The rational move — theobviousmove — is to leave my earbuds in, finish my workout, go upstairs, shower, get to the board meeting, and call my therapist on the way. Dr. Amara has a sliding scale for exactly this kind of 4AM spiral, and I pay her well not to judge me.
That's what the rational part of my brain says.
The other part of my brain — the part that has apparently learned nothing in twenty-eight years — looks at Jenn doing squats in the mirror and decides we're doing this.
Before I can locate the correct authority to stop myself, I'm crossing the gym floor.
Jenn sees me coming. Her eyes light up. Her whole posture shifts — that particular kind of readiness that says she has been waiting for this specific walk across this specific floor and is prepared.
I stop in front of her.
"Jenn."
"Bennet," she smiles. It's a good smile. She's done nothing wrong. None of what is about to happen is her fault.
"So," I clear my throat. I have prepared nothing. I am improvising in real time. "You're of childbearing age."
Her smile flickers. Just slightly.
I press on. "You're notexactlymy type, but I could do worse." I say it reasonably. Objectively. Like I'm reading from a dossier. "And you're probably pretty good at — you know. The sex. I'm guessing. Based on available evidence." I gesture vaguely at her shorts situation and immediately regret it. "So. Yes. I'll go out with you. I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven."
Silence.
Her smile has evaporated. Entirely. The expression that's replaced it is something between affront and genuine bewilderment, like she's trying to locate the version of this conversation where what I just said was a compliment.
Her mouth is open.
I stand there and wait for a response.
She does not provide one.
I replay the last thirty seconds in my head and listen to it this time, really listen, and—
Oh.
Ohno.
"Was that—" I start.
"Not my type?" she says. Quietly.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"I meant that as a positive—"
"Could do worse?"
"In context—"
"The sex?" Her voice has climbed a register. "You'reguessingI'm good atthe sex?"
I panic, looking around the gym. There is a woman on the treadmill in the corner who has taken her earbuds out. She is not even pretending not to listen.
When did she even get here?
"I'm going to be honest with you," I say, because apparently that's the hill I'm dying on this morning. "That came out differently than it sounded in my head."
"Howdidit sound in your head?"
