“Don’t do that, Gretchen. We’re watching Billy’s program,” Kyle said.
“You gotta be joking.” Gretchen clicked her tongue, dropping the remote in disgust. She turned on her heel toward the adjoining weight room. Tess and I swapped eye rolls. I knew I only had so much politeness in me after one cup of coffee, but Gretchen’s stomping exit seemed overly dramatic.
“What’s Miss Snit’s story?” Billy said.
“She joined the gym a few months ago,” Kyle said. “New in town.”
“The girl obviously has no taste in good television.” Billy laughed.
Tess turned to me. “Gretchen found out about my psychic talents and asked me for a free reading. It took time to get a strong fix on her. Strange aura. Focused, yet muddy. But she’s not bad once you get her talking.”
“Do you read everyone?”
“Sure. I like to share my gift,” Tess said.
Kyle called from the side of Billy’s elliptical, “Hey, Liz. Big game tonight at Dodger Stadium. You going?”
I brushed a stray, sweaty lock off my forehead and nodded. “We’re celebrating my dad’s birthday there. He and my boyfriend, Nick, are Cubs fans.”
“You’re not rooting against the Dodgers, are you?” Kyle said.
“Never. I was born here. My first crush was on Steve Garvey. Believe me, the Illinois contingent in my group will be surrounded by plenty of loyalists.”
“I’ll be at the game, too,” he said. “Billy is hosting a party in the ATTAGIRL luxury box. I’m taking an old sidekick of yours from Atlanta. Remember Laycee Huber?”
I almost tripped off the treadmill. Laycee Huber in Los Angeles? The last time I talked to my ex-friend and Atlanta neighbor was four years ago, the day I knocked on her front door to return the pink-and-black polka-dot bra she’d bought on a shopping trip with me. At the store, she claimed she wanted something sexy to seduce her husband. Two weeks before Jarret and I moved to L.A., I found the bra, reeking of Laycee’s distinct burnt sugar scent, under my bed.
Chapter Two
Kittenish Laycee and I began our friendship in Atlanta the morning we moseyed out to our adjoining mailboxes in identical sweats and T-shirts. After swapping witty observations on our impeccable style, she invited me to go mall hopping with her on weekends. She introduced me to her hairdresser, facialist, and the best shoe store in Atlanta. Though we shared the same size, our clothing tastes beyond mailbox garb were vastly different. Laycee shopped for low-cut and tight; I wore trendy at home and tailored to work. We shared our hopes and secrets over wine in my kitchen on the nights Jarret traveled with the Braves and her lawyer husband, Forrest, worked late.
The couple came to our barbeques and helped celebrate our birthdays; Jarret and I went to their pool parties and Super Bowl bashes. Forrest, thirty years her senior at sixty-one, watched his young trophy wife flirt with every man in attendance. The four of us were chummy until the day I learned Laycee was swapping spit with my husband. I divorced Jarret soon after our move to Los Angeles, my hometown.
“Sure, I remember Laycee,” I said to Kyle over the top of my treadmill while swallowing back bitterness I thought I jettisoned years ago. “She’s in town?”
“Yeah. She’s going to call you. She told me she wanted to get together with you.” Before I could tell Kyle to discourage her, he said, “Hey—I talked to Jarret. A string of lefties load the Cubs lineup so he’ll probably pitch relief for at least a few innings tonight. Should be a great game. You sitting in the team section?” He projected his voice loud enough for everyone in the cardio room and in the cars parked in the lot outside to hear.
“I don’t know where our seats are. My parents got the tickets.” I knew damn well Jarret gave my mom his player seats for the game, but I wasn’t about to play celebrity can-you-top-this with Kyle. And I didn’t want him to hunt us down at Dodger Stadium with Laycee in tow.
I hopped off my treadmill and crossed through the weight room to the mirrored studio at the rear of the gym. After the two-mile run/walk, I just wanted to lie down. I rolled out a mat on the floor by the mirror and began a series of knee-to-elbow sit-ups.
Across the room, a trainer counted reps for a client on an aerobics step. Another trainer joked with a zaftig redhead squatting on a balance disc. Gretchen did crunches on an exercise ball. Earl, the sociable, ebony-skinned trainer I met my first morning, supervised a girl transferring a medicine ball from over her head down to her toes.
“How’s your renovation going, Liz?” Earl said.