outside?”
She shrugs. “No idea. But it got Nolan all ruffled, so at least it buys us a few minutes to figure out what we need to do now.”
She’s brilliant when it comes to Nolan, but she’s wrong when it comes to us. We already know what we need to do. We need to update our resumes and fast. The office environment is about to get tense.
Looks like my recipe search will have to wait until later. Damn that universe always thwarting my plans.
Chapter Ten
CARLOS
Nick didn’t show up to work out today, so I’m left to do leg day on my own. Thankfully, the assisted squatting bar isn’t being used by a class today, so I can safely get in my workout without a spotter.
I’m not upset at all. I’m kind of glad for the time to think. And to be honest, I’m not all that surprised either. Besides his inconsistency lately because of “work”, or so he claims, there is a possibility he’s avoiding me as well. That’s typically what happens when someone is bitched out by text.
The day after my date with Marley, I made sure to let Nick know how unhappy I was that he set me up with someone who isn’t my type at all. It was a total dick move, and the entire thing was a waste of both of our time.
Yes, Marley is beautiful. Yes, she has a banging body. But that’s where my interest in her ends. She’s smart and witty and goal oriented. Not at all the kind of woman I want.
More important, I’m not the kind of guy she wants. That’s really what it boils down to—honesty. There is no reason to make her think I’m looking for a relationship. I’m not, and I don’t want to disappoint anyone by pretending otherwise. My interests in women are three-fold:
Holidays and visits with my mother.
Acquaintanceship and fun conversation with co-workers.
One night of pleasure with anyone else who may catch my eye.
I draw a hard line at anyone who wanders outside those boundaries. And Marley, as charming as she was, is someone who needs a strong, self-assured man who thinks she’s dynamic and wants to partner with her to help her succeed.
So, when the night ended, I thanked for her an interesting evening, explained why Nick won’t be starting his own matchmaking business anytime soon, and shook her hand. Then traded business cards with her, of course.
She may not be my type, but if I know my boss well enough, at some point I’ll need information that only a consulate officer can provide. By the same token, she may run into a former French military operative who needs an employment excuse to stay in the states. Neither of us was upset about the situation enough to miss the potential advantages to keeping each other’s business numbers handy.
Wiping my face with a towel and resting before moving onto the sled machine, I look around the open space, assessing the other patrons. I ignore the men and the trainers. I’m sure they’re all nice people, but not who I’m looking for.
I focus on the women. There’s a very pregnant woman walking slowly on the treadmill. “Pregnant” either means married or looking for a baby daddy. Moving on…
An elderly woman is flipping through a magazine while peddling on the recumbent bikes. Maybe if I was fifty years older…
Rian is talking animatedly to a trainer. Abel is his name, I think. She’s not who I was looking for, but I’m not turning away either. I’ve seen her around a couple of times since dinner and she’s funny. She always looks like she wants to clock her trainer. It’s entertaining. Thinking about it makes me smile…
Then the woman I was looking for walks by. There. The woman Nick hit on a few weeks ago. Blonde, big boobs, wears nothing but a sports bra. She leaves it all hanging out for everyone to see. That’s the kind of woman I go for. One who shares my appreciation for the human body and all the pleasure it can give and receive.
My eyes, though, they gravitate back to Rian who appears to be threatening Abel with a medicine ball. I chuckle quietly when he rolls his eyes, snatches it out of her hands, and slams it on the floor, startling her. She wasn’t expecting her next exercise to require her to spike a medicine ball.
Wait… she’s not who I’m supposed to be watching. I force my gaze back to the woman I was waiting for and watch for a few seconds as she climbs on the hyperextension bench to do some lower back work. As she bends over and flexes into the upright position, I can’t help but admire her shoulders. A lot of women let those muscles go, but she doesn’t. They’re just as tight as the rest of her.
Which reminds me, I have a leg workout to finish. Sighing at my lack of focus, I put my hands on the sled, use all my strength and push. It takes a few seconds for it to get going, but soon, I’m using all my leg power to move it across the room and back. I hate this exercise, but it’s fantastic for the glutes, hamstrings, and calves. I give the sled full credit for my not having chicken legs. It also gives me a chance to channel my irritation at Nick. If he hadn’t set me up on that bad date, I wouldn’t be so distracted by the one I shouldn’t want.
Don’t want. I don’t want her. That’s what I mean.
Lost in my thoughts about work, women, and life, the sled goes quickly and soon enough it’s time for my post-exercise dinner—a chocolate protein shake with greens, flax seeds, and a banana to replenish my sugars. Low on calories and high in protein, it’s my treat for a job well done.
Sliding up to the counter of the smoothie bar, Tabitha glances up from her blender and gives me a nod in greeting. She can’t hear me while that thing blends, so there’s not a reason to say anything.
Tabitha and I clicked immediately when I first started coming here. She’s been working at Weight Expectations for longer than most of the trainers. She used to work as a bartender but got sick of the hours, and when this job opened up, it fit exactly what she needed. She gets to sleep at night, which she says helped tremendously while raising a teenage boy on her own. Plus, she was out of the bar scene. There is no mistake she can hold her own. She’s not one to mince words, and I could see her pulling out a baseball bat if she needed to. But from what she says, she was tired of the nightlife. Tired of people drowning their sorrows in booze. Tired of keeping an eye out for predators. Tired of having to look over her shoulder when she locked up.
Here, she gets to do what she does best—chat with her customers and make them drinks to lift their spirits. In this case, though, the spirits are already partially lifted from endorphins. The rest is just because she enjoys her job.
“Your regular?” she asks me after checking out the last customer.
“You know it.”
Tabitha begins doling out the ingredients and throwing them into the blender jar. It still blows my mind that she doesn’t need recipes. She’s done this for so long it’s like second nature to her.
So is getting into my business. “I heard you had a hot date last night.”
Like I said, always in my business. Clearly, word travels fast around here, and I’m not surprised she’s already caught wind of it. I’m just a little stumped by who told her.
“How did you find out?”
She gives me a look like she’ll never tell and quickly sec
ures the jar into the base, turning it on instead of answering.
It’s short lived, though. Thirty seconds later she’s pouring my drink into a plastic cup and securing the lid for me. “One of my regulars saw you. I don’t know if he was working there or dining. He’s not one I go out of my way to remember.”
Opening my straw, I shove it into my cup and take a long pull. I taste chocolate, banana, and a hint of cinnamon. Just the way I like it. “That’s not very nice, Tabitha,” I chide after swallowing. “He just wants to be your friend.”
“Yeah, well, he’s an annoying friend. He needs to work out more and take up space at my bar less.”
I shake my head at her, pretending to be shocked by her behavior. “Tsk, tsk. I thought you loved all your customers.”
“I love most of my customers. A few of them grate on my nerves. We’ll just call it a personality conflict.”
“Fair enough.”
“So, anyway.” And here we go. The inquisition is about to begin. “How was your date?”
Another sip. Another swallow. Another few seconds to avoid the topic. Tabitha won’t let it go. I know that. I’m just tired of trying to justify why my dates never end up going anywhere.
“She was lovely.” That’s a good answer. Pretty perfect, actually, because it’s true.
Tabitha looks genuinely pleased. “Glad to hear it. Does this mean you’re going to see her again?”
And there it is. I should have known better. I prepare myself for the same conversation she and I have had numerous times before. “You know I’m not interested in a relationship.”
“Not what I asked.”
“I will probably see her in a professional setting.”
“Not what I meant.”
“Fine.” I take another quick swig. “No, we won’t be seeing each other again. She’s not my type.”
