“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.”
Del still didn’t look up, but chimed in. “Just make sure you don’t end up with some kind of crush on him like that hipster guy.”
I harrumphed. “I don’t have a crush on Ben. He’s a friend, and we’re actually having dinner later this week.”
Kat and RJ exchanged a worried look before RJ let out a slow “Ohhhkay.”
“What? I promised to cook for him.” I thought I did a decent job of keeping my voice and mannerisms cool. Even though Ben had been to my place tons of times with nothing happening, I still hoped that something might blossom between us. I’d wanted that for so long, it was almost a habit. But I’d been thinking about him less since I signed up for coaching and began talking to Wes more.
My friends nodded, saying nothing.
“What?” I bit my lip and examined RJ’s face as she looked ever the skeptic. “I’m not getting my hopes up, don’t worry.”
RJ laughed as the waiter approached. “You’ll have to tell us how it goes.”
My phone buzzed on the table, a photo of his fridge open and fully stocked appearing under Wes’s name. Since our first chat conversation, I’d been teasing him about his lack of real food.
Wes: Tit for tat. Thought you’d like to see I was keeping up with my homework.
18
I TRUDGED UP the crumbling concrete stairs and knocked even though I had a key. The paint on the front door was chipped and scuffed.
When I was a kid, we’d moved from crappy apartment to dubious basement until we’d get evicted, pick up our stuff, and start over again somewhere new. I’d tell Libby it was an adventure and make up a story about why we had to leave. She stopped believing the stories in second grade, but I kept telling them for years after that.
Turning the knob, I cursed under my breath that the door was unlocked.
Light from behind me spilled into the dim room. “Mom?” I called, but the house was still. I peeked into her cluttered bedroom and around the corner into the galley kitchen.
I’d told her I was coming over this afternoon to take her to dinner for her birthday. It had been almost a month since I’d been in the cramped house. I paid her rent and utilities, and I’d offered to get her a nicer place, but she refused.