3. Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Chloe
My last one-on-one client would not stop talking. Now I’m rushing through my shower after work, my hurried movements making me clumsier by the minute. Like dropping my shampoo bottle on my toe. My stomach is tight, my toe is throbbing, and all I can think about it is not being late like usual.
Next to Thanksgiving, it’s the best Thursday of the year.
Opening game day.
I’m a proud graduate and supporter of the University of Utah. Or as we diehards like to say, “A Utah Fan Am I.”
There’s something exhilarating about fifty thousand people gathered together, cheering on a sports team. I also look fantastic in red, one of the school colors, as I’ve been told it complements my hair and eyes.
Dashing through my routine in record time, I finish by putting on my scarlet-colored lip gloss. Popping my lips together in my full-length mirror hanging behind my bathroom door, I swivel side to side, checking out my white shorts, red Utes T-shirt, and red Adidas. My hair is up in a high, perky ponytail. I have my University of Utah stud earrings in, and a silver charm bracelet with red, white, and black beads and the U logo dangling from it.
I look cute.
I can’t wait to grab my loaded nachos—the one unhealthy meal I’ll allow this week—and watch our team destroy our opponent.
Rushing to my hall closet, I snag my stadium-approved clear plastic bag off the top shelf and dump my purse contents inside.
I grab an unopened plastic water bottle from my small pantry (yes, I know these are bad for the earth, but I’m not paying seven bucks for one at the stadium) and toss it into my clear bag. My doorbell rings just as I’m snatching my keys off the hook by my back door.
Grabbing my stuff, I hurry to greet my twin brother.
He’s a copy and paste of me, but in male form. We share the same hair and eye color, the same rounded chin and straight nose, and we both have double-jointed knees. “Hey, Carter, perfect timing. Do you need a water or to throw anything in here?” I hold up my bag.
“Nah. I’ve got one in my truck.”
I follow Carter to his white F-250 parked in my driveway. “Are Grammy and Papa meeting us at the stadium?” We usually ride together.
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Don’t you remember our conversation about this season at Sunday dinner last month? ”
Uhhh…you mean the Sunday dinner where I spent most of my time cyberstalking my favorite famous fitness instructors on Instagram?
I wince. “It’s been a busy month. Remind me what they said.”
He sighs. “It’s getting too loud and cold for them to keep attending games since Grammy’s injury. They gave me their tickets to use how I want this year. Next year, you get two extra seats.”
What? How did I miss that entire conversation? How did I not put up a stink to get my bestie Kate a ticket? Man, I really was distracted that night.
“Oh, right.” I buckle my seatbelt. “Who did you give the tickets to then?”
He pulls out of my driveway, heading toward the stadium. “A new hire at work.”
“Aww.” I pat his shoulder. “You’re such a nice boss.”
Carter grunts in response, which is on par for him.
He’s like a pumpkin. Hard shell on the outside, soft on the inside.
Like giving tickets to a new employee. How many other bosses would do that? Mine at the gym certainly wouldn’t. But then, Bert doesn’t make much money, whereas Carter has done quite well for himself as the owner of a video game design company. Still. Carter’s sweet. He just doesn’t want anyone to know it for some reason.
“Are they meeting us there?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“How’s Emma?” I force myself to ask. I don’t really care about her, but I do my twin .
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t know.”
Why doesn’t he know how his girlfriend, who isn’t the most relaxed person I’ve met, is doing? “Because…”
He checks his side-view mirror and changes lanes, ignoring me. Our commute to the stadium is less than fifteen minutes. My time to coax this information out of him is severely limited. Once we’re at the game, Carter laser focuses on football.
When he doesn’t reply, I do what I’ve done since we learned to talk. Call it twintuition or just knowing my brother extremely well, but I know exactly how to handle this.
“You’re on another break?” I ask.
His gaze stays on the road.
So that’s not it...
“She’s out of town for work and hasn’t had time to call?”
He shifts in his seat.
Nope, not that either. “You finally realized she’s too corporate and doesn’t suit your personality at all and dumped her?” Is there too much hope in my tone? Emma’s nice. But she doesn’t fit in with our family. We’re athleisure wear on Sundays. We’re barbeque and game nights.
Emma’s tight buns and black pencil skirts. Brunch and pedicures every weekend. She’s pretty and assertive, which is how I think she convinced Carter to go out with her in the first place.
He clears his throat and does the slightest head nod at the same time. Bingo! “Seriously?” I squeal. Yeah, there’s no hiding my excitement. It was as clear as a freshly cleaned window: those two did not belong together .
“Do you care at all if I’m upset about it?” he asks. “Or heartbroken?”
Oh goodness. I’m a terrible sister. Why didn’t I ask that first? “I’m sorry, Carter. How are you holding up? How long ago did this happen?”
He flashes me a quick grin. “I’m fine. It’s not like I loved her.”
I roll my eyes. Obviously. It’s hard to love someone who has the personality of a fence post. But it also brings up another issue Carter and I have. We both have yet to be in a serious relationship. I can’t speak for all of Carter’s reasons, but for me, I put too much pressure on myself and my boyfriend to be the perfect couple. This strain ends up breaking us apart soon after we get together.
“And I broke up with her right before she went to a conference in San Francisco,” Carter says.
Am I good, or am I good? I mentally pat myself on the back for that. “I’m sorry, C. You’ll find your queen one day.”
I’ve lost hope for myself. Being single is better than coming up empty-handed every time I risk searching for a soul mate.
We park on the side street by the chain pizza restaurant where we always have. It’s a bit of a walk to the stadium, but it’s not too bad, even with my bruised toe. We walk in silence with the masses to the gates. Our seats are on the west side of the stadium. It’s great in September because we usually get shade. But once it cools down, I get jealous of all the fans sitting in the sun across from us .
We stop at the southwest entrance. “If you want to go in and get in line for nachos, I’ll wait for my employee and his son to get here.”
Alarm bells ring in my head. How old is this new employee—and a son? Carter thinks it’s funny to introduce me to men at the most random times. This better not be the reason Carter invited his new employee. There will be no, I repeat no dating anyone Carter picks for me.
“I’m starving, so yes, I’ll gladly go in ahead.”
“Will you get extra guac on mine? I’m sending your ticket now.” He taps his phone screen a few times until an alert pops up on mine.
“Yep. Anything else?”
“Nah.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in there.”
I go through security. Once in the stadium, I weave my way through the crowd, heading to the Mexican food concession line. I barely hold in my drool, my mouth watering from the aroma of smoked meat and melted cheese.
Pulling my phone out of my bag, I hop onto social media to see if anyone liked the fitness video I posted to my YouTube channel yesterday. Seventy-five likes. Not bad, but not enough to grow my clientele either. Scrolling through my feed, I watch other reels on silent mode. Lately, I’ve been into videos where fit couples do crazy coordinated moves together. Like alternating jump lunges, where they give each other high fives in between lunges, or one person does a plank while their partner jumps over them .
There’s an emptiness gnawing at my chest every time I see these reels. Why do I keep doing it? Why do I keep wounding myself with dreams that will never come true?
After ordering our dinner, I shove my phone back into my purse, settling on people-watching. I’m not that much older than the college kids attending the game, but when I see their behavior compared to mine? Those few years make an enormous difference.
“Order thirty-nine!” a worker calls out the pickup window.
I grab napkins and forks from the dispensers, stack our dinner boxes, then head to our seats in section twelve. The stairs are short, forcing me to keep my eyes on each concrete step so I don’t trip and fall. Besides biffing it on the concrete, I’d be extremely upset to lose my cheat meal for the week.
At row ten, I turn sideways, shuffling past the fans already seated. I hold my precious cargo to the side, giving myself a clear view of where people’s feet are. “Excuse me, pardon me,” I say, guiding myself to my seat.
Finally sitting, I realize Carter isn’t here yet. Three chairs sit empty beside me. What’s taking them so long? Well, I’m not waiting to dive into my dinner. Carter’s nachos can get cold while I enjoy mine fresh and hot.
The cheerleaders and Swoop—the eagle mascot—are on the field, engaging the crowd, getting everyone worked into a frenzy waiting for the Utes to storm the field. I clap between bites of my nachos.
“It’s been too long,” the long-time season ticket holder next to me says as he takes his seat .
“Hi, Darrell! How are you?” I lean around him to his wife, Elaine. “Hi, Elaine. It’s good to see you too.”
“I’m ready for some Utah football,” Darrell says. He’s wearing a Utah shirt and a black hat. “Where’re Dan and Sylvie?”
Darrell and Elaine have been friends with my grandparents for years. They bought their season tickets together back in the eighties. “They’re not coming this year. With Grammy’s injury in the spring, she doesn’t get around as easy as she used to. They gave their tickets to Carter.”
His wrinkled hand pats my shoulder. “That’s a downright shame. I’ll have to stop by next Sunday and visit.”
“They’d love to see you two.”
Swoop revs the engine on his four-wheeler, the signal that the football team is about to run out of the tunnel onto the field.
“Life doesn’t get better than this,” Darrell says.
I wholeheartedly agree. My skin hums from the voices surrounding me, screaming. I lean over to respond to Darrell when a bony object crashes into my side. I yelp, grabbing onto the back of my seat, trying to prevent myself from stumbling into Darrell.
Something cold and wet drips down my side and my thigh throbs from slamming into the metal armrest.
“Finn!” a male voice shouts. “Are you okay? You gotta watch where you’re going, buddy.”
Oh joy. This must be Carter’s guests.
“I’m sorry!” wails a little boy’s voice.
Standing straight with Darrell’s grip on my forearm, I inspect my sticky situation. Brown soda stains my white shorts and runs down my legs, pooling into my shoes. A large red cup is on its side, the lid popped off, leaking brown soda and ice under my feet.
Lovely. Not only will my body be sticky, my feet get to marinate in soda all night.
“I’ll go get more napkins,” Carter says.
I take in the disaster, barely holding back a growl.
“Are you all right, Chloe?” Elaine asks, passing me a wad of tissues, her brows bunching together.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. Are you okay? My son didn’t mean to knock into you,” a male voice asks. The tone, the way the man says “ma’am” sounds somewhat familiar, but not enough for me to place why.
Ignoring him, I pat at the mess. At least it wasn’t some drunk, uncontrollable fan. But I’m still not pleased with the start of game day.
More napkins get put in my hands. “Really, we’re so sorry,” the man says again. “Finn, apologize and pick up your cup, please.”
“I’m sorrryyyyy,” the little voice cries through a sob.
My heart twists in my chest. I glance at the little boy who’s trying to pick up slippery ice and sweep his soda back into his cup. He sniffles as he unsuccessfully cleans up.
I’d set my nachos under my seat when I stood, and now they have puddles of soda all over them. Plopping the wad of napkins I used to clean my legs off onto my ruined dinner, I take in the little one who drenched me.
The boy looks at me. Fat tears stream down his face. The slightest hint of baby fat is in his cheeks. My guess is he’s somewhere between seven and nine .
His beautiful brown eyes are big, lined with dark, thick lashes I’m completely jealous of. Mine are long because I use lash serum, but they have nothing on this kid. Bet he uses those to get whatever he wants.
“I really am sorry about this,” the man says again.
I huff out a breath and tear my gaze from the repentant kid to his dad. For the second time today, my heart stops beating. I don’t appreciate the way I react to seeing this man. It doesn’t stop beating every time I notice a hot guy. So why now? Why twice in one day? What is it about him that makes me feel things I don’t want to feel?
Also, holy cow! Newbie is Carter’s new hire? For real? What are the chances? I stand and my head tilts slightly to the side as I glare at Newbie. No…he told me his name. Racking my memories, I finally remember it’s Dawson. “I whooped your a—uh…backside earlier today. Are you using your kid to get back at me?”
“No!” Dawson’s eyes are as wide as the goalposts on the field. “I didn’t recognize you until you faced me. I would never—”
I hold a hand up, stopping him from freaking out. “Chill. I was joking.” Kind of.
“This is awkward.” Dawson chuckles nervously, his cheeks showing a hint of pink. “I’m sorry about the mess and your clothes. I can pay for dry cleaning and new shoes.”
Carter scoots down our row, both hands full of napkins. They get shuffled from one person to the next until they’re in my hands .
Doing my best to soak up the remaining soda sticking to me, I give up. Water is the only way to get this stickiness off. “It’s fine.”
“What about a new plate of nachos?”
So they can get ruined a second time? “Nah. I’m good.” Turning to Darrell, I say, “I need to head to the restroom.” And away from my crazy reactions to Dawson and his clumsy kid. “Can I squeeze past?”
“Of course, sweetie.” He pats my shoulder.
I do my best to run as well as I can in a row of stadium seats to the bathroom. With every step, my shoes squish. So, so gross. Annoyed I’ll be sitting in sticky wet clothes for the next four hours until I get home, I scrub as best as I can. It’s no use. My shorts stay brown and my shoes are soaked through.
Way to start the football season.
I’m standing, stretching my back by twisting my shoulders during halftime. My feet are wrinkly and gross from sitting in sugary brown crap the past hour and a half. Finn, the boy who ruined my night, keeps trying to talk to me. I’ve answered him politely, but I don’t ask any follow-up questions. Kids and I aren’t a good combination.
“Hey, uh, Chlo?” Carter asks.
He’s using his “I have a favor to ask” voice. Turning to face him, I say as sweet as apple cider, “Yes? ”
“While I’m thinking about this, would you want to plan a festival for a hundred and fifty people the first weekend in November?”
It’s like he doesn’t know me at all. “Do I want to?” I scoff, faking like him asking me to do this is the same as weeding Grammy’s vegetable garden in the middle of July. But I can’t hide my excitement. A smile grows on my lips. “Uh, yeah I want to! Who’s the festival for?”
“My employees, our clients, and all their families. It’s an appreciation event for everyone’s hard work and loyalty.”
Dawson looks between Carter and me. “Do you do this every year?”
“I usually do a year-end luncheon for employees,” Carter says. “We’ve grown a lot the past year and I want to do something bigger to reflect my gratitude. I don’t want to get too close to the holidays though, so early November seemed fitting.”
I squeal and rapidly clap my hands. “I can’t wait to get started!” It’s the end of August now, which means I have nine weeks to pull this event off.
Pulling up the notes app on my phone, I rapidly type out a list of items to discuss with Carter and where I need to start.
Budget
Venue
Theme (Fall! Carnival?)
Food
Activities
Thank-you gifts
Decorations
I’m sure I’m missing a few things, but this is a great start. “Carter, when can we get together to hammer out a few details?”
“Glad it’s you and not me,” Dawson chuckles, shooting me a “good luck, lady” look.
But I don’t need luck. Planning parties is my jam. It’s too bad I don’t get to do it often for more than our family of four—five, if I convince Kate to come.
“Tomorrow at my place,” Carter says. “I’ll make you lunch in exchange for you doing this.”
I’d do this without Carter making me food, but I’ll happily accept his cooking. “Deal. How about nachos?”
Today hasn’t been the best, but with Carter asking me to throw a festival with his money? My night just took a turn for the better.