Chapter 22 Jack #2
When I offer my hand to shake on it, she goes to take it, but in doing so she accidentally knocks her coffee cup, sending the remains of her lukewarm drink spreading across the table.
“Shit!” she exclaims, jumping up. “Let’s hope that’s not an omen for our truce.”
She hurries to grab a dish towel and I start picking stuff up off the tabletop to move it out of the path of the spill. When Cynthie returns, I’m holding a book in my hand, staring down at it. My heart is beating very fast.
“Um, Cyn,” I say and my voice is a bit high. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“What?” she asks, looking up from the mess she’s busy mopping up. The book that I am holding is What to Expect When You’re Expecting , with a woman craddling her very pregnant belly on the front cover.
Her eyes widen as they dart from the book to me and back again. “Oh god, Jack,” she manages. “I didn’t want to break it to you like this, but it’s… it’s true…”
“What’s true?” I ask slowly.
Her hand flies to her flat stomach. “I’m pregnant,” she whispers. “And we want to pretend you’re the father.”
I feel all the blood drain from my face. My hand goes to the back of my chair, to stop me from falling straight over. “Cynthie,” I manage. “Shit, that’s…”
There’s a long, terrible beat as I wrestle with all the emotions that are flying through me. Then, Cynthie’s shoulders start shaking, and for a second I think she’s crying, her head bowed, before she lifts her face and there’s nothing but glee in her expression. She’s laughing.
No, she’s cackling .
“Oh my god,” I say, my heart starting up again. I drop into the chair. “ Oh my god , you little monster!”
Cynthie is still laughing too hard to talk, and I reach for my coffee with a shaking hand.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally, wiping tears from her eyes. “It was just too easy.”
“So, to be clear… you’re not pregnant?” I ask.
“No.” Cynthie tries to look solemn but mostly fails. “It was research for a part I was considering.”
“Right, that makes sense,” I say, and my voice is under control as I treat Cynthie to a stern look. “But that was not a promising start to our friendship. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“I only wish I’d had a camera. Your face was priceless.” Cynthie’s own face is lit up, and it’s impossible not to grin back at her. All the tension falls away from her, all that caution gone as she laughs, and I wish I could bottle the sound.
“How about—” she starts to say, but she’s interrupted by the rattle of the front door opening.
A woman’s voice calls, “Hello! I am here!”
It’s Cynthie’s turn to pale. “Oh no,” she whispers. “I forgot she was coming.”
“Who?” I ask, pushing back up to my feet. “How did anyone get past the gate?”
Cynthie is busy shoving the box of doughnuts into a cupboard. “She has a code.” Cynthie runs her eyes over me in obvious distress. “Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry…”
Before I can ask her what she’s sorry for, a tiny blond woman dressed in hot-pink Lycra comes barreling through the kitchen door. She’s slurping on a disgustingly green smoothie, and when she sees me, she stops in her tracks.
Her eyes run over me in a very slow inventory and then she asks in a heavy accent, “Who are you?”
“Um, hi,” I say moving toward her and holding my hand out. “I’m Jack.”
The woman looks at my hand for a moment, and then instead of shaking it she places her smoothie down, takes my forearm in both of her tiny paws and turns it, folding it up so that my bicep flexes.
“Wha—” I manage, casting a look at Cynthie, who is no help because her face is buried in her hands. I have a horrible suspicion she might be laughing again.
“Hmmm,” the tiny woman says clinically, “not bad, but how is your core?” She blinks up at me with enormous blue eyes.
“It’s… fine, thanks.”
She huffs. “We will see. Who is your trainer?”
“My trainer?”
“You do have a personal trainer?”
“Yes, it’s Gunther Meyer in New York.”
Cynthie lets out a little squeak of distress, and the blonde hisses like an alley cat. “Gunther,” she spits, her voice laced with poison. “I should have known. All these muscles. Your cardio will be all to shit. Probably you cannot even row a boat.”
I am bewildered by this requirement, by this entire conversation actually.
“Jack, this is Petra.” Cynthie finally decides to join in. “She’s my trainer. And I should probably tell you that Gunther is her nemesis.”
Petra nods and then releases a string of words that I think may be Serbian and that I’m certain are not complimentary.
“What does that mean?” I ask, dazed.
“Believe me, you don’t want to know,” Cynthie cuts in before Petra can enlighten me.
“Jack is just… visiting,” Cynthie says to Petra, whose eyes gleam appreciatively.
“Ah yes, a new sex partner for you!” She sounds delighted. “This is a good idea. It has been too long.”
There’s an awkward pause. “Well, at least it’s good cardio,” I say finally.
Cynthie looks aghast, but Petra’s smile widens. “This is funny. You are funny and you have big muscles. That is good for Cynthie. She deserves a nice time.” She narrows her eyes. “I know you from somewhere?”
“Jack’s an actor. He’s in Blood/Lust ,” Cynthie says quickly.
“Ah,” Petra nods. “That is right. The sexy vampires.”
I choke on a laugh.
“Well, come on, sexy vampire. Today you join our workout,” she continues airily.
“I don’t actually play a vamp—” I begin and then the rest of what she said registers. “I don’t want to crash your session,” I say uneasily. “And I don’t have my workout gear with me…”
Behind Petra’s back Cynthie makes a frantic shut up gesture, swiping her hand across her throat.
Petra scoffs. “What do you need, princess? Special tights? You forgot your Lulu Lemons?” She giggles at her own joke. “You have sneakers?”
“Well, yes…”
She eyes the gray jogging bottoms I pulled on before my trip to the coffee shop. “Then you are fine. You wear those and you just lose the shirt. It is not so complicated.”
Cynthie’s eyes close, and I think she mutters something under her breath.
“I’ll just go and get changed,” she says.
“Excellent. I will wait in the gym,” Petra agrees. “Don’t forget the electrolytes,” she barks over her shoulder on the way out.
“What just happened?” I ask, dazed.
“You just got roped into a sweaty, shirtless workout session,” Cynthie says, and she sounds even less happy about it than me.
“But… why?” I ask. “I really didn’t mean to intrude on your morning, obviously you have plans. I’ll just tell her I need to get going.”
Cynthie’s laughter holds an edge of hysteria. “Sure. You do that.”
And then she leaves me standing, bemused, in the middle of the kitchen.
“PLEASE, JUST MAKE IT END,” I moan almost ninety minutes later, lying in the fetal position on the floor of Cynthie’s home gym.
As promised, I am shirtless and sweaty. Very, very sweaty.
For some reason the Thoroughly Modern Millie soundtrack is blasting through the speakers.
Cynthie has flopped next to me on the floor, splayed out like a starfish.
She is also sweaty. In other circumstances I would sincerely appreciate this—she’s wearing tight black leggings, and a matching sports bra; her cheeks are pink and her hair curls damply around her face—but as it stands my brain and possibly all of the rest of my organs are melting, so I’m in no position to admire her excellent physique.
Petra looms over us, making vague sounds of disapproval. “Gunther,” she sniffs, “is a very foolish man.”
“What is happening?” I choke, increasingly convinced I am stuck in some strange fever dream. I only came down here to say goodbye. But that was a lifetime ago. I was different then. “And why is Julie Andrews involved?” I wonder aloud.
“You have something to say about Julie Andrews?” Petra sounds like she’s about to commit several violent crimes.
“Hey, nothing but respect for her majesty, Clarisse Renaldi, Queen of Genovia,” I pant, holding my hands up in surrender.
Cynthie gurgles with something that might be laughter, or might be the shuddering sound of her own death rattle. I try to check on her but can barely lift my head, and I let out a groan of pain.
“You need more stamina,” Psychopath Barbie says, leaning down to poke me in the stomach. “It will make things much better for Cynthie.” She raises a knowing brow.
“I think…” Cynthie says, dazed beside me, “that I might be having an endorphin.”
I wheeze out my own laugh. “Listen, if you’re doing it right, you don’t think you’re having one, you know .”
Cynthie snickers.
“This is enough with the dirty talk, you sex perverts,” Petra says primly.
“Hey, you started it,” I protest.
“Do you want to do some more burpees?” she asks sweetly. “I think maybe you have fifty more in you.”
I tap my hand twice against the floor. “You win. You win,” I agree. “I give up. I’m a sex pervert with no stamina. Gunther is fired. Anything you want.”
“Cynthie, I like this one,” Petra says approvingly.
“Yeah,” Cynthie mutters, almost under her breath, sounding resigned. “I might, too.”
I think I might be having an endorphin.