3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
I hoped this meeting wasn’t going to sneak in some outdoorsy bootcamp moves. I needed high knee lifts and burpees like I needed a hole in the head. I ensured that our meeting would be strictly talk, wearing my clunky Doc Marten boots, distressed jeans, and my couch potato sweatshirt—my drawing of a basic russet potato rotting on a loveseat.
At the trail gate, he waited for me, dressed in a matching green tracksuit. His hair was still shaped like a cockatiel’ s.
“I really appreciate you meeting with me, Saoirse.”
“Call me Sir.”
He opened the gate to the trail and turned his head quizzically. “Like a knight?”
“Or your dungeon master. Fits me better than Saoirse.”
“Another funny shirt, I see. Did you draw that one as well?”
He had listened to me? “Yup.”
“You’re an artist, then.”
“Ha, no. I work for the printing company downtown, The Mighty Pen. This isn’t art. More like the scribblings of a mad woman.” Discussing my failed ItsyBizzy store in the shadow of my failed cycling class sort of put a sour taste in my mouth. “Let’s cut to the chase and discuss some quass.”
He flickered another look of confusion at me.
“A portmanteau of quality assurance. Quass .”
“Do other people say that?”
“I dunno. We could make it a thing.”
“So, the winner’s drawing was misleading. Our commitment to the color green is”—he looked down at his dark green matching zip-up and track pants set—“a bit much. What else?”
“The whole woo of it all. Even on the rare occasions where I liked doing some cardio, I never ever wanted to yell woo or any variations thereof. It feels forced .”
“Interesting.”
“And the music! The music! You were a ‘Mambo No. 5’ away from releasing an old god from the Earth’s core and cursing us all to a thousand years of the ‘Macarena.’”
“Duly noted. Anything else?”
“You. Is Beau Bishop even your real name? It’s so literal. ‘Hi, my name means handsome, and I am handsome. Thanks for noticing.’”
“Beau Bishop is my name. Need to see my birth certificate?” His mouth curled into a smirk. “You think I’m handsome?”
“Everyone thinks you're handsome. You’re the type of good-looking who makes a normie like me have to dig for flaws. Like, I kind of hope you’re mean or stupid just to balance the aesthetic out. Except you’re not mean. I’ve leveled about fifty different criticisms at you, and you’re not defensive. You’re listening to me. And I haven’t felt listened to…” I shuddered at the thought.
He gestured for us to turn around and head back to the parking lot. Our walk down a stretch of suburban trail was coming to an end. Strangely, I dragged my feet a little to ward off the outcome.
“I should make it up to you,” he said.
He’d probably offer me a grab bag of green merch. Useless crap, the tokens of forgiveness every business had. “Do I get a green koozie?”
“How about a free one-on-one?”
“As in you, me…” My face heated up at the idea, as if I was a thirteen-year-old with a crush.
“And the bikes between our legs.” His eyes sparkled a bit. He knew he said something a bit saucy .
“You don’t have to.” The Midwestern nice leaped out of me. I had practiced so much humility and disguising any sort of wants with it, that side of me tumbled out involuntarily.
“I want to, Sir.”
When he said it like that… “This time tomorrow?”
“Perfect.”
Tomorrow was Friday. Technically, I had a Friday night date.