“This is smashing—we could have a run, if you’re up for it.”
“Oh, sorry. I just finished my work out and I was just leaving.” She self-consciously poked some wild hair behind her ears.
“Ah.” He seemed, remarkably, disappointed as he lifted his gaze from her chunky legs to her face.
“And I don’t really run.”
“Don’t you?”
“No, it’s too . . . complicated.” Complicated? Oh Jesus.
“What, the treadmill? I’ll show you if you like.”
“No, not that,” she said, as if that was a perfectly ridiculous suggestion. “I mean the, ah, workout schedules.”
He looked confused.
So was she. “You know . . . I have to watch my ketones, that sort of thing,” she said, and wished she could crawl into a hole, for she had no idea what she was saying.
“Oh. Right you are. Ketones,” he said, nodding. He knew she had no idea what she was talking about.
“Okay, so have a good workout!” she said brightly, and punched him collegially on the shoulder as she took a step toward the ladies’ room. But he put his hand on her sweaty arm, and she instantly swiped at his hand with her towel.
“Beg your pardon.”
“No, not at all, it’s just that . . . were you going to say something?”
“Actually,” he said with a lopsided smile, “I was going to say that you have some crackin’ legs, if you don’t mind.”
She had what? What?
“What I mean by that—they’re fantastic,” he clarified with another knee-rattling grin.
Fantastic? Had he actually said her legs were fantastic? “Oh. Well.” She wondered if there was something she was supposed to say to that. “Okay! Really gotta go. Nice seeing you,” she said, and made a long jump into the ladies’ locker room before he could stop her.
Her heart was racing a million miles a minute.
She stood just inside, trying to catch her breath. She could feel every inch of her skin his gaze had touched, like little bee stings. One thing was certain. She was definitely doing more squats tomorrow.
Rachel showered and dressed in black slacks and a black sweater over a white collared shirt, and braided her hair. In her bag, she found an old tube of Maybelline mascara and a little blush, and counted herself successful when she smudged the mascara on only one eye. Convinced she looked presentable, she slung her gym bag over one shoulder with only a little ouch, and her tote on the other, and opened the ladies’ locker room door a crack. From there, she looked furtively about, saw no Brits anywhere, and made a beeline for the parking lot and her car.
At the employment office, she filled out all the paperwork to request assistance in finding a job, then handed the paperwork to a woman who never made eye contact, and proceeded to pass the time waiting for an employment counselor to see her by perusing a list of jobs posted at the bulletin board.
Wanda Dennard called her name after a wait of almost an hour. She introduced herself, showed Rachel into a tiny cubicle, and invited her to sit while she looked over Rachel’s paperwork.
Rachel sat. Wanda read. And read. And read so long that Rachel wondered if she maybe hadn’t fallen asleep.
Wanda’s desk was very neat. She had a half-dozen pictures of children around her desk, and her screen saver was a picture of a row of sleeping kittens. The binders on her shelves were obscured with various plastic green plants and one very odd-looking marble sculpture of some sort.
Rachel was trying to figure out what that sculpture was when Wanda looked up over her reading glasses. “You’re overqualified for our jobs,” she said. “There’s nothing here to fit you.”
That was not what Rachel wanted to hear. “But I need a job, I really do. I’ll do anything,” she earnestly assured her, inching up on her orange plastic chair.
Wanda frowned, looked at her paperwork again, then sighed and punched a button on her computer, instantly bringing up a listing of jobs. “Let’s see . . . there’s a position for a short-order fry cook.”
“Is there?” Rachel asked with a wince. “I’m not really overqualified for that, am I?” she asked with a laugh.
Wanda did not laugh. Wanda gave off another sigh that sounded like she thought this was going to be a very trying task. “Sacking specialist?”
“Sacking specialist?”
Wanda gave her a sidelong glance. “Grocery sacker.”
A grocery sacker? Was this woman for real? Didn’t those jobs usually go to teenage boys? She could just imagine herself on checkout nine between two sixteen-year-old boys who amused themselves by hurling lugies at her when the boss wasn’t looking. Just the image made her shudder.
Wanda frowned. “I told you you’re overqualified.”
“What about teaching jobs? Do you have anything like that? I really like teaching. Even an assistant position would be okay. Do you have that?”
“Oh, sure! Why didn’t you say so?” Wanda said with a bright smile.