Chapter 17
I PLUCK OUT MY EARBUDS, put them back in their case, and watch the battery light go from green to amber.
The department head in Tampa had to squeeze in our call before teaching a zero-hour, but through my grogginess and her commute, we finalized the units she’ll be purchasing for the fall.
She even requested a custom plan for The Outsiders to celebrate the book surviving a challenge from the district. Stay gold, Hillsborough County.
To top it all off, as of the beep of my alarm an hour ago, my vision is completely back to normal. I cover my left eye, using the now fully operational right eye to check the time on my laptop monitor. Six fifteen a.m. on a Thursday and everything’s coming up Ellie!
Beneath my feet, the floorboards shudder the way they do when folks are coming and going from the front door.
I drop my hand, eyeing the door to the rest of the house.
I’d picked up the same vibration several times while I’d been on my call.
Now that my ears are clear, I’m catching voices, too, and they’re not all masculine.
I rise from my desk chair in pursuit of answers and coffee. But when I open my door, the one that connects to the hallway is also closed. The voices beyond it are louder; it sounds like a dinner party out there.
I open the second door and am greeted by—“Babs? The hell?” I ask, not bothering with niceties, because, seriously: The hell?
Babs stands a few feet away, peering into Diego’s bedroom.
She’s dressed for the gym, her wilted hair telling me that this is a post-workout visit, not pre.
“Good morning, Ellie!” She gestures into Diego’s room.
“Nice to see that he finally has some proper curtains. The sheet arrangement was such an eyesore.” She smiles.
“I was about to knock. Will you be joining us soon?”
“Us? Who is us?”
“Follow me,” she singsongs, and I trail her down the hall, mildly annoyed at being given mysterious commands in my own home… even if, technically, the house is hers.
I look into the kitchen as we pass and freeze. Diego’s furiously grating zucchini into a bowl, one of the Built Box kits open on the prep table beside it. He’s wearing my apron.
Before I can ask him what he’s up to, Babs grabs my hand, pulling me farther down the hall. “Diego’s such a sweetheart, putting together snacks for us on short notice.”
We emerge from the hallway, and I again stop short. Eight gym members are gathered in the living room. Half share Babs’s sweaty glow, but others are dressed for work, seated on the couch and the lawn chairs, which have been rescued from their exile to the back porch.
Grant comes in from the dining room with a folding chair under each arm. “Morning, Ellie! Did you get our texts?”
“My phone was on do not disturb. What—” I’m interrupted by a knock at the door.
Helen enters. “Hi, hi!” She accepts a folding chair with a smile and stops to take in the living room, scanning the space until her eyes land on me.
“Ellie, my God. You’ve transformed this place!
” She elbows Grant as he moves past. “Now I can actually drop Penny off over here with a clear conscience.”
“Thank you?” I say, my confusion reaching a new level. “What has you here?”
“I’m the delegate for eight thirty and nine forty-five,” she says, arranging her chair at the far end of the couch. “I’ll speak for the parents.”
Babs hands me a cup of coffee, which I accept by reflex. I take a sip, belatedly wondering if it might be laced with something, given the bizarre scenario currently unfolding.
“Sit down!” she insists, pointing at the lounger, which has been pulled from its usual spot in the corner.
As I do, she plops into the open space on the couch.
“You know me and Helen, of course, and Tom,” she adds, as Firehouse’s favorite type two diabetic sits on a folding chair, raising one of my gold-rimmed mugs in greeting.
“Russ’s here, too, and you’re familiar with a few of the afternooners… ”
This prompts waves and calls of “Morning!” from members I recognize more from profile photos than personal experience, including Jacob, the gym’s number-one violator of the “no dogs on the floor” policy.
Bleu Cheese, his dappled Frenchie, croaks out a low bark from his spot in Jacob’s lap.
Alistair, on a folding chair beside them, gives the dog a scratch.
Babs points across the room. “Maggie’s a floater—”
“My schedule at the hospital shifts every few weeks,” Maggie says. “So I can do mornings and afternoons. I’m representing the evening gym attendees.”
“Sure,” I say, the abundance of information explaining exactly nothing. “And why does any of this mean that you’re all here, at”—I check my watch—“six twenty-two in the morning?”
“It’s a delegation!” says Babs. “A meeting of the minds.”
“An airing of grievances,” Tom grumbles.
Babs shushes him. “We’re not aggrieved.” She leans back, looking toward the hallway. “Diego, hon, you coming? We’re about to get started.”
“Sí!” he calls, and I hear the slap of his slippers as he trots to the living room. He’s still wearing the apron. “Chocolate zucchini muffins should only take another ten minutes,” he tells me, and takes a seat on the last folding chair. “Tinkering with an extra Built Box.”
Babs returns to me. “The thing is, Ellie, we’ve been watching you.”
She lets the statement hang for a moment, but before I can determine whether that was a threat, she continues.
“Someone who can’t pass a crooked picture frame without straightening it isn’t going to take kindly to the sad little stash of T-shirts and protein powders that calls itself a pro shop. You have ideas for Firehouse.”
“I have a whole list of ideas,” I say. “And when I shared it with Ian, he shot down every item. Firmly. No touch-up paint, keep the lost and found in a crumbling cardboard box, hard pass on overhauling the pro shop. He made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested.”
“But you still went in with a replacement for the lost and found,” Helen reminds me.
“That was… different,” I say, not missing when Babs arches a brow at the brief pause. “I had an extra basket. When did you decide to ambush me, anyway?” I ask, hoping to sideline any further inquiry.
“We’ve been entertaining the idea since you arrived,” Babs replies.
“And after Helen mentioned yesterday that you replaced the box,” Tom says, “the timing felt right.”
“That the sort of thing that counts as news in the group chat?” I ask, aiming my annoyance at Helen. She shrugs.
“I knew that y’all would be up early,” Babs continues. “So I messaged Grant after five a.m. wrapped.”
“You woke me up,” Grant complains from his spot in the low-slung lawn chair.
“And I apologized for that.” Babs turns her attention to me, expression imploring, but serious. “This is our community, Ellie. Firehouse matters to us.”
“Probably saved my life,” Tom adds, and I recall what the guys said about his health when the gym first opened.
It’s enough to soften me on their scheming.
I cast another glance at Helen, thinking about what she’d had to say about what Firehouse meant to her.
She offers a little smile, like she’s read my mind.
From the far end of the couch, Russ of the white tube socks hefts a sigh. “It’s hard to see something you care about hovering on the brink of greatness, when one nudge could level it up.”
The statement hooks me as if it were a physical thing. He perfectly articulated how I’ve been feeling. It’s like Babs’s earlier comment: The gym is a beautiful painting in a crooked frame in desperate need of straightening. And dusting. And some Windex.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, adding, “Purely out of curiosity,” as the energy in the room perks up. Best to temper expectations.
“Finances,” Tom blurts. “Ian got a settlement after his injury—you know about the injury, right? His knee at the competition?” He grimaces, and raises his hands, making the now-familiar gesture to mime the accident.
“The settlement is how he got the building, paid for the buildout, remodeled upstairs. Now, he didn’t spend everything—”
I shoot him a look, and he scowls.
“The amount of that settlement is public knowledge,” he says. “And it’s easy to find a sale listing. As for the remodel, he had to file design permits with the city—”
“Tom, you need a hobby,” I say.
“Foam art is not enough,” he says, glumly. “But Ian! He invested nothing. And I don’t doubt that there are recurring payments for things he isn’t aware of. Lord, people never keep track of what they’re being auto-billed for.”
Tom’s sigh is so paternal, it’s endearing. “I was an accountant. I’ve offered my services, but no! Won’t let me touch it. Have you seen the billing system?” He shakes his head. “Total mess. Ian’s doing it all on his own, and it’s not good.”
“How and why have you seen what Ian uses for billing?” I ask.
“Professional curiosity!” he says, as though it would have been a betrayal of his vocation not to have pursued the information.
“And I got Grant to give me the login to the computer up front a while back.” He shrugs, conveying at least some guilt at the invasion.
“I told him I needed to check my email.”
Grant straightens. “Wait, what?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m changing that password the moment I go in today.
“Ian jumped into gym ownership totally blind,” Tom continues. “He’d been coaching since his injury. Worked for his mentor, the fellow who trained him, for years. This guy, Denny, was close to retiring, and Ian figured he’d pass the business on to him—”
“Passed Ian over,” Babs interjects with scandalized relish. “Sold it to another trainer.”
I nod along, the information lining up with what the guys told me. “Do we know why?”
The room erupts in a collective “No!” but a number of eyes turn to Grant, who shrinks back into his cramped seat.
“We’ve been trying to figure it out since day one,” says Maggie.
“I was a member there. It was a great facility. Not too different from Firehouse, but they did more community activities. In-house competitions and meets, and there was a bake-off at one point…” She shrugs. “Little things. But they added up.”
“All that wasn’t enough to keep you there after Ian left?” I ask.
“There are little things, and there’s why I was going to the gym in the first place,” she says. A petty part of me wonders how much of her reasoning aligned with the motives of that initial flock of single ladies at Firehouse.
“If we could circle back to our wish list, I’m supposed to put in for more childcare times,” submits Helen. “More hours during the week, and weekend coverage.”
“That’s on the list,” Babs assures her, and returns to me. “There is a list. I’ll share the Google Doc with you.”
“It’s color-coded,” Helen adds. “You’re going to love it.”
“And yet, you still had this gathering?” I ask, exasperated, but unsurprised. And more than a little intrigued at word of this meticulously organized document.
“We felt it would be more impactful to propose this in person.”
“Then why me and not Ian? It’s my understanding that interventions are more effective when the intended recipient is present. And if it’s so many of you coming together—”
Several guests shift to look at Babs, who avoids my eyes.
Heat rises to my cheeks, a thread of panic lacing through my sternum. What does she know? “Barbara.”
“We just thought—”
“You just thought.”
“It was thought that if you came to him with the backing of the gym members as a whole, he’d listen.” Her lips quirk, threatening a smile. “And if he’s more receptive because it’s being delivered by someone in line with his sexual preferences—”
I glare at her, ignoring the weight of the stares of the rest of the room. “I’m not seducing Ian into letting Tom handle his finances.”
Tom’s shoulders sag in disappointment, and I don’t know what it says about me that I’m charmed that the man is so committed to number crunching that he’s open to pimping out a relative stranger to keep doing it.
Babs remains undeterred. “The way you’ve taken on housebreaking the boys—”
Alistair lets out an affronted grunt. “It’s not like we piss outside…”
“Well—” Diego cocks his head thoughtfully, but he elects not to finish his statement.
She continues over them. “It stands to reason that you might be able to extend your influence to one more overgrown boy.”
“In a purely professional capacity,” Helen hastens to add.
“He doesn’t want to be my project the way the guys are. His words,” I add quickly, wondering if they might take offense to being labeled a project. God, from Ian, the man they practically worship, it would probably be worse…
But all three shrug and nod. “I feel like we’ve been a pretty successful project so far!” Diego cheers.
I smile back, but it slips just as quickly.
Sexual implications aside, Babs’s reasoning is deeply presumptuous and leaning harder into the tradition of emotional labor of women than I’m comfortable with.
Though she did get ahead of that a little by noting my undeniable air of competence; if I were a complete bonehead in addition to being female, I doubt that efforts would have been made to recruit me.
I look at Grant, wedged in his tiny chair.
He meets my gaze, his eyes going wide enough that I elect not to interrogate him.
But I cut a glare to let him know that I will be pursuing this later.
Ian’s hangups do seem to stem from something.
And if that something can actually be addressed, then maybe there’s hope to straighten this dusty picture frame after all.
Still, I’m not totally optimistic when I say, “I will bring all this up gently. It’s possible that a consensus might be enough to motivate him to listen.” As the room perks up again, I hasten to add, “But like I said, I’ve tried.”
“So we can send you that list? We’ll give you editing rights,” Babs adds, as though that would seal the deal. “No one had even thought about the lost and found box before now. It was an excellent call.”
I wave her off, silently registering the praise.
Somewhere in the room, a phone goes off, chiming an alarm. “Perfect timing!” says Diego, popping out of his seat. “Who wants a sweetie?”