The screen on my phone flashed, and I grinned before dismissing it. I was sure it was B. No one else messaged me on the app now that the other client I’d taken on had decided not to continue with coaching. I’d gotten used to B’s messages, used to that feeling of letting out a breath when I read them.
We’d been chatting a couple times a day for the last few weeks. It always started with exercise or nutrition, healthy habits and new challenges. It always started with coaching like it was supposed to, but I’d glance at the time stamp and realize we’d spent an hour going back and forth. It was too much, and I needed to check whatever this was that drew me to her, but it was hard, because I was genuinely interested in her love of the Bears and her collection of Stephen King novels she reread all the time even though she’d get scared. I wanted to know more about her.
It gave me a weird, full feeling in my chest when she told me about an accomplishment. It made B happy to meet small milestones, and knowing she was proud of herself reminded me I was doing something that mattered. She was always so appreciative.
Glancing up from my phone, I noticed Mason looking at me expectantly. “Yeah, sure,” I answered, not knowing what he’d asked. He kept talking, and I glanced back at my phone, subtly tapping the screen.
Bmoney34: Today, I saw a squirrel.
WesTheBear: Stop the presses.
Bmoney34: I wasn’t done yet! The squirrel was pawing through a container of salad someone dropped.
“Wes?” Mason’s voice cut into my thoughts.
“Sorry, what?”
“The content on Best Life, have you been reading it? It’s great press, even with them covering both platforms.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. More and more, I had these reminders I was unqualified to run this company. “Um, no. I haven’t.”
Cord chimed in. “I’ve skimmed bits and pieces. I forget her name, but the woman covering us is funny, and it seems like she’s having a good experience.”
Mason tapped out something on his phone. “I’d like to see how we can capitalize on other opportunities. Check it out, though. I’ve got a meeting across town, but I’m sending you the link now.” Mason gathered his things and answered a call on the way out the door.
My own phone buzzed.
Bmoney34: Reminded me of you.
Bmoney34: He really digs salad.
Cord shifted his gaze to me in his patient, I’m-going-to-wait-for-you-to-talk way.
I schooled my expression. “Sorry. Client.”
Cord nodded absently. “What did Kelsey want? You never said. It really wasn’t about business?”
“She wants to be friends again.”
“Friends or friends?” Cord’s expression said it all. Stop doing things just to make other people happy.
“I know what you’re going to say. So, don’t.”
“Okay,” he said.
“She feels bad about how she ended things.” I paced to the window. “Who knows. Maybe we could be friends.”
“Okay.”
“It’s not like I’m giving her a kidney or something.”
“I didn’t say anything.” Cord sat back in his chair and placed his palms on the table. “Just . . . watch out. I know you want to be distracted right now, but I don’t think that’s the distraction you want.” I glanced at my phone. I knew exactly the distraction I wanted.
17
LIKED BY NOMORENOSEPICKERS AND 965 OTHERS
Can you believe it’s almost April? Springtime means warmer weather and ditching these coats. I can’t wait! I’m #TeamFitMi, but I want to post about hotness today. I remember the first time I described myself as hot. I was a sophomore in college, and I said it as a joke. None of my friends laughed like I assumed they would—they thought I was serious, and the conversation kept going. All these years later, I remember that “oh” feeling when they didn’t laugh. I realized the joke wasn’t funny, that it wasn’t a joke at all. I was allowed to call and believe myself hot. I think a lot of us are waiting for permission for that moment, for someone else to validate it. I’m not waiting anymore, but how about you? Reply with “I’m hot,” and see how it feels! #TeamBritta #BodyFTW
* * *
“LOOK AT YOU!” RJ looked me up and down as we waited for our table. “Do you know how good you look in those jeans?”
“Actually, I do.” I struck a pose for my friend. Before arriving, I’d sent Wes a picture of my pedometer total with eight exclamation points, my brightly painted nails next to the red numbers.
He replied right away—Wes always replied. As expected, he asked me how I felt. I loved it when he asked that.
Next to us, Kat ended the heated conversation she’d been having with her husband. “Sorry about that. What did I miss?” Kat’s natural hair was pulled back, an explosion of curls sitting atop her head. She was schooling her expression, though it wasn’t like we didn’t know her husband was kind of a jackass and had probably just said something to upset her.
“Just that Britta is hot AF,” RJ said, waving as Del walked through the door.
Kat smiled, a real smile this time. “Britta has always been hot AF.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” I said, leaning in for a hug and seeing Del rush in the door.
Five years into his PhD in sociology, Del already looked the part of scatterbrained professor. Though always handsome, he was perpetually exhausted, and there was only ever a fifty percent chance his socks would match. “I’m starving. I didn’t have time to eat lunch today.”
I swatted at him. “Do better.” Being around Del was like having a little brother. A grown-ass little brother who couldn’t seem to stick with a research topic and was on his way to being a lifelong student.
He gave me a side hug as the hostess led us to our table. “I’ll try.”
Kat set her menu aside. Really, we always ordered the same thing, so looking was a bit farcical. “So, how is the research going, Del?”
“Ugh,” he groaned. “I spent all day debating whether to stick with my current topic or change to something I’m more interested in. My adviser might kill me if I switch again.”
“We’ll kill you if you switch again,” RJ said over the menu.
Del groaned and ran his palm over his face. “Can we talk about something else? Britta, how’s your work thing going?”
“Good so far.” I told them about the funny piece I’d written on learning the unspoken rules of the locker room, complete with a retelling about the woman who liked to air-dry following her shower. Claire had written about the impostor syndrome of being around lots of fit people. I’d been surprised and a little encouraged that even Claire felt that way sometimes. The previous week, I’d posted about the emotional release of seeing the numbers on the treadmill decrease at the end of a sprint. We were falling into a rhythm of give-and-take that worked. In the third week, we’d both written about our coaches. Mine read like an ode, and I wanted to share it with Wes but couldn’t.
Maricela was pleased with both Claire’s and my work, but there was only one position available on the writing staff, and so far, Claire’s posts generated more traffic than mine. I tried to push down the insecurities that surfaced every time I saw Claire outshining me. Still, Maricela had tasked me with working on the cover shoot, and that was something.
“I never thought I’d enjoy all of this salad and sweating, but it’s kind of fun. Wes gives me homework, and you know I love smashing a checklist, so it’s working.”
Del spoke from behind his menu, adjusting the arms of his glasses. “That’s your coach?”
“Yeah, he’s great. Supportive.”
Kat raised her brows. “Is he cute?”
I pictured him tall and tan or dark-skinned and broad. Sometimes I imagined he wore glasses and polo shirts, and other times I envisioned him with gelled hair and sunglasses. I caught myself studying men while on the ‘L,’ wondering if the guy reading the Tribune or wearing the red sweatshirt was him. Please don’t let him be the greasy guy in the FBI: Firm Breast Inspector T-shirt.
“I have no idea what he looks like.” I checked the screen of my phone absently, like his photo might magically appear. “Not that it matters.”