Libby: Is she going to make it?
Wes: Yeah. For now. I can’t believe you answered. Are you okay? Where are you? Do you need me to send money? Can I see you?
She hadn’t written back. I’d spent the last few days in a weird place of complete relief she was alive and loss at her not saying anything else after I came on too strong. I shoved the phone back in my pocket.
When I stepped off the elevator, I spotted Cord perched on Pearl’s desk, both of them laughing. The sound grated on me, and I shifted my jaw back and forth.
Pearl straightened and smiled, but I didn’t meet her gaze and just focused on the door ahead of me. “Good morning, Wes. I came in early and arranged for your—”
Pearl was so much better than this job. She was better suited to be in charge than me, that was for damn sure, and suddenly, I knew seeing her would just be something else to feel guilty about. “Thanks,” I said in a rushed tone without looking up. I closed the door to my office behind me, but I was alone for only a moment.
Cord stormed in. “What the hell was that?”
“What?”
“Why were you such a dick to Pearl? She got in early today to get everything ready for our meeting. Since you forgot about that shit until the last goddamned minute.”
“I’ll apologize later.” I tossed my messenger bag by my desk and shook the mouse, then banged it against the desk to wake up the machine.
Cord crossed his arms over his chest. “Apologize now.”
“I said I’ll do it later. Step the fuck off.” I banged the mouse and the screen lit up.
“You’ve been a moody, short-tempered, unreliable prick all week. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Are you suddenly her knight in shining armor or something? Pearl’s fine.”
“That woman is one of the few people in the world who give a damn about you. And maybe you’ve forgotten, but you run this fucking company. People depend on us. I don’t know if you’re bored or you need a different distraction or whatever, but you need to figure it out. No one twisted your arm to be here, so stop acting like it’s a goddamned chore to do your job, and grow up.” Cord took a step toward me and we squared off.
“Fuck you. I don’t need a lecture.” I held my fists balled at my sides.
His nostrils flared as we faced each other, voices raised. We were posturing like two people about to brawl.
What am I doing?
“Damn it,” I muttered. I sunk into my chair and pressed my fingertips to my forehead, the dull ache stretching into a throbbing pain. “I’m sorry. Maybe I need the lecture. Everything is fucked right now. Mom overdosed. She’s getting worse. Libby is MIA again.”
“Shit, man.” Cord blew out a long breath before crossing the room and sitting on the other side of the desk. “I didn’t know.”
I took in the exposed ductwork in the ceiling before meeting his eyes. “You’re right. I’ve been a dick, and I’ll apologize to Pearl. I’ve just been . . . it’s been rough. I’m sorry.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Nah. I’ll get it together.”
Cord studied my face. “For the record, I’m one of the other people who give a damn. You don’t always have to keep this stuff to yourself.”
I grunted with a nod. My head pounded. I considered telling him everything about Britta. Part of me was still hoping I could rewind to the moment before I felt anything, and it wouldn’t matter. She’s a client. She’s just a client. It wasn’t working. “I’m sorry, man. I’ll make it up to Pearl. Is there something going on with you two?”
Cord shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “We’re just friends.” He glanced at his watch and grimaced. “Want to meet up in thirty to go over things ahead of time?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you in the conference room.”
I glanced at my phone.
Wes: What flowers say, “I’m sorry for being an asshole?”
Britta: Depends. Who are they for and what did you do?
Wes: Someone I rely on for pretty much everything at work, and I’ve been a jerk.
Britta: I’d go tulips. And maybe cash. Perhaps a puppy?
Wes: On it. How was your run this morning?
Britta: Did almost four miles.
Wes: That’s great. I’m sorry I canceled on you.
The dots bounced, but she didn’t respond. I could picture her, biting her lower lip and second-guessing what she wanted to say. God, I fucked everything up.
Wes: Should I send you tulips and a puppy, too?
It was the first honest thing I’d said to her since the hospital, and the muscles in my neck relaxed as soon as I sent it. I missed more than talking to her—I missed the smell of her hair and how her voice turned up when she told me she hated me—but I didn’t get to say those things, not after everything that happened in the hospital. I didn’t want to mess with her head any more than I already had.
Britta: Just the cash would be fine.
Britta: But seriously, I’m here when you need a friend.
Reading “friend” was a stab to the gut, but she was playing by my rules. I just needed to keep what I was feeling in check.
Wes: Gym tomorrow morning at 6:30?
Britta: Sorry. I can’t tomorrow.
41
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I took a long time to work up the courage to try the weight bench. I watched the how-to videos on the FitMi app and asked my coach, but I was still nervous when it came time to add weight to the bar and stretch out on my back—what if people laughed at how little I added? What if I looked silly? On top of all that, I had an irrational fear I’d fart while lifting and everyone would stop and stare. I think this whole journey is like that—watching from the sidelines and learning, and then feeling uncomfortable when you try something new. What made it easier was having my spotter there—someone to catch the weight if it came to that. I think we should have spotters on hand more often in life. Here’s a photo of @BestLifeClaire and me on our way to a weekend retreat. If you’re using FitMi coaching, you have a built-in spotter, but who else is supporting you?
* * *
AFTER ALMOST TWO hours in the car, Claire and I stepped out in front of the Meadows of Venus Resort and Spa. Beyond the pristine brick facade of the building, sunlight glittered off the ripples in the lake, and I inhaled the clean air.
While Claire checked us in at the front desk, I pulled my phone from my pocket, hoping for a message from Wes. Even though things were awkward, not seeing him felt worse, so I figured I’d bite the bullet and pretend it never happened, and maybe we’d get back to normal. I’d done that with Ben, and we just stopped talking. I hoped this would work out better.
Britta: We made it. I will never get tired of how fresh air smells.
Wes: How does it smell?
Britta: Fresh.
Wes: You should research adjectives. Did you pack your running shoes?
Britta: Yeah, I’m going before dinner tonight. I’m not used to running without you barking at me.
Wes: You might grow to like it.
I doubt it. I tucked my phone back in my pocket and felt guilty about lying to him about my role with Best Life. Maybe it was best that nothing romantic would happen—I needed the writing job to move forward with my career, and I was probably already too close to my coach, even without the kiss. That kiss. The feel of his hands on me. The promise of more when he pressed his body to mine.
“We’re all checked in,” Claire said, handing me my key and interrupting my thoughts.
“Thanks.” We walked toward the elevator, and Claire pulled two manila folders from her oversize bag. “We can take advantage of the treatments, and there’s just a few things we’ll do together, including floating meditation.”
“Floating meditation?”
“I guess they give us wine and we float on rafts in this cordoned-off part of the lake.”