As of yesterday, I couldn’t shower or bathe in my bathrooms. Tile torn out, tub and shower unusable in the master bath. The guest bath upstairs was crammed with boxes of winter clothes waiting to be unpacked. My friends and family offered me access to their homes, but vanity—dropping those pounds—won out. I couldn’t beat the price: my ex and his partner charged me half of Game On’s monthly membership dues.
Stan promised the new fixtures in and ready for use in a few days or so. With my limited plumbing vocabulary, Stan’s “or so” worried me. I notified my clients of my vacation, and closed my psychology practice down for the week to stay home, finish unpacking, and supervise. As if my presence would speed things up. I’m an optimist.
A middle-aged, corkscrewed blonde got on the treadmill to my right. She started to power-walk, loping the rubber track with stamina impressive for her short, bulky girth. I offered a smile. We jogged on the same treadmills yesterday at the same time, qualifying her as my foxhole buddy. She pointed to the pink-lipped reality star on the television, and then mouthed something to me.
I paused my music and slowed the treadmill to a fast walk for the last half mile. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“That woman up there on the TV is lying.”
“She’s definitely alienated,” I said, following her gaze. “And closed off. Her arms and legs are crossed, creating a barrier.”
The channel-changing exec turned around and said, “You’re both right. In person, she’s an angry shrew and a compulsive liar.”
“You know her?” the blonde next to me said.
“I’m Billy Miles.” He enunciated his name with exaggerated importance. “Our network produces that show.”
She tilted her chin. “I bet you don’t know your star hasn’t let her husband touch her for three years.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t care, hon.” Billy turned back to the TV.
Smiling, my blonde buddy said to me, “I’m Tess, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Liz.” I cocked my head toward the TV, curious. “How do you get three years out of her actions?”
“I’m a psychic. I read her aura.”
And I can cook. I forced a polite smile, struggling to act interested.
“Uh-oh.” Tess curled her lips in a mischievous grin. “You don’t believe. Give me a chance—I’ll change your mind. I’m very good. I do readings for people all the time. And I get visions in my dreams. You have a sharp eye for body language, what do you do?”
“I’m a psychologist. My PhD is in behavioral science—the physical response to emotion fascinates me. First our bodies react to a situation, and then our minds connect a feeling to the reaction. Body language is often more truthful than the spoken word.”
“Ooh, you’re good at this stuff. We have a lot in common,” Tess said. “The only difference is that I can see energy fields from the past and into the future, too. For example, I’ve been reading your aura. You have good energy, but what are you going to do about the two men in your life?”
My boyfriend, Nick, and my ex-husband, Jarret? I checked myself—Tess made a generalized guess, of course. Doesn’t every woman in her thirties have a man in her present and a man in her past? “The only two men I’m concerned with this week are my plumber and his assistant. They’re bringing me a new bathtub.”
“I sense there’s a lot more than plumbers going on with you, Liz. I see a man lying to you. We should talk about this some more.”
“I don’t…We…” Faltering for a way to dodge the discussion, I glimpsed past her and saw my excuse come into the cardio room.
“Two mornings in a row, Liz. I’m impressed.” Kyle Stanger, my ex-husband’s crony, personal trainer, and partner in Game On patted the top of my treadmill then stopped at Billy’s side.
A walking ad for Game On and the benefits of pumping weights, Kyle, mid-forties with the body of a middleweight boxer, wore his brown hair in a military crew cut with a sharp widow’s peak above his small eyes and thin mouth. His thick neck melded into a mass of muscles rippling across his wide, bulked-up shoulders, past a slim waist, and down to well-developed calves. Popped veins accentuated his powerful forearms and biceps.
I wasn’t a fan. We had met a decade ago in Atlanta when the Braves signed my husband. Kyle became Jarret’s team pitching coach and new best friend. In addition to Kyle’s coaching role in the bullpen, he was Jarret’s enabler in partying, drinking, and drugs. Too many nights Kyle dropped my then-husband at home in sorry shape. But when Kyle concealed Jarret’s involvement in a barroom brawl and took the fall—effectively saving Jarret’s professional baseball career—Jarret never forgot. After Kyle was arrested for battery and fired from the Braves, Jarret hired him as his personal trainer and paid him until Jarret and I relocated to Los Angeles. Two years ago, Kyle moved here and opened Game On with Jarret as his silent partner.
As Kyle and Billy talked, a chunky, round-faced brunette in her late thirties sauntered into the cardio room. She picked up the TV remote and began to change the channel.