Balance Check Page 5

  She follows me around the rack, doing exactly what I knew she was going to do… pester me. “Maybe you two should start dating again. You love him, you know you do. Are you afraid you can’t separate your emotions? Come on. You can be fuck buddies for a while first.”

  We hear a gasp and look over. Once again, Deborah chooses this opportune moment to walk by. We stare at her and she stares at us. We’re all staring until I finally break the silence.

  “The short dress with leggings combo looks really good on you, Deborah.”

  She blinks once and turns away from us, shaking her head as she walks into the kitchen, probably to gather more organic pâté. Pâté by itself is pretty gross. Rest assured, the organic kind is a zillion times worse.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this right now,” I suggest, partially for poor Deborah’s benefit, but mostly for my own.

  “You’re right.” She claps her hands together, which is never a good sign for me. “Let’s talk about Tripp.”

  I groan. “Let’s not.”

  “Oh come on, Elena. He’s hot and he’s young.” She sighs dreamily like what I need in my life is another kid. “This is your one shot at being a cougar! Take it!”

  “Oooh,” another random shopper, this one I refer to as “the drunk” stumbles up to us, yet doesn’t spill a drop of her wine. Impressive. “Who is a cougar?”

  Callie doesn’t miss a beat. “Elena is hopefully.”

  The Drunk’s eyes widen and mouth opens in delight. “You haven’t gone for it yet? Younger men are the best. They have this,” she sucks in a horny-sounding breath, “stamina that men our age don’t seem to have any more.”

  Callie quirks an eye at me. “Did you hear that Elena? I bet Tripp has stamina.”

  “His name is Tripp?” The Drunk slurs. “That even sounds sexy. Tell me he’s sexy.”

  “Oh he is,” Callie answers for me, even though she’s never seen him. “He likes to put his hands in his pockets when he walks away from her.”

  The Drunk gasps. “I love it when they pull their pants tight across their ass. It’s my favorite move.”

  Callie looks at me and gestures to The Drunk like she just proved her point. I roll my eyes and continue with my sorting. “I’m not going to go out with a twenty-five-year old because he has a nice rear.”

  “You’re going out with a twenty-five-year old?” Snack Girl says, popping out from nowhere to enter this very humiliating conversation.

  “No!” I shout at the same time Callie yells, “Hopefully!”

  The Drunk is fingering all the clothing while mumbling, “Hate to see him go, but love to watch him leave.”

  “I’m twenty-five and I date older men,” Snack Girl shrugs. “What’s the difference?”

  “Stamina,” The Drunk answers. Someone really needs to take the booze away from her. And maybe hide all their teenage boys.

  “I’m just saying, those gender and age roles are so antiquated,” Snack Girl continues. “If you have common interests and are attracted to each other, why not?”

  Callie tilts her head, eyeing me as if to say Yeah. Why not?

  I sigh in defeat. “Ok fine. You win. If he asks me out again, I will say yes.” Cheers erupt around the room and I’m finally aware that this conversation has been more public than I first realized. Holding my finger up in the air, I make it a point to add, “But there will be no finding out about his stamina!”

  The women all laugh and side conversations about former dating escapades pop up all around us. As much as I didn’t want to discuss my own dating life, at least it made everyone around us relax and is giving them something fun to talk about amongst each other. Even The Drunk and Snack Girl are trading stories.

  The only one who doesn’t seem amused is Deborah. Her teeth are clenched together, and I’m afraid she’s going to shatter that tray of celery and almond butter if she squeezes it any tighter. Seconds later, she stomps over to Callie and me, fire in her eyes. But it’s venom that comes out of her mouth.

  “I love how easygoing you guys are when we’re hanging out, but can we please stay professional during this party? I am getting ready to launch a RowRow business. I don’t want to be known as the woman who has raunchy parties!” And she turns and stomps away.

  I look over at Callie who has a stunned look on her face. She finally looks over at me, still seeming very unsure about how to respond. “I think… I think I would normally tell someone to buzz off after that. But I know she has been nervous about this party all week, so if being more professional will help her feel less anxious, we should do that.”

  I shrug and reply with, “She’s your friend. You do what you think is right.”

  Thankfully, another customer, who I call “Shorty” due to her lack of height, interrupts us to ask a question about getting her items hemmed. The distraction throws Callie right back into sales mode, but doesn’t do quite the same with me.

  I’m just as much of a hot mess as the next gal, but yelling at me for acting the exact same way I always do irks me. What you see is what you get with me. If that’s not enough, there’s nothing I can do about it, and I’m not going to try.

  But Callie is my best friend and if defaulting to professional me for the rest of the night makes her feel better about the situation, I’ll do it.

  Deborah, however, doesn’t get as much grace from me. I still have my eye on that one.

  If you had told me a year ago that spin would end up being my favorite class, I would’ve said you’re insane. My gosh, the class is hard. It is non-stop cardio for an hour, and my instructor somehow makes it a muscle work out as well. Some days I leave with my shoulders aching. It takes some serious teaching talent for your students to have aching shoulders from riding a stationary bike.

  Despite the pain I feel during the class, the strength I feel after it’s over is addicting. I haven’t actually lost any weight. That would require me to change my eating habits and let’s face it… I like my food a little too much to care. For now, feeling empowered and strong is enough.

  I wave at Bianca as I walk into the dark room and head to my favorite bike. Bike #12 is my normal stop. It’s on the second row, off to the side, next to the tiny window so there’s the perfect amount of light. Plus, the fan blows directly on me. After half an hour of exercise, this is an important thing.

  Standing next to my favorite method of torture, I adjust all the knobs. Raise the seat until it’s hip height. Move the handle bars forward because my arms are short. Situate my water bottle on the right side for easy reach during our rest periods. Step up on my peddles and…

  “Good morning, Elena.”

  I stare in disbelief as Greg adjusts the bike next to mine. What is he doing here?

  “What are you doing here?”

  He smirks at me and continues with his set up. “Taking a spin class. What are you doing here?”

  So he’s got jokes this morning. “I know you’re taking a spin class, funny guy. Why are you taking the same class I’m taking? It’s a Saturday morning. Don’t you have a meet or something to be at?”

  “I came back mid-season, so we’re keeping things like they are until next year.” Like always, his movements are fluid and graceful as he mounts the bike and begins peddling. I look more like a baby panda bear rolling around as I climb up.

  Finally situating myself on my seat, I say, “But that doesn’t explain how you ended up in my class. Did you know I’d be here…” I trail off as it hits me.

  Callie.

  “You asked Callie when my class was, didn’t you?”

  His conspiratorial smile is the only answer I need. What a traitor. She and I will be having words the next time I talk to her.

  Suddenly, the music begins pumping through the speakers and any further conversation is put on the back burner.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Bianca yells in her chipper, slightly accented voice. “I’m glad to see you guys here on a Saturday morning. Are we ready to get started? Get tho
se legs moving.”

  For some reason, this class helps my brain clear out. I don’t know if it’s working off all the stress, or what, but I always feel better emotionally after it’s over. That’s one of the reasons I do it three times a week. We’re only in the warm up, but I can already tell I’m gonna need more than one class to push through the irritation I feel.

  Ok, that’s not exactly true. I know I should be irritated. Greg broke my heart when he left. I don’t fault him for it. He had to do what was right by his daughter. But finding out he came back the way I did makes me assume I’m an afterthought. I don’t like feeling that way. I want to be a forethought.

  Maybe I’m not irritated as much as I’m hurt. I thought the connection we had ran deeper than that. Now I’m questioning all the memories I have from before. Everything feels slightly tainted. But is that a valid feeling or me being irrational? I honestly don’t know.

  While we stand up and sit down and go faster and slower, I take the time to sort through all my thoughts. I love Greg. I never stopped loving Greg. But I’m afraid. For as much progress as I’ve made this last year with my feelings of insecurity and self-doubt, I still struggle with my fear of getting hurt again. Is that holding me back from experiencing something wonderful? And is wonderful even worth it if I end up hurting again?

  “Let’s add more resistance,” Bianca shouts and I grab the knob, cranking it to the right, as The Weeknd begins serenading me with lyrics about how much I’m worth it. Yeah, I am, I think to myself as I get into my groove.

  “Earned It,” the remix version, has become one of my favorite songs in spin. We go slower, but add lots of resistance, working out our quads and glutes until they burn. I probably won’t be able to sit down later because of the amount of effort I’m putting in today, but I refuse to stop. I have too much stress to work out.

  Shooting a glance at Greg causes me surprise. The man is dripping sweat and his newly grown stubble is glistening where droplets have gotten stuck. He’s breathing heavy and it’s obvious, he never took a spin class in San Antonio because he can’t seem to keep up. This revelation makes me smile.

  Turning back to Bianca, I follow along for the remainder of the hour, sorting through my emotions, working out my stress, and feeling more and more like myself with every passing minute.

  “Holy shit,” Greg breathes, as we wipe down our bikes at the end of class. “I forgot how intense this class is.”

  It’s my turn to smirk at him. “Looks like you didn’t keep up with your workouts while you were away.”

  He laughs. “I did, just not my cardio, apparently.” He tosses his disinfecting wipes into the trash and turns back to me. “Have you thought any more about my dinner offer?”

  Avoiding answering, I walk out of the room, him hot on my heels. I wasn’t expecting him to just let me walk away. I knew he’d follow. But I’m still unsure what to do and I’m waiting for some clarity.

  “It doesn’t have to be dinner, ya know,” he continues, increasing his pace to catch up and walk next to me. “We could do coffee or just stand in our yards and talk. I’ll bring the Dos Equis.”

  I snort a laugh. “I’m sure the neighbors would love to see us standing around in the front yard drinking beer. Should we bring lawn chairs, too, and make it even classier?”

  “We’ll pretend it’s a meet-your-new-neighbor thing. Who knows, maybe I’ll finally meet the guy who lives across the street. The one with the ratty car parked on the street?”

  “You know he leaves that car there on purpose so no one parks in front of his house, right?”

  Greg looks at me incredulously. “Really? He hates his neighbors that much?”

  “He hates people in general,” I explain. “I’ve lived there for how many years, and I’ve met him once. And only because he was upset that my trash can didn’t get put away fast enough after garbage pick-up.”

  “See? It’ll be good for us to hang out. It’ll show solidarity against the neighborhood bully.”

  We stop in front of the treadmills so I can face him. “You’re really determined, aren’t you?” I ask, a flirty smile on my face. I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling self-assured. I guess having a hot guy tailing you through the gym begging for a date is a confidence booster.

  “I really, really am,” he replies, flashing me that dazzling smile.

  “Greg! You’re back!” We both whirl around when we hear her voice.

  “Hi, Heather,” he says, and immediately shifts his attention back to me.

  Heather. I’ve seen the leggy blond burning up the treadmill almost every time I’ve been here for the last year. For the most part, I’ve ignored her. There’s been no reason to feel any ill will. But hearing her flirty voice directed at Greg while he’s in the middle of a conversation with me grates on my nerves.

  “We’ve missed you around here,” she tries again.

  He, however, doesn’t even glance her direction, keeping his eyes trained on me, when he says, “I’ve missed being here.”

  That moment, combined with what can only be described as jealousy, works in his favor.

  “The girls are with James this weekend, so I’m free tonight.” I turn and saunter toward the locker room. “Don’t forget the wine,” I call over my shoulder.

  With that, I put a little extra sway in my hips, knowing he’s loving watching me leave.

  When Elena finally accepted my invitation to dinner tonight, I wanted to jump for joy right there. But I figured I needed to keep at least a little of my dignity intact, being that I had followed her around the gym like a puppy dog. Not that I really minded. There are worse views.

  That little extra swing in her hips as she walked away didn’t go unnoticed by me, but I know she’s still reluctant. I’m not sure if she’s more hurt about how I handled coming back, or afraid I’ll leave again. Either way, I’m hoping tonight will help reassure her that I strongly believe my prayers were answered. I don’t care if Libby is ultimately the one who made the decision that changed everything; it’s what I had wanted all along.

  Next time my ex pulls that shit, and I’m not dumb enough to think there won’t be a next time, I will be stronger and will fight more. I promised myself that months ago. Now I have to convince Elena that I won’t break my promise.

  Puttering around the kitchen, I do a last-minute check of my food prep. The pasta doesn’t need to be put on until the chicken is almost done cooking. I’ve already flattened the chicken breasts to one-quarter inch thick. Fresh green beans are soaking in cold water. And the wine is already chilled. There’s nothing left to do except season the meat and pop them in the oven.

  A knock at the door stops my preparations and makes my heart speed up. Racing to the door, I have to stop myself from answering too quickly. Yes, I’m desperate. No, I don’t want to seem that way. She likes calm, cool, collected Greg. I can introduce her to neurotic, overly-excited Greg later.

  A quick sniff of my pits and my breath, and I’m good to go. Until I pull the door open.

  That’s when I see her and I swear I stop breathing.

  Her dark blond hair is sleek and shiny. Her plump lips painted a dark pink color that I want to kiss off. Those twinkling hazel eyes smile at me, even though they look like they’re still unsure. And of course, she’s wearing one of those skirts Callie must have given her. I hear her business is thriving. Not that I really care about what Callie’s been up to right now. The skirt is too distracting. It flares from Elena’s hips, making her look curvy and accentuating that ass I love.

  She’s so fucking beautiful.

  “Are you going to let me in?” She gestures inside the house.

  “Sorry!” I blurt, realizing I’ve been standing there looking like an idiot. Pulling the door wide, I wave her in. “Yes, please. Come in. You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” she says, as she steps over the threshold and I feel like I can finally breathe again. Elena is in my home. She’s willing to have me in her life again. What tha
t will ultimately look like remains to be seen. But this is a good start.

  “I bet it looks different than the last time you were in here, huh?” She drops her purse on the couch, although I’m not sure why she brought it since she lives next door and can run home if she needs something. “Mr. Blitman’s kids redid the floors and Joie made me do some painting.”

  “I’ve actually never been in here before.” She looks around at all my pictures and knickknacks. There aren’t many, but most of the ones of Peyton are up. “Oh! Look at Pey! She’s so big now.”

  She runs a finger over the latest shot I have of my baby girl. It was taken a couple of weeks ago at my parents’ house. We’re in the backyard during a pool party they had and I’m holding Peyton. I’m smiling at her, and she’s looking at the camera with the biggest, cheesiest grin on her face. I can’t remember what was making her smile, but it’s such a good candid shot, I had to print it out.

  “She turns three on Wednesday.”

  Elena’s eyes whip over to mine. “Already?”

  “I know. I can’t believe it. Next weekend will be my first full weekend with her. I’m having a birthday party for her on Saturday if you want to bring the girls.”

  “Ok,” she says softly.

  “Oh!” I exclaim. “Let me show you what we did to her room. I can’t wait for her to see it. She hasn’t been over yet, so it’s a surprise.”

  Guiding her around the corner and down a small hallway, I open the door to the bedroom. Elena gasps.

  “Ohmygod, Greg, it’s so beautiful.”

  I can’t disagree. The walls are painted a very soft, pastel purple. Her small bed has a white canopy over it, draped from the ceiling. White bookshelves and storage cubes line one wall, all her toys put in their proper places. And a long white dresser is on the far side of the room. All the knobs are either purple or pink and have various princess paraphernalia painted on them.

  It’s perfect for my princess.

  “You did this all by yourself?”