Page 4 of Every Time We Touch

“Really?” I have to chuckle. “Nora used those exact words to describe Clancy?”

“Not exact.” Marcy chuckles. “But that’s my interpretation.”

“I thought you and Nora hardly spoke during your sessions?” Nora calls her No-Mercy Marcy for a reason. Marcy leaves no time—or breath—for chitchat when she’s working you out. I only lasted a few sessions with her—enough to fall for her, despite being happily self-partnered at the time. I just wanted to get in shape. I got myself a hot girlfriend instead.

“She lets things slip occasionally,” Marcy says.

“It’s true,” I say. “Clancy’s hot. Like way out-of-my-dad’s-league hot.”

“Straight people are different.” Marcy shrugs. “Besides, Daddy St James isn’t too bad himself.”

“He’s seventy.”

“Seventy’s the new fifty,” Marcy says.

“Fuck that.” My phone buzzes and I sigh. It’ll be work and even though it’s the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, I don’t want to think about work.

“Still sick of the app?” Marcy asks.

“It’s like I lost my passion for it,” I admit. “I’m even thinking of the S-word.”

“Selling?” Marcy sips her tea.

“Maybe it’s time for something new,” I muse. Going through this time at work where it all just feels like a boring nine-to-five, as opposed to the start-up excitement that comes with creating a new app is making me feel insecure about my future.

“Maybe you’re more of a serial entrepreneur than a one-business-for-life kind of woman,” Marcy says.

“That sounds a bit like our breakup conversation.” We can laugh about it now, otherwise we wouldn’t have become friends.

Marcy chuckles, then paints on a serious expression again. “No one’s job, no matter how much you love it, is always fun and games. It’s impossible. It’s human nature to go through rough patches.”

“Yours, too?”

“Fuck, yeah.”

I created Fluxx, an app for menstrual health, almost ten years ago. At the time, it was revolutionary, but now, they’re a dime a dozen.

“Maybe I should take up tango,” I mumble.

“Sorry, what?” Marcy asks.

“It came up at brunch on Sunday. Heather mentioned that I talked about learning how to tango. Clancy said she knew a good dance school.”

“Why not?” She shoots me a grin. “We both know my workouts are too tough for you, though. Don’t underestimate it.”

“You were just showing off because you liked me.”

Marcy shakes her head. “How dare you accuse me of such unprofessional behavior. It was you who was into me from the start.”

It’s one of those pointless discussions we like to rehash, just for fun.

We shoot the breeze for a while. Marcy tells me about someone she might be interested in—in a serially monogamous way—then asks, “How’s the single life going? Or should I say self-partnered again?”

I slowly let out a breath. “I don’t know. If being self-partnered implies a conscious choice to not be in a relationship, I’m not sure that still applies to me. I feel like I’m… looking.”

“Are you on the apps?” Marcy asks.

“There aren’t many things I despise more than dating apps. It’s all so superficial and based on looks.” I roll my eyes. “It’s just people reducing each other to a couple of photos and a half-clever sentence and calling it compatibility.”