Chapter 4
four
Sam
So. Did Calder drill you until you can’t walk?
Alecia
YOU’RE A TERRIBLE PERSON
I’ve had hundreds of mornings where I woke up sore after a workout, but this feels like I got dragged behind a pickup truck.
I wince as I shuffle to the bathroom like an eighty-year-old, then hiss air through my teeth when I drop to sit.
Did pickleball activate muscles never before used in my glutes and inner thighs?
Ugh, or my abs. My fricking triceps. Every piece of me is steeped in a lactic acid bath.
If I thought sitting was hard, getting up is even worse. I wash my hands, then immediately drop to the floor to stretch. My hamstrings feel like brittle rubber elastics, and my hip flexors are solid knots.
I haven’t felt trashed in a fun way since high school tennis, when Coach Prewitt used to make us run ladders while telling us we were “barely approaching our potential.” It hurts so good.
I’m both concerned about my level of accepted masochism and excited that we have another lesson scheduled for Thursday.
Hopefully sans Calder. What kind of name even was that?
He didn’t say more than a few single words for the rest of our drill session after dropping his drill bomb. Sam and Frank were having a grand old time laughing and chatting next to us, and all I had was the thwack of the ball on my paddle and my insane curiosity to keep me company.
The way he moved . . . Not only to catch that fly ball, but on the court.
It was like he had more time than I did.
There I was, rushing and flailing to get my paddle under the ball, but he was already in position for what felt like a full second ahead of time.
Like he was waiting for the ball to come to him.
It was the same even when Frank had us standing directly next to the net, trying to keep the ball bouncing between our paddles.
And once I noticed his eyes, I couldn’t unnotice them.
They were seafoam green. Pale and almost mystical, like the crystals I used to pine after as a kid in gift shops.
They held magical properties, and I was convinced that if I held them in my pocket or wished on them, I’d see fairies or acquire a talent for spells.
Not Calder’s eyes. The crystals. Regardless, it was weird that I was thinking about either one this much.
I rush to get out of my apartment since everything takes longer with my new mobility issues. Putting on pants? I feel geriatric. But shoes? Pure torture. It takes me five minutes to lower myself into the driver’s seat.
The drive downtown is a blessed respite, the equivalent of collapsing on the grass after a half-marathon. I’ve never run one, but based on the YouTube videos, I’m pretty sure that description is accurate.
The sun blinds me as I step out of the parking garage, a sheet of white glare ricocheting off the tower across Seventeenth and straight onto my retinas.
Denver switched from summer to fall overnight, it seems, and I didn’t get the memo.
I wrap my arms around myself to keep warm as I walk down the block, then shoulder my tote and weave into the stream of suits, backpacks, and athleisure making its way toward the revolving doors of our building.
The lobby smells like eucalyptus and printer toner, which feels poetic given we manufacture the second and my stress levels this morning require the first. Steel columns, bright planters, a mosaic of commuters’ reflections in the polished floor. This is the stage set I walk onto every weekday.
My calves whimper as the elevator climbs.
I probably shouldn’t have worn any heels given the situation, but flats make my legs look like I share genetics with a munchkin cat.
Two floors up I’m already bargaining with my quads.
I’ll give you protein if you get me to the breakroom without sounding like a haunted accordion.
I step off the elevator and angle for Sam’s office before retrieving coffee when I almost collide with six feet of warm, button-up, rolled-sleeve competence and a biodegradable cup.
Garrett.
Hold me, please, is my brain’s immediate reaction, and I stumble back as he emerges from the breakroom. The hall is wide and yet I became a Roomba heading for the only obstacle. No. That is not what we’re doing. I mentally slap my wrist.
His coffee is a pale, muddy brown. Garrett likes a little brew with his oat milk. His cuffs have a pink diamond pattern today, and his hair shines from whatever product he uses. With the scruff on his jaw, he looks like a 2018 Jake Gyllenhal.
“Hey, Alecia.” He smiles, which is dangerous for my cardiovascular system. “Saw your name on the pickleball night list.”
Garrett is talking to me. He saw my name on the list. Dialogue. Response. Be a functioning human, Alecia. “Yeah!” I squeak while grasping my purse strap like a parachute handle. “You play?”
Do not let on you know exactly which days he plays each week, that you’ve memorized his brand of bag, and looked up the paddle he uses online.
Garrett chuckles. “I do. You’re into it, too?”
“Correct. It’s a fun sport. I don’t—I mean, I dabble.” I flail a hand, and my tote slides farther down my shoulder. Fun sport? That’s more basic than saying I like maple doughnuts.
He shifts his weight, amused. “Dabbling’s a start.” Garrett’s eyes are hazel. I hadn’t ever noticed that before.
“I used to play tennis. So. There’s overlap.”
His eyebrows tick up. “Footwork transfer pretty well?”
I nod, though I have no idea if that’s true since all I did yesterday was stand close to the net and try to have “gentle hands.”
His lips twitch, and he taps his fingers on his cup. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You sure will!” I sound like Harry Caray. Or at least Will Ferrell’s depiction of him.
Garrett walks away, but I stand there for a beat, replaying every syllable with forensic precision. I just had a conversation with Garrett Davis. A real conversation, not about clients or projects at work.
I pivot toward Sam’s office and make a beeline. When I enter, she’s at her desk, glasses perched halfway down her nose, a high bun that solidifies her sexy librarian look. The walls of her office are a collage of color swatches and art she bought in Europe. Sam is who I want to be when I grow up.
“On a scale from one to I-can’t-sit-on-the-toilet, how are your glutes?” she says without looking up.
“It’s like you’re living in my brain.” I ease myself into the egg chair, making my arms do most of the work. “Also, Garrett just ambushed me in the hall.”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“Okay, ambushed is a strong word. He stood there with his coffee while I attempted to run him over, then stumbled over every word I said and acquired a nervous system disorder. But hey, we spoke more than two sentences!” I bite my knuckle for effect.
She buys in, leaning over her desk and propping her head in her hands. “And?”
“He saw my name on the pickleball list for Friday. I said I played.”
Sam winces, and I backtrack.
“No, I didn’t oversell my skills or anything. I tempered expectations.”
We grin at each other, the air between us filling with the fizz of excitement that always comes from doing something naughty.
“Well. That’s something.” Sam straightens, adjusting her glasses.
“Certainly something.” I draw a deep breath, forcing myself to focus on the actual reason why I’m here. “We have a ten a.m. with GoodBarrel.”
Sam nods. “Did you finalize the mockup for the mixed-pack?”
“Here.” I drag my tote up and produce a folder. “Three versions. Gold foil on A, spot UV on B, and C is the budget-friendlier one with a matte varnish. I changed the typography hierarchy so the flavor reads first.”
She pulls the designs out, and her eyebrows rise as she flips through. “This is good.” She taps a thumbnail. “The foil’s going to make their logo sing.”
I beam at her. This is our secret romance language. Pantone colors, foiled detailing, smooth, embossed ridges, or the way a good weight of paper feels in your hand. Few things in life are more satisfying than opening a box of perfectly printed invitations.
“Did you hear back from Harvest Gala?” she asks. “Programs, place cards, four-by-nine menus?”
I nod, running my hands over the soft upholstery of the chair. “Confirmed specs. They’re deciding between linen and felt for the stock. I pushed them toward felt with a deckle edge. They were drooling.”
Sam laughs. “Deckle edges are the red lipstick of paper.”
“Say less.”
We run down the list: a conference booklet some oil and gas company wants to be forty pages, but they only have a budget for twenty-eight, a restaurant rebrand sprawling across menus and coasters, and the GoodBarrel boxes that could actually make our quarter.
When we reach a stopping point, Sam leans back and stretches. I tap my phone screen and see we only have ten minutes before our meeting.
“Okay, I’ll get back to my office.” I cry just a little as I grip Sam’s desk to force myself upright.
“Perfect. I’ll see you on the call. And also at work tomorrow.”
I pause, my eyes narrowing. That was a weird statement. “Are we not going out for dinner tonight?” It’s Wednesday. We always go for dinner on Wednesday.
“Oh, yeah, that too. I just meant—”
“You’re being weird.”
Sam scoffs. “I’m not being weird.”
“What is it?” I ask. She has something she doesn’t want to tell me. We’ve known each other long enough, we may as well be an old married couple. Which is how I know that if I stand there and stare at her, she’ll eventually break.
“I can’t make the pickleball lesson tomorrow,” she blurts.
“What? Why?”
“My brother and his fiancée are coming in last minute. It’s a whole thing.
We’re doing dinner, my cousin from the Springs is meeting us.
I have to leave early and meet them in Aurora because apparently Uber is too expensive, and I’m the only one who knows where to park a Subaru in LoHi on a weeknight. ”