2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
L ike any working woman, I multi-tasked in the morning: I commuted to work and talked to my sister. The conversations weren’t really a two-way, she shares, I share sort of deal. It was usually me going “Yeah,” “uh-huh” and then “that’s wild” on repeat until my sister was done monologuing about life living near Mom.
“She called me at work to see if I could help program the remote again ,” Fiona said.
“That’s wild.”
“How’s work going for you?”
“Yeah.” I stopped in my tracks. She wasn’t complaining about Mom for once. “Oh, me. Um, it’s alright.”
“I recognize that singsong response. It’s what a person says before adding but… ”
I was not blind to the fact that I had the job equivalent of a bologna sandwich—easy and adequate. Tina and I kept on top the moderate number of orders we’d print. Sometimes I’d design something, putting my art degree to good use. Other times—and by other times, I mean most of the time—people ordered designs off templates that I had to lazily upload on a computer. When I was trying to get my ItsyBizzy business of stupid animals saying inane things off the ground, Tina gave me free rein on the equipment as long as I had her business orders fulfilled and paid for the supplies I used.
The but my sister perceived was that finances at work weren’t ideal, especially as customers flocked to the cheap and worse customer service of online printers. When the shop would have to eventually shutter up like the dinosaur it was, I wasn’t necessarily ready to leap to a backup plan. So far, my backup plan was staying in Gorda Vista, my ex-husband’s hometown.“I was so busy with banners last weekend.” Not a lie and not giving my sister the ammunition to fire off a Move back home .
“How are your friends?”
That bitch. She knew when I followed Chris across the country that I spent all my relationship currency on him and not friendships. Not the brightest life choice, especially after a divorce, but I couldn't stress enough how amazing most evenings were when all I had to do was heat up dinner, read a book, and go to bed at a decent hour. I brought up the name of one of my favorite authors. “Rachel always has a good story to tell over a glass of rosé.”
“You’ve never mentioned Rachel before,” Fiona replied.
Yeah, because when you call, I listen to how Mom fell for a scam email.
I tossed out a casual, “And I’m due for some mimosas with Clarissa.” Clarissa was my hairstylist who I hadn’t seen for a while. And boy, were my roots coming in silver .
“Just know we’re always here for you, Sir.”
Right, so I could move back to the Midwest and remind myself why following a man back to his hometown was the better idea. I could see it now. I would arrive at one family event five minutes before Fiona’s designated “start time” and my dutiful sister or Mom would mention something about how long they had been waiting for me. I’d run out that door back to my empire of mediocrity out West, leaving streams of smoke behind me like a cartoon roadrunner. “Yeah, I know,” I answered.
Later that day, I kicked open the back door of The Mighty Pen Printers. I had finished a batch of T-shirts for a bowling league team, and the place stunk of fresh plastisol ink. With the backdoor propped, I whipped off my face mask.
My phone vibrated in the front pocket of my apron. I wasn’t a popular contact, so I figured I’d block the spam I was inevitably receiving. But the number was a local number. For EverGreen & Fit Studios . What the hell did they want? I answered. “Hi, this is Sir.”
“Am I speaking to Saoirse Garfield?” a familiar man’s voice asked.
Familiar yet loaded with the smarmy cheerfulness that was about to sell me some shit. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Beau Bishop from EverGreen & Fit Studios. I wanted to check that you were okay after leaving my class early.”
“Uhh.” The uh was completely loaded. I was unprepared for a follow-up to my dramatic exit from the green and fit world. “Yeah, I’m okay.” A small facsimile of a clench in my throat from class returned. I wasn’t about to divulge to a silly dude with even goofier hair and a ridiculously alliterative name the whirlpool of negative self-talk I circled in during a damn Katy Perry song.
“I’m trying to gauge where we could improve to meet your needs. To improve the fitness experience.”
I picked at the crackled dead possum cartoon I had printed on the apron ages ago. “I’m kind of a curmudgeon-y weirdo. I think a gym appealing to my demographic would go belly up.”
“We want to be a place where all sorts of people feel welcome.”
Bull and shit . “I appreciate the call. I’m sure you could sell sand to the desert, but I’m not interested.” As I turned the phone so I could press the red button to end the call, a flurry of No’s rushed from the tiny speaker. He was sort of adorable in his relentlessness. I returned the phone to my ear. “You really want to hear what I think?”
“Bring it on.”
I sat on a ream of neon orange paper and sighed. “For starters, I felt deceived. I supposedly won a free class from a drawing, but it turns out to be a deal you offer to all new customers. I wanted to be special, and it felt a little assy when I wasn’t. ”
“I’m sorry we made you feel that way. I’m certain if I was in your shoes, I’d feel the same. Let me make it up to you.”
I could sense a green water bottle with the EverGreen & Fit logo in my near future. It would belong on my mantel next to pens, a lanyard, and my new little doohickey. “Do I have to step into that green monstrosity of a gym?”
“Would you like to meet in a more neutral territory?”
“That’s an option?” The phone call was only going to more and more unexpected places.
“Tell you what, right off the gym’s parking lot is part of the Red Sequoia Trail. We can have a walk and a quality assurance meeting. When are you free?”
Automatically, I replied, “After work. 5:15.”
“See you then.”
What the ever-loving fuck did this Beau Bishop get me to agree to?