“That’s okay. I’ll do that. I may need help on occasion, but you can learn as you go. I just need help. Like really,reallyneed help. I need extra hands.”
My eyes drop to his nervously moving hands.
“I really need help,” he says softly.
It’s my interview, but it feels like he’s the one auditioning. “That sounds great.” If he has me cleaning and managing things, I’ll have time to look around. Find that stupid elephant and never see the state of New York again as long as I live. I have no idea where we’ll go, but I’m taking her away from all this.
“If you can fill out the paperwork... and I just need a phone number where I can reach you.”
“Are you hiring me?”
“I mean, yeah. If you want the job. I haven’t had any other applicants. Not that there’s anything wrong with you! It’s not that, I um... I’m going to shut up now.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. “When should I start?”
“If you want to come in Monday, we can start. I have some planning to do. We’re moving furniture around. Eleven till four?”
“Sounds good.” I stand with my box of brownies. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“Bye, Aiden.”
“Bye.”
I walkinto the gym and find who I’m looking for at the front desk. As his eyes lift, I toss the box on the counter. “What is this?” he asks.
I met Cam last winter. He’s Latino, with an umber skin tone and curly dark-brown hair. I think he’s Honduran. I know his grandmother was. He rambles a lot and I tune most of it out, only snagging bits and pieces here and there.
He’s also very muscular, but I’ve seen this man cry enough times over random shit to know how fucking pathetic he is inside. The muscles, I’ve come to learn, are decorative.
Last week there was a grasshopper in the gym basement, and I thought he was going to have a panic attack until I found it and scooped it up to take it outside.
“I brought you dessert.”
Cam’s golden eyes flit between me and the box. “Is it poison?”
“Yes.”
I started coming here late last year after we moved to the farmhouse. Cam is one of the trainers here, and the biggest pain in my ass. I also know that the only thing he loves more than his boyfriend—who he never shuts the fuck up about—is food.
His attention goes back to his computer.
“Why do I still kind of want it?” He looks at me. “Is it gluten free?”
“I don’t think so.”
He nods. “My boyfriend can’t?—”
“Eat gluten, yes, I know. Your boyfriend can’t eat gluten.”
“My boyfriend.” Cam grins wide. “My boyfriend,” he singsongs.
He finishes typing.
“When are you going to stop saying that?” I ask.
Cam punches one of the keys loudly. “When it stops being awesome.” He beams.
Idiot. “Are you busy right now?”
