I bit my lip, curious what had been so stressful, wondering if I could make him smile with a joke. The best part about using the app so far was talking to Wes. Though I didn’t want to sound like a girl with a crush.
From: Bmoney34
To: FitMiCoachWes1
Sent: February 8, 8:07 p.m.
T.S.,
If your day got worse, I hope the drink is good, and that it’s not your only one.
What would drunk coaching be like, I wonder . . .
B
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.”