Chapter 7 #2
“Speak for yourself!” She flips me the bird, as she should, and walks into her building.
Apparently, while I was playing with Garrett, she’d tripped over her own feet and done a half somersault in front of Josh and one of Megan’s friends on the design team.
I didn’t see it, but my mind is more than making up the difference.
My version is definitely the best version.
I arrive home, find a spot on the street, and take the stairs to the second floor.
When I first discovered this apartment three years ago, it was beyond affordable.
But gentrification in the neighborhood is jacking prices everywhere.
Not that I’m complaining. It’s incredible to have a cute coffee shop, a Trader Joe’s, and a farm-to-table restaurant all within walking distance.
But my rent is going up two hundred dollars a month in the new year.
Sam and I are in negotiations for upgrading our relationship to roommate status.
I throw my backpack on the couch and grab a fork along with the container of chicken salad I made Wednesday. I scoop bites directly into my mouth, then eat a mandarin orange, grab a wine cooler, and head for the shower.
Peeling off my sweaty clothes and stepping under the scalding water is heaven.
I stand there with my eyes closed, letting the water run over my skin until I’m no longer chilled, then pop open my drink and sip.
I’ve never been happier with myself for not making any weekend plans.
Sam’s Oktoberfest extravaganza is scheduled for next Saturday, which means I can get a little buzzed, sleep in, catch up on a project or two, and spend Sunday afternoon with my parents.
My mind flits back to Garrett. His comment at the end of the night hadn’t even phased me. Probably because I was so distracted thinking about Sam and living the awkwardness that was Calder.
Why was he so strange? Was there something about me that brought it out in him? He seemed to communicate fine with Garrett and the others, even Megan. They played together most of the night. Was I the problem?
No, back to Garrett. We had more interactions tonight than in a week at the office, but had they accomplished anything? Was there any sign he was interested?
I didn’t understand how he worked. That was the problem. He was so driven and focused. I needed to figure out what got him outside of that ambition and competitiveness. To slow down and notice what was right in front of him.
I use the grapefruit scrub Sam got me for my birthday and wash, finish my drink, then step out and towel off. It’s only ten. Plenty of time for a face mask.
The collagen film is cool and slimy as I pull it out of the packaging, but it feels amazing on my skin as soon as I get it in place.
I moisturize, comb out my hair, and wrap up in my plush, ankle-length robe.
Time for Bridgerton. The new season dropped at the beginning of the year, but I only watched the first episode before my nights were swallowed up with work trips and my annual Mother’s Day cruise with my mom.
Then summer hit, and I hadn’t gotten back to it.
But this weekend was perfect for binge-watching.
I find my phone on the counter and settle on the couch, my head pleasantly fuzzy. While Netflix loads, I check my texts and email. Just a few promotions, a message from my bank about enrolling in e-statements, which I thought I did weeks ago, and—
I frown. There’s an email with Smash Point Social in the subject line, but it’s not from Frank. It was sent five minutes ago, and the sender’s name is Frederick? I click on it.
Hey. Got your email from Frank. If you’re interested in lessons at Smash Point, let me know.
Calder
I blink, rereading the message. I only had one wine cooler, so this wasn’t something I was making up. Calder emailed me? He got my email from Frank? Frank looked like he’d be in bed at eight o’clock at the latest, and most disturbing, Calder’s real name was Frederick?
I click reply.
Hey, I’m so sorry, I think you might be looking for someone else. I don’t know a Frederick.
Alecia
I grin and click play on episode two, but keep my phone out. Calder sent that message recently enough, I secretly hope he sees my reply and responds. I straighten when the bolded message blinks into existence.
Thought you were smart enough to make the connection considering the signature.
Calder
The idea of him sitting on his couch, a scowl on his face, makes me chortle. Does he think it’s funny or is he actually pissed? He must really need these coaching hours if he’s messaging me at ten o’clock on a Friday night.
Oh, Calder! Right. I owe you a single-use cold pack or $0.67, whichever value is greater. Would you prefer Venmo or Paypal?
Alecia
My pulse rushes. I don’t know why I’m messing with him, but it’s too fun to stop. I should’ve eaten more chicken salad because the cooler has obviously hit me harder than expected.
His reply is almost instant.
It was branded, so closer to $1.13 but no need to reimburse. Flush in cold packs at the moment.
So no lessons?
Calder
I snort. What was it about these lessons? Was he going to ask me for ten friends who might be interested in a new and exciting opportunity?
Right. I get that you’re desperate. I’m sorry you can’t find anyone to sign up for lessons with you, though I did give you feedback that I hope you’re taking into consideration.
I pause and rethink that. He seems to be playing along, but will that offend him? I delete the sentence.
Right. I get that you’re desperate, but we haven’t discussed compensation. What’s in it for me?
I stop the show because I have no idea what’s happened in the last eight minutes. My eyes are glued to my phone screen.
I thought free lessons were in it for you.
My eyes widen. I hit reply.
Oh, free? See, that was an important detail you failed to mention.
I laugh at the ridiculousness of this. We’re emailing like I used to in elementary school—bypassing the school system to message before I was allowed to have a phone.
The thought occurs to me that I could give him my cell number, but I push it away.
He’s a pickleball instructor with gorgeous eyes who happens to know Garrett Davis.
We really have no reason to contact each other.
Another message comes through.
Thought it was implied. I need coaching hours.
Calder
I adjust the edges of my mask, then wipe the excess product on my neck before typing back.
Seems like I’m doing you a favor here. It’s a bit of a drive to Smash Point. I might need you to sweeten the pot.
Alecia
I second guess it the moment I send the message. It wasn’t meant to be debaucherous, but I read it from a man’s perspective and send a quick addendum.
That was a joke. Not me implying anything. Just ignore. Sorry, had a wine cooler and I’m in a robe.
I press send and groan. I told him I was in a robe? Okay, new rule. I have to count to ten before my thumb hits the blue button.
It takes a full three minutes before he replies, and I’m sweating bullets, probably negating any benefit from the collagen soaking into my face.
That explains a lot.
Calder
I immediately break the rule I just set for myself.
Which part?
The TV screensaver comes on, but I barely notice.
The robe, obviously. Only people with trust funds and emotional support pets lounge around in robes on a Friday night.
I snort. I’d worn robes since the time I was nine. They were my preferred late-night pajama wear because when I was ready for bed, I could rip it off and get under the covers.
Tell me more about how your parents didn’t love you, I send back.
That would drastically cut into your beauty sleep.
Something twinges below my ribs. Was he kidding? Regardless, that response sobered me.
Maybe you could buy me some of your favorite balls.
Both times someone mentioned loving or hating pickleball balls, he got all testy. I have to know why.
I don’t have favorite balls
Ha! I laugh and write back, But I thought the type of ball you play with really matters?
That’s a cop out. Good players can play with any ball
I reply, Just making sure I’m reading you right. Seemed like a sore subject
He doesn’t respond right away, and I worry I’ve angered the beast. I send another message.
Let me talk with Sam about the lessons. We were kind of supposed to do it together. Really appreciate the offer.
-A
I wait a few moments, and I’m just about to put the phone down and restart my episode when a bolded message jumps to the top of my inbox.
Have you figured out Garrett yet?
My heart jolts. I sit up straight and hunch over my phone.
Is there something to figure out? I type, not exactly sure how to respond to that. This was very not professional.
You said you were into him.
Um excuse me, I never said that. I keep reading.
We’ve been friends for a while. I could probably give you some tips.
My cheeks warm, my whole body tingling. My thumbs start to type.
Trade? I help with your coaching hours, you help with . . .
I pause, trying to figure out how best to say that. With bagging Garrett? With convincing Garrett to love me? I laugh. Nope.
You help me be more attractive to men?
Well, one man specifically. I press send. At least it’s funny. The idea of having insider information about Garrett makes me feel a little dirty . . . and I can’t say I’m opposed to it. Sam is going to lose her mind when I show her screenshots.
His response is instant.
Deal. Sam’s welcome, too.