A dull ache settles in my thigh. Brunch and three errands in one day? Not smart. Though I can’t wait to go home and lie down with my leg up, I have one thing to do first. I snap a photo of the macchiato and spend a full five minutes trying to come up with an eloquent apology. After a lot of backspacing, I go for short andsimple.
I screwed up. I’msorry.
West didn’t lie: the macchiato isn’t sweet. The milk lends a gentleness, a comforting depth to the espresso that I didn’t expect, and though I’m strangling my phone, hoping he’ll reply, Ismile.
But the phone mocks me with silence the whole way home. Not until I settle in my recliner with a pain pill dulling the edges of the world does the phone start to vibrate off thetable.
“I’m an idiot.” I say as I settle back against the cushions with a wince. “Ipanicked.”
“No shit. I didn’t think you werethetype.”
Right to the point. I can’t say I blame him. Closing my eyes, I search for my next words. I’ve had this conversation in my head a dozen times in the past hour, but every time, it ends with us never speaking to one anotheragain.
Give me an IED or a land mine, and I do fine. But put me in front of a man I like, and I turn into an insecure mess. “I’m not. But I saw how you looked at me when I dropped the macchiato. I don’t want yourpity,West.”
His frustration carries over the line. “Pity? You were in pain. On the floor. Was I supposed to just leave youthere?”
I don’t have a smart reply. Or anyreply.
“You don’t know me well enough yet to judge whether I’m pitying you or was simply worried that you landed on your ass when I know you have a bad hip. I didn’t give a shit about the macchiato. Life is full ofbrokenmugs.
“You bolted after fifteen minutes. And then you ignored my messages, didn’t log on to playHalolast night. Avoidance isn’t your style. At least not the Cam I’ve gotten to know the past fewweeks.”
Score another point for West. If I don’t level up in my apology skill, this conversation is over. “I’m sorry, okay? Can we go back to being friends? Playing Xbox in the evenings and complaining about the wait for the next genconsole?”
“Iwantmore.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I stammer, “M-more?”
“I like you, Cam. And yesterday, right before it all went to hell, I met someone I want to know better. Someone I want to date. And I think you felt the same. Am Iwrong?”
I want to answer him. But my cowardice gets in the way, and he losespatience.
“I won’t chase you, angel. I’m not that kind of guy. If you want to run away, that’s your choice. I’m glad you finally got to have a macchiato. I hope it didn’t disappoint you likeIdid.”
As the line falls silent, I tally up the score. And the big, fat goose egg in my column doesn’t surprise me. I don’t do charming. Obviously, I don’t do apologies very welleither.
5
West
Ineed to hit something.Stripping out of my t-shirt, I eye the heavy bags. Eight of them line the far wall of the studio. Once upon a time, I had students in here twelve hours a day, training, working out, laughing and sparring with one another. These days, we might as well be closed on Sundays. And Saturdays. And someThursdays.
A heavy bass beat thunders from the CrossFit studio across the street. I recognize some of the cars in their lot. Former students of mine. Using my teeth to tighten the velcro strap on my second glove, I glare at their sign.Cross Your Fitblazes in red letters with silhouettes of two of the fittest people on the planet behind thewords.
Thwack.The first hit sends the bag swinging, and I wait for its arc to stabilize before I go back in for a combo. “Fucking spin classes.” CYF’s latest offering tempted another four of my regulars to jump ship. Sure, they still pay for the occasional one-off class here and there, but those sweet membership fees are long gone. Frustration spurs me to punch harder, faster, and soon, I’m inthezone.
“Hi, boss,” Vasquez calls as he bounds through the front door. “Deadagain?”
I turn and arch a brow. “Hey, Captain Obvious. Make yourself useful.” Another hard set of combos send vibrations up my arms, and sweat beads down the center of my back as Vasquez takes his spot behind the bag, providing me some much needed stability so I can push myself harder. “Don’t know…if you’ll have…a fullclass.”
I’ve slacked on my bag skills lately. Too much paperwork. My biceps start to burn, my thighs tremble as I reach the half-hour mark, and my abs shake from the exertion. When Vasquez pops his head to the side and then nods towards the clock on the wall, I drop myhands.
“You all right, boss?” He picks up a spray bottle and towel and then starts to wipe down the bag as I pull off mygloves.
“Never better.” The lie slips out easily, though I doubt I’m convincing. The dojo’s in trouble, I can’t keep up with the bills, and the most interesting woman I’ve met in years doesn’t know how to talk to me. “I’m headed home for the day. Have a goodclass.”
“Get some rest, boss. You looklikeshit.”
