4. Asher
Chapter 4
Asher
“Y our technique has improved dramatically since you were eight.”
I lean against the doorframe of my parents’ living room, watching Dad release Isla’s thumb with exaggerated defeat.
“You mean since you started letting me win?” Isla’s face lights up, her lips curving into that familiar, radiant smile.
It never gets old watching Dad turn into a total marshmallow around her. Hard to believe it’s the same no-nonsense guy who made me run laps for forgetting to re-rack a kettlebell.
When Isla’s mom, Christine, moved in next door after the divorce, it didn’t take long for her and my mom to reconnect. They’ve been best friends since high school, and before long, Thursday dinners became a standing tradition. Just the two families at first, until it grew into something bigger. Back then, neighbors like Elaine, Roxanne, and Xander’s family would often join in.
Somewhere along the way, Dad stepped in, becoming a kind of honorary second father to Isla and Conner. He showed up for every school play, white-knuckled his way through their driving lessons, and even let Mom teach him how to braid hair so he could take Isla to those awkward father-daughter dances.
Thumb wars are just part of the routine now. One of those weird little traditions that stuck.
And lucky me, I got to grow up with Isla always close by.
“Let you win? I would never—”
“Isla! Is that you? Come help me with these pies!” Mom’s voice calling from the kitchen.
Isla perks up like someone just rang the dessert bell. “Coming, Margaret! Sorry, Henry, but pie trumps thumb wars. Rematch after dessert!”
She disappears into the kitchen, and Dad settles back in his chair, the quiet and serious weight folding in around us. He spent years working as a trainer in other gyms before building Collymore Fitness from the ground up. Even at sixty-two, the man’s built like a tank, broad shoulders, barrel chest, the kind of presence that makes you stand up straighter when he walks into a room.
I drop into the seat across from him, the old leather couch groaning under my weight. The room goes quiet except for the muffled sounds of Mom and Isla in the kitchen. On the mantel, decades of Collymore Fitness photos line up in perfect order. Dad cutting ribbons, shaking hands, building the legacy I’m now responsible for not screwing up.
It was Dad’s car accident that pulled me in. I started helping out, picking up the pieces while he recovered. But he was nearly fully recovered by the time he signed the gym over to me.
Sometimes I wonder why he didn’t just step back in. But most days, I wonder if he regrets handing over the reins.
He doesn’t say it, and I don’t ask.
“So.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell me about the gym.”
I sit up straighter. “Membership’s up eight percent from last quarter. The new equipment’s been a hit.”
Dad shifts, a brief grimace tugging at his face as he adjusts in his chair. It’s been five years since the accident, and he’s done the work, rehab, recovery, all of it. But the twinge still sneaks up sometimes. Not that he’d say a word. He’d probably volunteer to deadlift a Buick before admitting his back still acts up.
“Good. And the staffing situation?”
“Jamie gave her two weeks’ notice. College acceptance came through.” I hesitate, then add, “I’m thinking of restructuring the training schedule when she leaves.”
“Makes sense.”
“Also . . . I’m thinking—”
His eyebrow raises a fraction. The same look he gave me at sixteen, right before I launched into that brilliant summer discount pitch. I felt like a marketing genius back then. He explained to me why it wouldn’t work, but I was so confident that I talked him into letting me try.
It nearly tanked the gym.
I still see Dad’s face when he had to dip into his retirement savings to fix my mess. He called it a learning experience and tried to make it a lesson about thinking things through. But I learned something else that summer: one wrong move can destroy everything you care about. I swore then I’d never disappoint him again.
I set the idea of the new program aside. Another day. When I’m absolutely sure.
“Just some minor adjustments to accommodate the staffing change,” I say instead. “Nothing major. I’ll work out the details before implementing anything.”
Dad watches me like he’s flipping through spreadsheets in his head. “Make sure you run the numbers first. A bad staffing decision can impact the bottom line for months.”
“Yes. I learned from the best.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. That’s basically a high-five in Dad’s language. Even with the accident slowing him down, he’s still Henry Collymore, the founder, legend, the man everyone in town calls coach, whether they train or not.
A burst of laughter erupts from the kitchen. Dad’s face softens, the stern lines melting away. “We should probably head in there before Isla talks your mother into making a second pie.”
“Probably too late for that.”
“Let’s set the table,” Mom calls, and Isla immediately moves to help. The rich aroma of Mom’s famous roasted vegetables fills the kitchen.
“How was your lunch with Elaine and Roxanne?” I ask Isla as we set the table.
Her cheeks flush pink instantly, and she gets very focused on lining up the silverware like it’s a precision sport. “It was good. We definitely didn’t talk about you.”
“Okay . . . what about me?”
“Nothing! Really. Absolutely nothing.”
“That’s why you speed-walked past my gym this afternoon?”
Our hands brush as Isla reaches for the same plate as me. She jumps like she’s been shocked.
She’s acting weird. Not in a bad way. In a she-knows-something-and-she’s-terrible-at-hiding-it kind of way.
Is it because she knows I’m dead serious about checking off her Love Bucket List?
“What? No! We just . . . got distracted. There was a duck. In the street.”
“Really?” I lean closer to grab the napkins, bringing us almost nose to nose. “I’m hurt, Is.”
She freezes like a startled deer, those big brown eyes widening as they lift to mine. I stay where I am. Still, close enough to feel the shift in her breathing, each inhale catching shorter than the last. The air thickens around us, heat pressing in from all sides.
Does she feel this too? This invisible lightning storm that kicks up whenever we get close? Has she ever lain awake at night wondering what would happen if one of us finally had the guts to turn this friendship into something else?
Mom and Dad are right in the kitchen, but I can’t look away from her. Isla’s got this magnetic pull on me, like trying to fight gravity.
Her eyes drop to my mouth for a split second, and every coherent thought vanishes from my brain. If I just tilt my head slightly, maybe accidentally stumble forward half a step . . . I hope Mom will forgive us for breaking a plate or two.
“Asher! Where did you put the good serving spoons?” Mom’s voice shatters the moment.
Isla leaps backward, nearly upending the water glasses. “I’ll get them!” She bolts for the kitchen.
Once we’re all settled in our usual spots, the familiar routine of passing bowls and platters begins.
I reach for the roasted vegetables and casually pile a little extra onto Isla’s plate while she chats with my parents. I make sure to give her plenty of those crispy Brussels sprouts, her favorite. She’ll never ask. She’s far too polite. But I’ve seen her battle Elaine for the last crispy one more times than I can count.
Mom raises one eyebrow at me. Her eyes are ping-ponging between me and Isla like we’re the final match at Wimbledon, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head.
“Oh! Isla, do you remember when Asher used to insist on carrying your backpack to school?” Mom’s spoon clatters against her plate.
“Mom—”
“Every morning, rain or shine.” Mom ignores my death glare. “He’d wait by our front door, watching for you through the window.”
Isla’s fork pauses halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flick to mine. I give her my best innocent shrug.
“He’s always been my best friend.” Isla bumps my shoulder. “Best friend anyone could ask for.”
Friends.
The words stick like thorns. So that’s where I stand, firmly in just friends territory.
Looks like I’ve got more work to do if I want to shake that label.
Mom sets down her glass with just a little too much care. There’s a gleam in her eyes. The kind that’s never ended well for me.
“You know,” she says, drawing it out like she’s winding up for a show, “Christina and I were just saying how tragic it is . . .”
She pauses for a full dramatic beat. “Back when we had you two the same year, we used to dream about becoming a real family. Two perfect children who are clearly meant for each other—”
“Mom!”
“Honey.” Dad scoops up some mashed potatoes and slides the fork straight toward Mom’s mouth.
Everything happens at once. Isla jerks like she’s been shocked. Her water glass tips. Cold liquid spreads across the tablecloth, seeping into my shirt.
“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry!”
Her hands flutter like startled birds, scattering napkins across the table like she’s trying to outrun the spill. In the chaos, she bumps into another glass. This one is full of orange juice.
It splashes straight into my lap, soaking the front of my shirt and the top of my jeans, bright streaks spreading across the fabric like some kind of breakfast-themed Rorschach test. Her cheeks flush in an instant, and a blooming wash of soft pink climbs to her ears as she grabs napkins by the fistful.
“I’m such a disaster,” she mutters under her breath, still saying sorry over and over.
I can’t stop looking.
I couldn’t care less about my now-orange shirt or whatever’s happening to my jeans. All I want is to peel the shirt off, pull her into my arms, and tell her she’s the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever seen.
“It’s ok.”
“I’ll grab you a towel.” She jumps up, nearly knocking over the salt shaker.
“I got it—”
“No, let me. It’s my fault, anyway.” She’s already halfway to the kitchen, face still burning.
Dad’s shoulders shake with poorly suppressed laughter. Mom, at least, has the grace to look slightly guilty.
I follow Isla into the kitchen, my shirt still damp from the double spill.
Isla grabs a paper towel, her cheeks still flushed. “Here, let me help.”
I chuckle, leaning back against the counter. “Oh, please, I’ve had worse. Remember that time in high school when you dumped an entire slushie down my back?”
“Don’t remind me. It was so embarrassing.”
“I thought it was hilarious. Plus, it was like, a hundred degrees that day. You probably saved me from heat stroke.”
Isla laughs, then grows quiet. She lowers herself a little to reach the mess. Her hair slips forward, brushing her cheek, and from this angle, I can see the faint crease of concentration between her brows.
I tuck a loose strand behind her ear, fingertips grazing her skin. Her head lifts at the touch, eyes catching mine for a second before she looks back down at the stain.
She keeps dabbing at the mess, not saying anything. The silence feels heavier the longer it lingers. Her movements are careful and slow. It’s like she’s afraid to touch me.
“So . . . About what your mom said . . . I promise I won’t misinterpret her hints. You’re safe.”
I reach for her wrist, stopping her mid-motion. Her skin is soft beneath my fingers. Too soft. The kind of softness that makes me forget why I was stopping her in the first place.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. Every part of me wants to pull her close, to run my fingers through her soft auburn waves and trace the curve of her cheek with my thumb.
I don’t move. Every muscle pulled tight, holding me exactly where I am.
“I’m not worried about what they think of us.”
She laughs awkwardly. “Right, of course. We know where we stand. Best friends and all that.”
The words hit hard. I stay still, trying to breathe slowly. She still has no idea that every time she says that, it feels like someone’s twisting a knife in my chest.
Isla’s phone rings, and she fumbles for it in her pocket, stepping away from me like I was on fire.
“Hello? Yes, this is Isla.” Her face falls as she answers, and I fight the urge to grab the phone and tell whoever it is to back off. “Oh, I see. No, I completely understand. Thank you for letting me know.”
Isla grips the phone tighter. It kills me to watch her try so hard to keep it together.
“Of course. Yes, I appreciate your honesty. Take care.” She hangs up, her eyes fixed on some point on the floor.
“Peachie, are you okay?”
“That was Janice, who owns the office space. My lease is up at the end of the month, and she said she needs to raise the rent. Something about higher operating costs.” She swallows. “But I don’t have any clients right now.”
I place my hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Hey. Look at me.”
Isla meets my eyes, and the pain there hits me square in the chest. She cares so much about helping people find love. She undercharges or doesn’t charge at all. She hates the idea of money getting in the way.
It’s sweet. It’s stubborn.
And it means this rent increase isn’t just inconvenient. It’s going to make things really hard for her.
“Tell me what you need. I’ll cover the rent until things pick up.”
Isla shakes her head. “That’s kind of you, but I can’t let you do that. I’ll figure it out. But . . . thank you, Collybear.”
She’s holding herself together like it’s her job, and I hate how well she’s learned to do it alone.
We return to the table a few moments later. Isla puts on a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Is everything alright?” Mom asks, glancing between us.
“Yes. We were just talking about . . . about the historical accuracy of the town’s bylaws. Nothing serious.” Isla says.
My phone buzzes. I flick my eyes down. Apparently, I’ve just been added to a group chat with Elaine and Roxanne.
ELAINE
I bet you want to know.
ASHER
Know what?
ROXANNE
Promise you won’t tell Isla we told you this.
ASHER
Okay.
ELAINE
Isla said you sort of rejected her in college. Is that true??
Rejected her?
I was barely surviving every time she dated someone else. Spent half of college pretending it didn’t kill me. Smiling through it. Being the good friend who didn’t break that friendship pact.
Wait.
Does she mean that time?
“Asher?” Mom’s voice cuts in. “You look like you’re buffering.”
“Nope.” I clear my throat. “Just . . . mashed potatoes went down wrong.”
Mom turns to Isla, her voice sweet enough to raise alarms.
“Isla, dear. Sorry for the confusion earlier. But now I’m curious . . . have you ever considered using your matchmaking skills on Asher?”
The mashed potatoes really did go wrong this time.
“Mom—”
“I’m just saying,” she shrugs, “he’s been single for a long time, and I’m starting to worry.”
“Really? We’re doing this now?”
But Isla’s not laughing it off like she usually does. Instead, she’s gone quiet, dangerously quiet. Her eyes flick to me, then away, then back again, like she’s solving a particularly complex puzzle.
My stomach drops. Because the last time Isla got that look in her eyes, I ended up in a bunny costume at the town’s Easter parade. With a tail. And glitter. And something tells me this time, I’m in for something much, much worse.
“You’re the second person who’s mentioned that today,” she says slowly, like she’s still processing. “I hadn’t really thought about it . . . But maybe it’s not a bad idea.”