Cord held out his palms. “Don’t get pissed. I had to ask. I know you get along well with clients, but you’ve never given them your personal information. What’s the deal?”
“I like her. She’s . . . cool.” She made me laugh, she made me get lost talking about nothing, and she had a great smile. Even battered and disoriented under those flickering lights, she had smiled at me when I found her in the stairwell—this tiny, confused smile—and it floored me. It was the warmth I’d imagined all those times we chatted. All morning at the hospital, I had to keep inventing reasons to look out the window or at the TV to stop from staring at her because I wanted to memorize her features. I liked everything about her, and knowing she had been going through something terrified me more than getting information about a relative stranger should have.
Cord nodded. “And . . . ?”
“And, nothing. When I checked in on her this morning—”
Cord cut me off after finishing his beer. “You went back to the hospital? Take her flowers, too?”
I ignored his sarcasm to avoid telling him the truth. “Was I supposed to leave her there to fend for herself?”
“Uh, yeah. She’s a client. You’re dead set against coaches even emailing outside of the system, and you hung out with her?”
“It was an extenuating circumstance, and I was friendly with lots of clients when I did this work in person. I never crossed the line any further then, and I wouldn’t now.” I dragged my thumbnail down the beer label, peeling it back as I convinced myself what I was saying was true. “We’ve become friends. That’s the whole story.”
Cord’s eyebrows quirked. “Uh-huh. For the record, that’s bullshit.” He stood to get another round of beers, saying over his shoulder, “And you know it.”
I checked my phone.
Bmoney34: One of the many downsides to falling down the stairs is that your phone will end up unusable. Hope you don’t mind going back to chat.
WesTheBear: I’m sure it’ll be annoying to be laid up without a phone. How long are you supposed to stay home?
Bmoney34: Probably just a few days. Thank you again for the flowers and everything else. I still can’t believe you were right next to me. So strange after all this time. I hope that didn’t mean too much red tape for you with work.
I started to reply. You don’t have to thank me. Where else would I be when my favorite person was in trouble? Cord eyed me from the bar, his knowing smirk returning, and I hit the backspace key.
WesTheBear: You don’t have to thank me . . . where else would I be when my favorite client was in trouble? Do you have someone with you? How do you feel?
I pulled my thumbs back. I was asking too many questions.
“I’m not even going to ask why you have Chat App open,” Cord said, falling into his chair and handing me a bottle. “Especially since you only have one client.”
I tipped my chin and set the phone down. “Fuck off,” I said, returning his smile and sipping my beer. “And it’s not like you aren’t flirting with an ethical line. You’ve been half in love with Pearl since she started.”
“Since before she started. We rode the elevator together before her interview.” Cord leaned back in his chair. “I know of what I speak, and how much it sucks to know you absolutely cannot act on anything you feel. I’m serious, man. It can be sexual harassment.”
I nodded. He was right. “I know.”
My phone buzzed on the counter, and Cord nodded his head at it. “You should reply to that. I need to hit the head anyway.”
Bmoney34: I finally made my friends leave. I feel about how you might expect, but I’m not dizzy anymore.
Bmoney34: And before you ask, yes, I promise I will eat something tonight.
WesTheBear: Why don’t I bring you food, so you don’t have to cook?
I set aside my beer and glanced at my blank screen. I reminded myself that what I’d told Cord was true. When I trained people in person, I became friends with some of them. This wasn’t that different. Hell, if he were hurt, I’d take him food; same for Pearl or even Mason. Eh, for Mason, I’d just have food delivered.
Bmoney34: That seems like a huge imposition, and you’ve already gone so far above and beyond the call of duty. You’ll probably drop me as a client and pick up someone easier!
WesTheBear: What fun would there be in someone easier?
Bmoney34: Ok, but can we meet in my apt and not the stairwell this time?
“You’re smiling at your phone. You know that, right?”
I didn’t need to look up and see Cord to know he was wearing a shit-eating grin. “Shut up.”
25
LIKED BY ONTHECHOPPINGBLOCK AND 1,865 OTHERS
REPOSTED FROM MARCH 7
Guilty pleasure foods. My coach would tell me that linking food with guilt isn’t healthy, and he’s right. Still, I know certain foods provide me more nutrition and energy than others, and it’s those others I want when I’m down. To listen to my coach, I’ll start calling them comfort foods.
I have many, but at the top of the list is pizza. By that, I do not mean the iconic deep-dish Chicago is known for. I like my pizza thin, cut into squares, and heavy with mounds of cheese and sausage. Basically, the exact opposite of the foods I’ve learned make me feel physically good. There’s a lot to unpack there about finding comfort or guilt in food, but right now, I’m going to open the box that just arrived from my favorite local place, stick with comfort, and try to ignore the idea of guilt. What’s your favorite comfort food?
* * *
LAUNDRY AND NOTES were strewn over every surface of my apartment. Camped on my couch since getting home, I hadn’t had the energy to clean. My laptop screen glowed with Wes’s last message. I’ll be there in five minutes.
Shit, shit, shit!
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already seen me at my worst—lying unconscious under fluorescent lighting had taken care of that.
The buzzer sounded, and I glanced at my yoga pants and old college sweatshirt with frayed edges. My hair was piled in a messy bun, and there was nothing even close to makeup on my face. I’d fantasized about meeting Wes in person, but in my head, I always looked a little more chic woman about town and a little less hungover freshman. I smoothed my hands down over the yoga pants and hobbled toward the door.
I took a deep breath, nerves creeping up my spine. I hoped he didn’t notice how my breath caught at his smile when I opened the door. Damn. It’s gonna take time to get used to seeing him in person.
“Hi,” I said before saying the next thing I could think of. “Uh, you’ve never seen me standing up.” Palm to head.
“You’re right.” He held a pizza box and a white plastic bag, the contents of which smelled amazing. “Vertical suits you.”
I laughed. “Ugh, oh, God. It hurts to laugh.”
His grin spread, slowly revealing a dimple in his cheek. “I’ll try not to be funny.” He set the bag on the counter and unpacked the contents, arranging containers of breadsticks and dipping sauces. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry.” I tried to get plates from my cupboard, and a small whimper escaped my lips when I raised my arms.
“Hey,” his deep voice rumbled behind me. “Let me do that.”
He stretched over my head to get the dishes, which meant the hard planes of his chest and abs momentarily pressed against my back. He was warm—why are men always warm? He smelled good, too, not like cologne, just natural and clean. A pulse of excitement ran through me with his body against mine. The contact lasted only a moment before he pulled back and set one dish on the counter.
“I remembered what you said about liking pizza on your registration.” He motioned to the takeout boxes, and my mouth watered.
I looked at the solitary dish. “Are you going to stay, or . . . ?”
He shrugged. “Nah. I just wanted to bring you dinner, and I’ll leave you alone. Sausage is their best, but I got half plain in case you don’t like it.”
My stomach sank. “Oh, I’ll wait. It’s fine.”
“You said you’re hungry, right?”