I leaned back in the tub, and the steam rising off the hot water curled around my neck and loose tendrils of hair stuck to my skin. I closed my eyes, prepared to fantasize about Ben like I usually did, but my mind wandered to what Wes might look like raising a glass to clink with mine. What he might look like at all.
From: FitMiCoachWes1
To: Bmoney34
Sent: February 8, 8:19 p.m.
B,
I’m several beers in, so probably a lot like this. Shouldn’t have said that, though. You keep calling me Tube Sock, but I haven’t given you a nickname yet. What if I call you Bubbles?
Wes
I tied my robe after stepping from the tub and brushed a few wayward strands off my face. My muscles were loose, and the heady scent of the argan oil and vanilla bodywash filled the air. Padding to my bedroom, I reread Wes’s latest email and tapped out a reply in that languid state.
From: Bmoney34
To: FitMiCoachWes1
Sent: February 8, 8:30 p.m.
I don’t mind you messaging me while drinking—helps to see you’re human and not some fitness robot.
Bubbles?
From: FitMiCoachWes1
To: Bmoney34
Sent: February 8, 8:32 p.m.
You said you were taking a bath. Bubble bath. Bubbles.
No?
From: Bmoney34
To: FitMiCoachWes1
Sent: February 8, 8:35 p.m.
Were you thinking about me in the tub, Wes?
I hit send and then immediately cringed at such a flirty response. The lingering shadow of the silly daydream lingered, which was the only explanation I could give myself. Why did I ask that? I was about to send a follow-up apologizing when his reply appeared.
From: FitMiCoachWes1
To: Bmoney34
Sent: February 8, 8:36 p.m.
Yes.
My breath hitched. His response left me motionless, and my belly fluttered. That response was completely inappropriate, and I should have been upset. I should have been taking a screenshot or jotting down notes for my article. This whole conversation was way out of line, but the shadow of a fantasy lingered on the edge of my mind, and it didn’t feel gross or wrong. It felt kind of hot. Before I could come to my senses, another message came in.
From: FitMiCoachWes1
To: Bmoney34
Sent: February 8, 8:41 p.m.
B,
Sorry, that came out wrong. I meant I knew you were in the tub, not that I was imagining you in your tub. I’ll think of another nickname. Have a good night and good luck with working out tomorrow. Still shoot for 10K steps.
Wes
I set my phone down and opened my drawers to pull out clean clothes. My imagination was a little too overactive, but it was fun to play what-if for a minute.
12
CORD AND I sat against the far wall near a rarely used dartboard. The tables were sticky, the service was awful, and the bar was inhabited by the same regulars who’d probably been coming since the nineties. The people here appreciated cheap drinks and a dearth of young people. I still wasn’t sure of the name of the place; the sign outside just read Bar.
A light near the door flickered, casting intermittent shadows over a floor already littered with peanut shells and salt from the slushy sidewalks. The floor was never clean, the debris just changed—sand and slush in the winter, stray leaves in the fall, always a series of wet footprints in the spring no matter the weather.
“Who’re you texting?” Cord tipped his bottle to his lips, eyebrow raised.
“What?” I set my phone on the table. “No one.”
“Yeah, right.” Cord pointed to my beer to ask if I wanted another before heading to the bar. I glanced at the screen of my phone, where my last message to B stared back at me. Shit, I admitted to thinking about her in the bathtub. I’d been thinking about her, more than I should, especially once she mentioned the tub.
I sent off a correction to B that hopefully made me look like less of a pervert as Cord returned to the table and handed me another cold beer.
“So, what gives?” Cord took a swig from his beer. “All week your head has been somewhere else. You didn’t even pay attention to what Mason was telling us. I’m not mad, man. I’m worried. You’re usually kind of hyper-focused on work.”
“It’s Libby’s birthday,” I said, eyes trained on the pattern of salt and sand pooled by the worn and saturated welcome mat. If you squinted, it formed a rough constellation like the Big Dipper. I followed the path with my eyes.
I didn’t talk about my sister often. We’d been so busy with getting the company going the last few years, I thought I was handling her absence better, but I was just getting better at hiding it. I wasn’t sure I’d said her name out loud to anyone besides Mom in years.
“Shit,” Cord said, his voice barely audible over the Billy Joel song piping through crackling speakers. “Was it sophomore year she left?”
I picked at the label on my beer. “I never knew what else was going on, but she and Mom fought constantly, and she’d developed what I know now was an eating disorder. One day she answered the phone, and the next, she was gone.” I’d spent years fearing the worst and searching as best I could. I’d all but given up when I got a text from an unknown number on her birthday, saying she was okay and she missed me. Since then, I’d get those kinds of messages a few times a year, always guarded and careful, but it was something. I’d keep texting that number until it didn’t work anymore and then I’d wait for her again. “I haven’t heard from her since June.”
Eight months was a long time, and work wasn’t the welcome distraction it had been in the past.
“Shit, Wes. I’m sorry.”
I kept following the pattern in the sand and took a pull from my beer without looking at him. “And then my mom is—well, you know, my mom.”
Neither of us spoke. I didn’t have to return his gaze to know his brow was knit, trying to figure out the right thing to say.
Cord broke the silence, his voice low again but without a trace of pity. I loved that about the guy. “What do you need?”
“Distraction.” I could shake this. I didn’t need help or condolences; I just needed to focus on a problem I could fix, and Cord understood.
He leaned one elbow on the table, pivoting on a dime. “Tell me more about this high school thing Pearl said you wanted to talk about.”
“Yeah.” My shoulders relaxed, and I realized how tense I’d been. “You know my buddy Aaron?”
“Yeah, the one you play basketball with, right?” Cord sat back in his chair, eyeing the small group of trendy twentysomethings who’d stumbled through the front door. I knew they wouldn’t stay.
“They wanted to do this peer education thing where older kids lead workshops on fitness for the younger kids who want to learn.” Aaron had sent me more information, and the program was a great idea, giving kids a chance to learn and be leaders. Libby had always hated gym class—she’d complain, and I never got it. Eventually, she confessed she hated that she felt judged and forced to focus on her body, when she didn’t want to in this very public way. I’d never thought about it like that. The program Aaron described sounded better. “Sort of like a mini version of what our coaches do.”
Cord took a pull from his drink, expression unchanged. “Sounds cool. Where would we come in?”