Chapter 12
Matt
“I didn’t expect you to eat this kind of food,” Penny says between bites of turkey.
“What kind of food is that?” I ask.
“Candied sweet potatoes? Stuffing? Pumpkin pie?”
“Oh, you mean delicious food?”
She laughs. “I guess so, yeah.”
Penny and I are sitting across from each other at her desk, chowing down on the Thanksgiving leftovers I brought from Eugene’s family gathering. It was a risk, showing up here like this, but something told me she could use the company.
Who am I kidding? I wanted her company. As much fun as I had with Gene and his family, I couldn’t stop thinking about Penny and how much I wish I were sharing a meal with her, too.
Now I am.
“The way I see it,” I say, “Food is fuel. Everybody needs something a little different to feel their best. Yeah, I usually stick to protein and vegetables—that’s generally what my body likes best—but come on, it’s Thanksgiving, girl! You can’t do Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie!”
“Well, you could,” she jokes and spears another slice of turkey with her fork.
“But who would want to?” I say. I grab the bottle of pinot noir I brought and point it in her direction. “More wine?”
“Yes, please.”
I pour carefully into her cup, then refill mine as well.
When I hit the dollar store and stocked up on plastic wineglasses, a tablecloth, napkins, and electric candles, I was nervous she’d think I was being “extra.” But I’ve always believed if you’re going to do something, you should really do that thing.
If she minds, she’s certainly not letting on right now. Her energy is light and easy. She’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her. And I’m loving every minute of it.
She narrows her eyes at me as she sips her wine. “I guess you just strike me as someone who would go on an all-you-can-eat cruise and order a plain chicken breast with a side of iceberg lettuce.”
“That’s… incredibly specific. Who the hell goes on an all-you-can-eat cruise and orders a plain chicken breast with a side of iceberg lettuce?”
“My mother,” she says. “My mother does.”
I frown. “Are you saying I remind you of your mother? Look, I heard you loud and clear when you said I’m not your type, but I didn’t think that meant I reminded you of your mother.”
“Ha. No. No, you do not.”
Thank God for that.
She places a forkful of pumpkin pie in her mouth. “Geezuz. This is criminal. Please tell Eugene’s mother she’s a goddess and the world is a better place because her culinary creations are in it.”
I laugh. “I can do that.”
She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Can I ask why you had Thanksgiving with Eugene’s family and not your own?”
“Eugene is my family, so—”
“Totally. Sorry. I don’t mean to pry…”
What am I doing? She asked a perfectly reasonable question. Why am I getting defensive?
“No, I’m sorry.” I put my fork down and break off a piece of cornbread. “My family is… limited. I’m an only child. My dad’s been gone for a long time.”
“Gone?”
“He passed when I was a kid.”
Her eyes soften. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.” I wave the piece of cornbread in the air before taking a bite. “But it’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but—I’m dealing with it. I mean, I’ve dealt with it. And my mom is still around. Things are just a little…” My voice drifts off.
“A little…?” she prompts.
“Complicated.”
“It always is, isn’t it?” she says, a hint of sadness in her tone.
“Not always.” I keep my voice light and gesture between us. “This, here, right now feels pretty simple, doesn’t it?”
“What? Stuffing our faces and ignoring our problems?” she laughs.
“You know what? Hell yeah! I’ll cheers to that!”
I lift my glass and clink it with hers. We sip. She watches me polish off the rest of the cranberry sauce.
“Sorry,” I say with my mouth full. “Did you want to finish that?”
“No, I’m good. Tell me, though, how many extra burpees will you need to do tomorrow to work off this meal? And while we’re on the subject, why do so many of your exercises sound so gross?”
“What do you mean they sound gross?” I put my hand to my chest in mock offense.
“Come on! Burpees. Snatches. Thrusters. Squats. Wall balls… Oh, and what’s that other one? The GHD? What does that stand for again?”
“Glute Ham Developer.”
“Yeah, see? Gross.”
“Sounds like someone paid attention during her first training session.” I respectfully tip my glass to her.
“Yeah, well, I’m a quick study,” she says with sass. “And technically that was training session two if you count whatever that insanity was in the sporting goods department.”
Her cheeks tinge pink after she says it. It could be the wine? But something tells me she’s remembering the heat that simmered between us that day. I thought it was just me who felt it. But maybe not. Maybe she felt it too.
I clear my throat. She startles a bit, like she’s coming back to the present moment with me.
“You know, I was kind of surprised when you said my workouts weren’t for you. Because, for what it’s worth, you did great. Both times.”
She scoffs. “No, I did not!”
“You did! You totally held your own.”
“Dude. I felt like my soul was flying out of my butt!”
“Isn’t that the best?!” I say.
“Wait. You like that feeling?”
“Yeah, baby! Makes me feel alive!”
She shakes her head. “You’re a weird person, Matt Barbera.”
“So I’ve been told.” I pause. “But weird can be good, right?”
She studies me, then smiles before answering, “Yeah. Weird is good.”
God, I love her smile. If I’m not careful, it will become my personal mission to see that smile as often as possible.
“To answer your question,” I say. “I don’t work out as punishment for the food I ate the day before.
Just like I try to feed my body the food it likes, my goal for workouts is to do what makes me feel strong and healthy, so that’s exactly what I’ll do tomorrow, whether I eat this pumpkin pie or not.
” I pause. “Who am I kidding? There’s no question.
I’m eating it.” I put a forkful in my mouth.
“Mmm. That shit is gooood. Here. Have a bite.”
I break a piece off and lift it in her direction. Instead of taking the fork from me, she allows me to feed it to her.
Holy shit.
I watch her pretty mouth close around the bite and savor it as I pull the fork back. I don’t realize I’m watching her lips until she says…
“You were saying?”
Did she do that on purpose? She did that on purpose, right? Fuck if I know. The woman told me loud and clear that I’m not her type, so until she tells me otherwise, I need to be a gentleman.
To be fair, though, I told her she wasn’t my type, and that was a goddamn lie.
“I was saying something?” I mumble. “Yes. I think maybe the exercise names sound gross—your word, not mine—because they’re direct, and people generally aren’t used to that?
People these days talk around subjects a lot, if you ask me.
But Bossfit likes to cut to the chase. A squat is a squat.
A thrust is a thrust. We’re not going to give it some fluffy name to make it gimmicky or more marketable.
If people want the real fitness deal, they’ll find us and we’ll deliver.
In the meantime, we’re keeping things simple and authentic. ”
“And are they finding you?” she asks. “How’s business going?”
I chuckle. “Do you want the real answer or what I keep telling Eugene so we can keep his blood pressure down?”
“Didn’t you just give me a speech about cutting to the chase and being authentic?” She smirks. “The real answer, please.”
“The real answer is… business is great. Running this gym is the dream. My dream.”
“But…?”
“But I’d be lying if I said it was smooth sailing. We’re sort of surviving month to month over there. We’re hoping this Santa stuff will give us more exposure and bring in more clients, but time will tell, I guess. Enough about me, though. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What’s your dream?”
She laughs. “Oh my god. What’s your dream?” She does a goofy impression of my voice. “You can’t just go around asking random people, ‘What’s your dream?’”
“Sure, I can! For the record, though, you’re not random. You’re you.”
We lock eyes.
I’ll be damned if I’m the first one to look away.
She grabs the fork from me and takes another bite of pie, feeding herself this time. “I guess I’m not used to people asking me that.” Her nose scrunches up. “Makes me feel funny.”
“Why?”
“Dreams aren’t for thirty-two-year-olds.”
“Oh no!? They’re not? Then who the fuck are they for!?” I shout.
“Whoa! Cool your jets, dude!”
“No, I will not cool my jets!” I say indignantly.
“Dreams are for kids,” she says simply.
“Pardon me, but fuck that! I mean, yes, dream your little hearts out, kiddos, but what about the rest of the population? You’re telling me we hit eighteen and it’s all over? Whaaat? I’ll have you know that I am thirty-five years old, ma’am. And I still have a shit ton of dreams!”
“Do you use that kind of language around your elementary school students?” she laughs.
I lower my voice. “No, I do not. My apologies. This subject gets me fired up.”
“I can see that.”
Shit. I did it again. Eugene tells me all the time that my enthusiasm—while appreciated—can be aggressive and off-putting.
We fall into silence as we finish our pie.
“Permission to be pushy?” I blurt.
She cocks her head to the side. “You’re asking me for permission to be pushy?”
“I am.”
“I’ll likely regret this, but… permission granted.”
“If you didn’t care what anyone else thought. If you had unlimited resources. If the sky truly was the limit… what would be the dream?”
She leans back in her chair and tips her eyes toward the ceiling.
She takes a deep breath.
I wait.
I’m not afraid of a little silence.
I’ll wait all day for a window into this woman’s thinking.
Just when I think I actually might have to wait all day, she says, very softly, “I’ve always wanted to open a dance studio for kids.”
“So do it!” I yell with excitement.
“Um…” she chuckles nervously.