4. Ashlie
CHAPTER FOUR
ASHLIE
S tomach growling, I take another look at the digital clock on the wall. The orange glow from the Fit4U logo highlights all the disheveled tanks hanging up there, and I make a mental note to fix them after lunch. I would have eaten by now, but Wednesdays are lunch days with Hunter. And he needs to hurry the hell up . Breathing out a long sigh, I glance out the tinted window, my hands moving on autopilot to fold the legging display. This job gets more tedious when I’m hangry.
The cash register across the room beeps as my coworker, Hannah, rings up the heavily muscled man at the counter. She’s giggled so many times, I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t have a tickle in her throat by the time he takes his bag of supplements out the door. These two flirt multiple days a week. It’s so damn cute to watch.
Being a manager at Fit4U for the past year has left me more relaxed than I ever was in the classroom. This athleisure company isn’t anything fancy, and gets a little boring sometimes, but I don’t leave in tears every day like I did when I was teaching first grade. Talk about feeling like a failure.
The kids were adorably hilarious, but the constant pressure from everyone else was insurmountable. As hard as it was to accept, leaving that environment was worth the risk of disappointing my parents. I stayed four years, just long enough to have my student loans forgiven.
“Have a nice day.” I wave at the man. He smiles as he passes by, moving his headphones over his ears before walking out into the sunshine.
Hannah comes straight over to me with wide eyes, her usually pale cheeks as red as the neon Open sign above the door. “That was his second time in here this week!” She bounces on her toes, her blond bob swinging as she clutches her hands.
“And did you talk to him this time?” I ask. “You know he only comes in here to see you.”
“I asked him how his day was, and then my brain turned to mush.”
“Ooh, girl! You got it bad!” I tease, straightening the case of supplements as I pass by. Might as well fix those tanks on the wall while I wait.
Olivia’s sneakers squeak on the orange vinyl flooring as she comes out of the stockroom, carrying a box of our newest zip-ups. One sleek, black braid lays over her shoulder, and she flicks it behind her when she reaches the counter. “Was that Hottie McMuscles I heard?” she asks Hannah, whose cheeks are still flushed. The two of them squeal and giggle about Hannah’s failed attempt to talk to the musclehead while they tackle the box.
Chiming snaps my attention to the door, and in walks Hunter, wearing a dark blue EdTechU polo and khakis. His short dark curls dance briefly as the gust of air pressure breezes over him, like he’s the star of his own rom-com. If it wasn’t Hunter, I’d say he was attractive. But it is him, and he doesn’t need any kind of ego boosts. Even if they’re silent ones in my head.
“Hey, Hunter,” Olivia croons dreamily, flipping her braid back over her shoulder. She pets it like a precious mink as he struts closer. Hannah waves, her cheeks flaming the same deep red as before. I roll my eyes. These young college students fawn over him every week as if he wouldn’t completely devastate them.
“Ladies, how’s it going?” He smiles, and Olivia grips the edge of the table when her knees wobble. Hunter turns to me with the same goofy grin on his face. Oh, please . How so many women fall for that look is beyond me. He’s cute but come on .
“Let me grab my bag.” Shaking my head, I step into the break room, walking back into the store right when Hunter leans in and winks at Hannah. The gasp that stutters out of her prompts another eye roll from me as I march past the three of them, right out the door. Waiting outside while the breeze tangles my curls is a small price to pay. I’m not watching this foolishness .
Hunter finally joins me on the sidewalk, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he sidles up. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, referencing the scowl on my face.
“You need to leave those poor girls alone…” I turn away and walk down the street.
He follows in step, chuckling at my side. “I’m not doing anything.” Shrugging with that smart-ass smirk on his face, he glances at me. “All I did was ask them how school was going. It’s not my fault they were fawning all over me.”
“Oh, please . You knew exactly what you were doing. Those two are off-limits.” I huff, jamming my thumb into the crosswalk button. “They’re nice girls who don’t need your ass contributing to their villain origin stories.” He laughs again, but says nothing else about it. Probably because he knows I’m right.
We make it to Lunch-a-Bunch after a few blocks. The redbrick eatery is my favorite, and since it’s close to my job, I come here way too often. After a quick greeting, the host scurries off to prepare a table on the patio. Large picture windows bathe the café in crisp, natural light, the calming blue and green walls instantly setting me at ease. Hanging plants scattered among macramé tapestries give this place a free-spirited vibe I’ve always loved.
“How’s Avocado?”
Hunter snorts, shrugging a shoulder like they weren’t all over each other a few days ago. “Fine, I guess. Haven’t talked to her since the party.”
“So, she ghosted you?” I tease, trying to get a rise out of him. With a scrunch of my lips, I wait for his rebuttal, noticing the chiseled angles of his jawline. I’m not saying his face makes me swoon like it does the rookies at work, but I notice it.
“Do I look like I get ghosted?” He cocks his head to the side, green eyes narrowing at my jab. “Naw. She’s been blowin’ up my phone. I’m just busy.” Hunter is the ghost. He’s probably left the scowl-faced lovely on read, forgetting she even exists, while leading the next girl through the door. We’re opposites in that way. I crave connection from the people I date, and he shies away from it. That’s why nothing could ever work between us. He’s an excellent friend—and we have fun together—but that’s where it stops…no matter how much I notice his face.
We follow the waiter out to the elongated patio, enclosed in a black steel lattice fence, with round bistro tables scattered from end to end. Green tablecloths flutter in the breeze as we’re led toward the back. Hunter pulls out my chair and waits for me to sit before going around to his seat. “And what about you?” he asks. “I noticed you didn’t bring Dr. Doofus to the party…”
“That’s because we broke up.” I bury my head in the vinyl menu to avoid looking at him.
Even after dating him for almost a year, Marcus never seemed to fully commit. I know doctors have busy schedules, but something else kept our relationship more casual than I would have liked. I couldn’t figure out what it was. The romantic in me tried to hold on to the hope that things would work out, but based on that damn email, I should have ended it first.
“I’m sorry, Ash,” he says. Looking up, I fully expect Hunter’s smug I-told-you-so face. Instead, my eyes are met with sympathy. He may be the biggest goofball around, but one thing Hunter gets right is being supportive. “He’s an idiot for breaking up with you.”
Crossing my arms, I squint at him. “And what makes you think he dumped me ? Maybe I’m the one who broke it off.”
“Well, did you?”
“ Ugh ! No…but I should have. Almost a year together, and I get a ‘We regret to inform you’ email.” I pull out my phone and scroll to the message before handing it over the table.
Hunter crushes his lips between his teeth as he reads, hardly containing his laughter. “I mean, he treated you like a colleague when you were together. Why would it be any different when he broke up with you?”
That’s exactly how I’d describe it. Marcus insisted I go to events when he needed an arm-candy ego boost. But whenever we were alone, he seemed uninterested in anything I had going on. Stifling control and stark indifference. I don’t know why I put up with it for so long. Maybe I’m the one who needed the ego boost .
Hunter levels me with his stare. Even though I know he’s speaking truth, I hate it. He saw this happening before I did. Again . He’s seen right through all the men I’ve dated, without fail, for years now. Shaking his head, he howls with laughter as he reads the email again. “Ballsy,” he says. “I’ll give him that.”
I snatch my phone back and shove it in my purse, my scalp prickling with sweat as I straighten in my chair. The anger bubbling under the surface when I look at him doesn’t surprise me. I wear defensiveness like a battle shield. Yeah, I’m frustrated with myself. But directing my irritation at him feels like it might help right now too. Him and his smug little laugh.
“You want me to say you were right, don’t you? That you called it, and he was an ass all along?”
“Naw, chill. I’m not tryna be right or make you feel bad. I just think you keep forgetting who holds the cards here. Guys get away with whatever they can. You keep picking the dusty ones who don’t know how to treat you well.”
That familiar pang of incompetency twists in my stomach. He sounds like Kayla . A glower pinches my face as my protective wall falls into place. “You think I’m doing this on purpose?”
Sitting forward, he looks right into my eyes until I soften my glare. “You deserve someone who wants your happiness as much as their own, Ash.” He holds my gaze until I surrender, shifting my focus to the condensation dripping down my peach lemonade. “And delete that email so you stop going back to it.”
Grumbling, I reach for my menu, the frustrated heat in my face fizzling away as his words echo in my mind. The way he can say exactly what I need to hear is infuriating sometimes—especially when I don’t want to hear it. But I have to admit, he’s never been wrong.
“How are you so good at spotting the douchebaggery in the guys I date?”
“Because I’m an asshole.” He smirks, and I snort at the truth in his statement. “Game recognizes game. We can spot each other a mile away.”
I try to distract myself with the lunch options in front of me, but my mind wanders to the first time he told me I deserved so much more. Sure, he was talking about a different guy, and it was years ago. But he used that same intense stare that managed to reach through my panic and settle into my psyche. He looked at me like he really saw me, past the bubbly, people-pleasing facade. We don’t talk about that night, but I’ll always remember how it felt to be seen by him.
Mom
How’s the application coming?
Me
Working on it now!
Dad
Wow, look at you getting ahead of the game.
Mom
Don’t forget to sign up for the entrance exam.
Me
What entrance exam?
Mom
ASHLIE JANIECE
Me
Kidding! Don’t call me. I already signed up.
Setting my phone down, I roll my eyes at the intrusive group text from my parents. Their insistence that I start graduate school gets more intense the closer it gets to the spring deadline. I tell them I’m working on the application when, really, I’m sitting here in my living room, staring at the blank form on my laptop as I try to even out my shaky breathing. I’m sweating buckets while I avoid it, increasingly aware that the looming date is still on my don’t-want-to-do list. Basically, I’m lying to get them off my case.
Recalling some tools from my handful of therapy sessions, I take deep breaths and try to name five details I can see around the room: My comfort NetVids series on the TV, the sunflower painting against the millennial gray wall above it, a burned-out bulb in the kitchen, the contents of my purse spilled across the small wooden table in my entryway, the grad school application taunting me on my laptop .
Oh God .
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing deeply through my nose, which does nothing but sound the siren for the beginning stages of this panic attack. I know I haven’t called my therapist in a while, but damn . Maybe I need to, since that didn’t work at all. Another text from Mom pops up on my phone, and I flip it over on the coffee table. I can’t deal with her right now.
Being the child of two strict educators, I always did what they expected of me. I couldn’t disappoint them and wouldn’t ever entertain doing so. Enter my teaching career, where carefree living quickly fell into overstimulation and daily panic attacks. Being in charge of twenty-five six-year-olds was hard enough. Add the intense scrutiny of their parents and my overbearing administrators, and it was the perfect recipe for disaster. I stopped swimming, stopped eating, stopped caring . Why have hobbies when I could burn the candle at both ends every day?
When I burned out last year, the only thing that got my parents off my back was a promise to apply for graduate school. I gave them the guarantee of starting a Master of Education to placate them while I took the year off. But honestly, I don’t want to go back to school in any capacity—as a teacher or a student. My parents expect me to desire more for myself, and it’s easier to let them think I do than it is to stand up to them. I’ll tell them eventually, but only when I absolutely have to.
Reaching for my Fit4U tumbler, I take a long sip, hoping the cool water will slow my racing heart. Working there is good for me right now—low stakes and low pressure. I know I don’t want to stay there forever, and I’m getting closer to feeling like my old self, but a year just hasn’t been enough time. I need more of this slow pace to work through building up my confidence again, more time to gain some courage and reintroduce myself to things I actually enjoy.
Like swimming .
I shake the thought from my head as soon as it comes. As much as I love it, I haven’t been in a pool in years. It started feeling like a selfish endeavor when I was struggling so badly at work. With grad school approaching, it still feels selfish. I still feel selfish. Ugh, don’t cry .
Blinking rapidly, I refocus on my computer, my fingers tingling on the keyboard as my pulse pounds in my ears. I just need to type my name . It’s the easiest thing on the form, but my mind blanks like the blinking cursor wiped the common sense right out of it. Sweat prickles under my arms as I reread the submission requirements—words I could probably recite in my sleep by now. My breathing surges, eyes darting around the words on the application.
GRE . Deadline . Transcripts . Submission . Submission . Submission .
I rub the center of my chest, trying to loosen the tightness gripping me. The walls of my apartment slowly close in as I desperately strain to pull air into my shrinking lungs. You can’t even type your name .
Disappointment . Selfish . Failure .
Right when I’m about to tuck my head between my knees, my phone buzzes. The loud skittering makes me jump, jolting me out of my panic.
Hunter
You make it home from work, honey bear?
Me
Yes. And stop calling me that!
Hunter
Naw, it suits you.
Me
Quit, or I’ll tell the car wash story to the girls at work.
Hunter
Bruh, why are you coming for me?
Me
You started it. Night!
Hunter
Goodnight, .
Me
Finally minimizing the application screen, I check my inbox for the last time. An email sits at the top from the LA County Recreation Centers with a subject line that reads: Swim Director Position Still Available .
I sigh. My dream job . One where I think I could finally feel successful. I started an application a while ago, getting a confidence boost from a few glasses of wine. But doubts got the best of me and I never finished. Maybe one day I’ll feel brave enough to go for it. Right now, though, keeping this dream locked up inside feels like the safest thing for me to do. No chance of messing it all up .