20. Kate
“Are you trying to torture yourself?”
Emma is the least-encouraging person right now as I pace up and down the side of the gymnasium floor, filling her in on my morning coffee date. I’m still not sure if we’re calling it a date—he didn’t even buy my drink.
“Three more laps, ladies!” I yell as the girls make their way around the running track on the second level of the gymnasium. I”m really enjoying this setup, sitting in the middle of the floor, directing my little puppets through stair sprints from my lawn-chair throne in the center of the gym. Well, it’s a fancy fold-out chair from the hotel. It has three different reclining positions that I have taken full advantage of.
“I’m not torturing myself. I’m just weighing my options.” I recline to the farthest setting, practically lying flat as the footrest pops out. “Plus, the guy looked pitiful. I think he just needs a friend.”
“Kate, y’all dated for three years. You can’t just chum it up like old pals from camp over a fancy Italian dinner,” she snips over the sounds of wild children increasing in the background. “Boys! I’m on the phone!”
She has a point. It’s almost impossible to look at Eric and not remember our life together and not let those feelings resurface a tiny bit. But I wouldn’t call Tony’s Pizza a fancy Italian dinner. By the looks of their outdated website, people can show up in beach towels and get their greasy slices on paper plates.
The girls round the corner on their final lap, each speeding up as they see the finish line.
“It’ll be fine.” My words sound painful as they leave my lips, tension crawling up my arms and legs as I try to stretch out in the chair. “It. Will. Be. Fine.”
“Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?”
Emma laughs as I stutter and whine, “Sh–shut up.”
Passing the finish line, the girls barrel down the steps and rush onto the shiny wood floor. It glistens under the massive fluorescent lights that hang on the ceiling. This building is huge, with spotless, cream-colored walls and black cushioned stadium seats on every side. The college campus is ten minutes from our hotel, which means this is theirs, and they have relinquished use during their spring break for our camp. Coach Lawson has worked so hard the last ten years, arranging and organizing this camp to be a sought-after opportunity by students, and it shows. I bask in the fluorescent glow another moment before turning to the pile of gasping, red-faced teens plastered to the clean floor. Someone named James was in here this morning, pushing one of those floor scrubbers up and down, getting the perfect shine and clean lines. Him realizing the nice girl with curly hair that brought him a cup of coffee would be the reason he has to mop twice today is questionable.
“Good work, ladies!” I sit up in my chair, my legs still propped up on the leg rest.
Claire glares at me before falling flat on her back, her stomach rippling with her gasping breaths. Birdie groans into her arms that are stretched across her face, and Tess lies on her stomach with the cold hardwood floor aggressively squishing her cheek, attempting to blow her sweaty fringe bangs off her face. Hard work. These girls are the definition of it.
“Have you told Malcolm?” Emma redirects me back to the phone pressed against my ear. “About the second date, I mean.”
I hum in response, glancing around to make sure the question wasn’t heard through the tiny speaker squished against my ear—unlikely, but you can’t be too sure. Teenagers have an otherworldly knack for finding out hidden secrets—especially these teenagers. And trying to be discreet around the girls is becoming painfully challenging the longer we are here.
Close proximity to Malcolm has never been an issue. But the last few days, I have been drawn to him more and more. I don’t know what to make of it. I just know resisting him or not thinking about him is becoming near impossible.
It’s like my dog, Dolly Parton, with any new squeaky toy. She doesn’t have a clue what makes it squeak, but she can’t contain herself when she sees it, tail wagging furiously, chasing it like there’s no tomorrow.
That’s who I’m acting like. Dolly Parton.
And Malcolm is my squeaky toy.
And just like Dolly, I have no idea what’s making him squeak to me. But he is.
“What did he say?” she asks as a loud bang happens in the background followed by a whispered curse word and shuffling footsteps.
Gnawing at my thumbnail, I think back to the very short and unenthused response I received when I told Malcolm about my dinner plans this evening.
“Good luck,” I deadpan.
The hasty shuffling stops on the other end of the phone. “That’s it?” she asks, just as dumbfounded as I was when I received his text. I give another hum, not as lively as the last, sounding more like a humph. “Well, then…” She pauses contemplatively. “That’s very grown up of him.” Her words are unconvincing.
“Uh-huh, very.” Another deadpan because I don’t know what to make of it. And based on Emma’s hesitation, she doesn’t either. We all know how Malcolm feels about Eric. Even when he had to work with him, they never got along, which was awful for me. My boyfriend and best friend tolerating each other at family gatherings was less than ideal.
“Coach, can we get out of here now?” The floor squishes Tess’s cheeks so much her words morph together, sounding like cahweegetouttahurrnow.
“Yes. Go get cleaned up, and we’ll head to the beach!”
The mention of the beach is enough to resurrect the dead as the girls squeal, jump up from the floor, and race out of the gym.
“I guess he isn’t too worried about it,” I say to Emma once I’m alone. “I mean, I don’t want him to be worried. I guess I was just expecting more than a two-word response. Something more than just good luck.” Emma snorts on the other end of the phone when I mimic Malcolm’s deep voice.
I walk out of the gym into the sweltering sun and struggle to adjust my eyes to the bright light. The hotel is just a few minutes’ walk from the gym, and seeing as I don’t have time to get a good run in this week, I try to get my steps in when I can. The girls are already out of sight as I make my way down the small walkway. Palm trees line one side of the path, blocking half of my body from the blazing sun, and the other side meets the road where a variety of vehicles weave in and out of parking lots on their way to the beach. Little shops sit neatly across the road, their doors ajar, allowing the hot air to whip in and out of their establishments. Odd but comforting similarities spring up as I walk past—little nods that remind me of Glendale.
The smell of fried food catches my attention when I’m a block from the hotel. My stomach growls in protest when I try to ignore the smells of fried dough, cinnamon sugar, and coffee—with a hint of garlic, which is…interesting.
Coming to a halt at the stop sign near the hotel, I turn to face the smells. A small sign hangs outside of a shop, half off all pastries, and I’m immediately sold.
“Ms. Stanley!” Sarah Kim sits at a table outside of the glorious little shop—another sign to venture in there and eat my weight in buttery goodness—a pile of books sitting in the chair opposite her.
“Hi, Sarah!” I motion to her, waiting for my moment to cross the street safely. That’s just what I need, to get hit by a car in front of my student, traumatizing her for life. Reaching for the shop door, I notice she doesn’t have anything to pair with her pile of books. No coffee, no croissant, not even water. An interesting little duck, she is.
“Care to join me?” I gesture toward the door.
She beams at the invitation, scooping up her books and following me inside. The cold air jolts me awake, shivers traveling down my arms and legs. By her shaking, I can tell Sarah regrets leaving her warm seat outside. A couple snags the only empty table, sending her into a mini frenzy as she huffs, circles around, and gives up in finding another seat.
“I’ll wait for you outside.” Her teeth chatter and arms shake like we’re in the Arctic. “Can you get me a hot chocolate?” she asks over her shoulder as she hoists her books closer to her chest and pries the door open with her free hand.
My phone buzzes as I place our order. A text from my mom moves across my screen, and my gut swirls, nausea moving up my throat. She’s probably asking for something. Last time I heard from her was after four months of radio silence, and she needed me to pick up something from the post office before it was returned to the sender. Apparently, the knock-off Manolo Blahnik shoes just had to be purchased while she was out of the country.
Mom: Spoke to Lola, I’m sorry I missed the party. I’ll try to make the next one!
I chew on my thumbnail, down to the bit almost, before responding.
It’s alright, maybe next time.
Bubbles pop up and disappear for a few seconds—an impending request, I’m sure. I have half a heart to put my phone away and ignore her follow up. But the other half is still hopelessly holding out for an I miss you text. Or even a simple saw this and thought of you, with a picture of a chicken in hot-pink Converse. Doubtful, but one can hope.
Seconds before giving up completely, her response comes in, sending an ache deep into my belly.
Mom: Could you do me a favor and check my plants next time you”re around?
My order is called from the counter, and I shove my phone in my bag instead of responding. Clearly, she’s forgotten that I already check on her plants.
Every two weeks.
For the last four years.
I grab the drinks a little too aggressively, cracking the side of one, and rush out the door. Sarah snagged a table catty-corner to the shop on a patch of sand. Her nose is in a book, barely noticing me when I set her hot chocolate down, sans crack. Mine, however, leaks iced coffee down my hand and onto the table. I swat my hand against my thigh to dry it off erratically and toss my cup in the trash against the side of the building with a grunt.
“You good?” Sarah asks, her eyes still pinned on her book.
“Fine,” I lie. I’m not good. Anytime I hear from my mom, I’m as far from good as anyone could get. I shake off the irritation and focus on the book in Sarah’s hand. “What are you reading?”
I crank my head to the side to try to read the title, but she shuts the book and quickly folds her arms on top of it, pinning me with a glowering stare. Don’t ask about the book with kissing cartoon characters on it. Got it.
“So, I hear you have a date tonight.” The hot chocolate steam rises from her cup, and she winces when she attempts to take a drink. She fans herself and hangs her tongue out of her mouth like a puppy. It’s still halfway out when she says, “With that one buff guy.”
I snort because Eric is the epitome of buff. Borderline too muscle-y if we’re being honest. My mind trips over the images of his muscles—the flex of his arms as he leaned against the chair this morning.
As if the tape in my brain was tampered with, the film skitters, and the image changes to a pair of arms that are slightly softer but just as strong. Arms with chiseled forearms and taut biceps being hugged by a trim light-blue polo. They’re crossed over a chest that is broad and solid, accentuating the divot in the center that directs you up to his neck. I trace the curve of his neck up to a soft beard hugging the edges of a perfect jaw. A jaw I know to house a small cheek dimple on one side and a freckle on the other. A rasp of air leaves me when my imagination lingers on a set of lips, soft and somewhat tempting as they smirk at me, hitching up on one corner. A silent laugh escapes his tantalizing mouth, and a rave happens in my chest as palpitations skitter rapidly followed by a suffocating flash of heat shooting up my neck and settling deep into my cheeks. My lungs protest their duties as the heat threatens to smother me.
Another episode.
“Earth to Stanley.” Sarah waves her hand in my face, snapping me out of my thoughts, sending a swish of hot air against my face. My lungs relent, inhaling the air deeply and settling the nerves that were building up.
Words are hard when I blink back to reality and give a mumble in response.
Sarah laughs and gathers her books. “Well, I hope it goes well!” She stands from the table and heads toward the crosswalk, stack of books—five, to be exact—in one hand, hot chocolate in the other.
“Wait.” I shake my head to banish the smoldering and borderline restricted images of Malcolm I’ve been having lately, refusing to accept they are the root cause of these episodes, then follow her. “How did you know about my date?”
She gives me an incredulous look, like it’s a universal fact that no one’s love life is secret around Glendale, which is understandable. After everything with Ellie and Benny, the kids have been having a field day with any and all information they can get their hands on regarding our love lives. You would think they would be more focused on their own, but nope. I’m convinced they view us as old spinsters, and they believe when any of us find love, it’s the work of wizards.
“You think Coach Geer is okay with it?” She gives me a wary side-eye as we make our way back to the hotel.
I groan. “Why is everyone so worried about Malcolm?” I unintentionally yell, startling a few valet workers across the parking lot, as the aggravating unfairness threatens to swallow me. “Everyone is so worried about that ole grump’s opinion, but what about me?” I stop abruptly in the middle of the lot, Sarah slowing to a stop next to me. Panic covers her face as her eyes dart around, watching for moving vehicles. “What about what I’m okay with? Coach Geer is a grown man. Surely he can manage his friend going on a date with someone! He could go on a date too, and I would be fine.” I bellow the rhetorical question in Sarah’s direction, and she nods rapidly, side-stepping closer to the parked cars. My feelings about Malcolm are lumped into the crazy that is the rest of my life. I feel myself boiling over in confusion and seem to be reacting the only way I know how—loudly and erratically. “Why are we so concerned? If he’s not okay with it, then he needs to come talk to me, right? Right! Malcolm Geer is a grown man. A man that is so annoyingly honest all the freaking time. So, if he has an issue, he can come talk to me about it!”
“Talk to you about what?” Jolting me forward in surprise, Malcolm lets out a soft chuckle behind me. Sarah’s face is a tight line as she glances from me to over my shoulder, where he’s probably standing.
My body tenses from the nape of my neck down to my tailbone, like my spine has been replaced with a metal rod. Awareness surges through me as my erratic behavior replays in my head. Why did I just act like that? I’m irritated, yes. But I’m not irritated with him. Malcolm is innocent in all of this, but dang it, everyone needs to chill.
He is fine.
I am fine.
Everything. Is. Fine.
Taking rigid baby steps, I slowly turn around to face him. It’s awkward and unnatural—and a bit amusing based on the face Malcolm makes as he watches me. His backward hat is an alarmingly pleasant sight, snapping the tension in me like a rubber band. Tingling sensations reverberate deep into my stomach and down my legs, hitting every nook and cranny of my body with the alert of BACKWARD HAT! BACKWARD HAT! He removes his sunglasses, and I swear it happens in slow motion, blinking at me with eyes that make today’s blue sky look gray and dull.
There’s intentionality in his gaze as he pins me with a stare. “What do you need to talk to me about?” He steps closer, so close that only the smallest of molecules could pass through the space left between his chest and mine. The proximity draws a heavy gulp out of my throat.
Heat swells inside me and courses through my veins like rapid-fire missiles, speeding up my heart, constricting my lungs, and tingling my fingers and toes as his breath touches the side of my face. It feels like a caress, so soft and slow that my eyes shudder in response. I open my mouth to answer his lingering question, but words do not come. Failing. My brain is failing to operate.
“She said if you have a problem about her date, you can talk to her about it.” Sarah is clearly proud of herself as she snickers this information. I glare back at her, but she’s already racing up to the hotel.
“Oh, did you now?” He plucks at one of my loose curls, sending it bouncing near my ear. “You think I have a problem with your date?”
Heat is still all over me, and I have to clutch my neck for comfort. “N—no. I was just stating”—I clear my throat—“that, um…if you had a problem, that we could talk about it. You know, like adults.” I force a cough, dislodging the heat that’s blocking my airway. Adults. We are adults. And whatever is happening to me physically is just a manifestation of guilt. That’s all these recent episodes are.
“Ahh, yes.” He gives a chuckle and a nod, instantly relieving the nerves that were working their way through me. “Well…” he says as he lingers, leaning in ever so slightly, “do you want to talk about it, Ms. Stanley?” The smell of coffee on his breath and the oakiness of his body wash swirls around me. A comforting smell.
I take a step back to collect myself—enough room for a small child or a puppy to pass through, a reasonable amount of room. “Do we need to?” Dropping my hands into fists at my sides, my fingers dig into my palms when I see his face falter, a hint of discomfort lining his mouth and eyes.
“Look.” He lets out an exhausted sigh, removing his cap to scratch the top of his head. His hair is wild and untamed underneath, a stark contrast to his entire demeanor in life. My fingers dig deeper, sending a shooting pain down my palms, as I fight the urge to run my hands through his dirty-blond locks. “You’re right. We’re adults. And you know how I feel about Eric. But…” Looking up at the sky and readjusting the cap back on his head, he pauses for a moment.
Malcolm has never been a man of many words. Deep conversations have always been difficult for him. I’ve always assumed it was because he didn’t care to expend the energy on things like that. “Just say how you feel and move on,” he used to say. Irking me more than it should, I would pry for more and drive him mad. Vulnerable conversations are essential in relationships, and there were times I would feel like it was his excuse to avoid them altogether. Eventually, I realized it’s just how he is and grew to accept it—most of the time. But eventually, he started to get deeper with me.
In his own ways. In his own time.
His singular cheek dimple deepens when his jaw tightens—a sign he’s trying to muster the courage to keep talking.
Taking one of my hands with both of his, it stings my chest. The gesture is so intimate and tender I don’t think he realizes how this would look to someone else. The slow, easy touch. A gesture I crave from someone. Something to show me I’m the one they want to have moments like this with. In the middle of a parking lot. Malcolm is the least physical-touch person I have ever met, but over the past five years, he’s become so comfortable in our friendship that these soft, easy touches happen all the time. A hand on my lower back, an arm over my shoulder, a pinch at my waist. These little acts, that are so incredibly personal and intimate, he does with me because we’re friends and he trusts me. But one day, he’ll give them to someone else. Someone he’ll trust more than me. Someone he chooses to live this life with. He does it so naturally with me, and my eyes sting at the thought of losing it to another person.
Don’t be selfish, Kate.
“I want you to be happy,” he says, giving my hand his typical double squeeze. “That’s all I want. And if going out with Eric again makes you happy, then that’s what matters.” He drops my hand slowly, leaving it feeling cold and empty. “I’ll just keep my plan to kidnap him and dump him in the wilderness to myself, unless it’s needed.” A deep, rumbling laugh leaves him as he turns back toward the hotel.