5. tallulah
TALLULAH
SORRY WRONG NUMBER
I had no idea why Nick was talking to me.
What was different now?
Tapping my pen against the internship’s paperwork spread out on the little tray over my seat, I happened to glance Nick’s way. His dark eyes flickered to mine, his expression unreadable. My face heated and I dropped my gaze, retreating to my task.
I’d never realized how intense his eyes were.
His arm brushed against mine when he bent to plug in his phone. His sleeves were rolled up, and in those few seconds I could feel the lines of hard muscle snaking up his arm.
I couldn’t get him out of my thoughts. He was so naturally intense, he made me nervous. Interrogating me in line for security, inviting me to breakfast, the attempt of a handshake, he was so abrupt. I didn't know how to handle it.
The anxiety continued until we touched down in Toronto. Shoulders finally relaxed, I kept my eyes focused on the window. If I couldn’t see Nick, he wasn’t there. This attractive man I’d never paid attention to before because he wouldn’t let me.
With a click, the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign dimmed above us and everybody stood up together, the air thick with anticipation for us to stretch our legs.
“Tallulah?” Nick had to crouch under the overhead compartment, he was so tall, and now so much closer to me. “I want a new introduction with you.”
“Oh,” I managed.
His hand hovered above mine again, open for a handshake, and this time, I didn’t have one of his past hookups screaming in his face to bypass it. It wasn’t like I wanted to reject the handshake. A handshake was so formal, and I’d always been awkward with them. Biting my lip, I slowly took his hand.
Butterflies.
Instant butterflies erupted inside of me like someone kicked open the door to an emporium. His hands were big and calloused and so very warm—the blush burned across my skin.
Which wasn’t how I was supposed to feel when it came to Fridge’s teammate. Fridge’s best friend.
“Dude, get your bag,” a voice snapped behind Nick.
Nick blinked at me, only releasing his hand when someone reached for the overhead bin above him.
“Sorry,” Nick muttered, stepping out to the aisle.
My heart was pounding so hard, the tension between us was too much to breathe through. What was I thinking? Blushing over a guy like Nick? He could’ve had half of the plane wrapped around his finger, why was I thinking about him like that?
I sidestepped him, cutting to the aisle, clutching my backpack and purse. I needed distance. Being that close wasn’t a good idea.
Nick called after me. “Tallulah—”
“Goodbye!” I squeaked. The high-pitch tone made me flinch. After months of being ignored by him, I was no better than any of the other girls who openly gawked at him during their team warm-ups.
I burst into the airport itself and hiked my backpack over my shoulder, taking quick breaths to calm down. Nick’s intensity was so different than anything I was used to. He left my head in a spin.
My phone buzzed from my back pocket.
Fridge Fowler
Hey, Nick?
Can you keep an eye on Tallulah for me?
Me
What?
Fridge Fowler
Sorry, wrong number.
That wave of heat evaporated in a puff of smoke. Was that why Nick was so close to me during the flight? Was this text a reminder, Fridge already asked him to watch over me? Embarrassment flooded my system, leaving me gaping at my phone. Nick asked for a new introduction because of Fridge.
Of course that was why he’d talked to me.
Mortified, I picked up the pace through the enormous Toronto airport, passing the tourist decorations I’d wanted to snap pictures of for my family’s group chat. Absolutely no stopping. I needed as much space between me and Nick as possible.
The sooner I could get away from him, the better.
It took half an hour for me to get through customs, avoiding Nick at every turn. Not only was I embarrassed—how could I think that Nick was looking at me like that?—it was Fridge’s text messages that left me on edge. I didn’t want Nick to keep an eye on me.
This trip to Canada wasn’t only about the summer internship. It was my first step away from my family, my university, and my ex-boyfriend. I’d been relying on those support systems way too much. I wanted to grow outside of their influence, to reinvent myself. A new me.
Fuck dependable. Fuck reliable.
I wanted to be spontaneous and fun and unexpected this summer.
The bus to the Olympic Village was easy to spot with the big Toronto Olympics banner blasted on its side. I ducked through the crowd, heart thrumming for a very different reason than Nick Kurosawa. I stowed my suitcase in the bus’s underbelly, more ready than ever.
This was it. No backing out, no running scared.
I climbed aboard. A dozen students were scattered through the seats, my fellow interns, ready to embark on this adventure. I steeled my nerves and waved. “Hi, hello—um—internship people!”
Most ignored me. A few offered curt nods.
I froze, hand falling to my side. “Oh. Um…never mind.”
I hid in the first empty seat, the back of my neck hot. Why did I do that?
A man stepped aboard, downing the rest of his coffee. I instantly recognized him—Andrew West. His corporate photo was in our internship’s welcome email. He seemed oblivious to the frigid mood. “Good afternoon!”
No one said anything. I offered a weak smile.
“Welcome to Toronto. My name’s Andrew.” He inhaled through his nose, eyes scanning over the bus.
“The Bud A. Weckhorst Internship was put together by Commissioner Joe Tomasini to offer a student-view of the Summer Olympics. He’d love to be here but—” Andrew laughed a laugh that didn’t sound quite genuine “—he has a lot on his plate. You’ll be reporting to me—”
“When do we meet the Olympians?” a girl interrupted.
His fixed smile vanished. “Excuse me?”
“When—?”
“If you have a question, could you try not throwing it at my face? You’re an adult, not a toddler. Act like it.”
Oh my god.
Silence fell over the bus and my eyes darted between Andrew and the navy-blue fabric of the seat in front of me. Did he seriously say that? Where did the sudden animosity come from? The bus pulled away from the curb, jostling us, and no one said a word.
“Can anyone tell me what we’ll be working on? Before we start our project on the Olympians?” Andrew asked, his tone cold.
His sudden mood swing made me nervous. I knew the answer, but hell no I wouldn’t say it.
“At least tell me why we’re not talking to the Olympians yet,” he pushed. “Why is that not possible? Say something. It’s in your inbox.”
The reason was on my lips, and I mouthed it, unable to raise my hand.
Andrew’s eyes sliced to mine. “What was that?”
“I—I—” My words were lodged in my throat. “Because the Olympic teams haven’t been officiated yet?”
“Wow. Someone read the emails.” He motioned my way, his hand curled over the empty coffee cup. “Miss…?”
“Tallulah?” I offered, shrinking in my seat.
“Tallulah,” he repeated, nodding. “Tomasini’s commission doesn’t consider the teams official until six weeks before the Olympics. So, if we’re not interviewing Olympians, what’ll we be doing instead?”
I already gave an answer, wasn’t that enough?
Couldn’t someone else do it?
“If someone doesn’t answer, we’ll sit outside of the Olympic Village with our suitcases,” he warned. “I swear, if I see one of you open your phone to read an email you should’ve already—”
“Researching important historical structures of Toronto,” I blurted out.
“Thank you, Tallulah.”
I wished he didn’t acknowledge me at all. As soon as he had his answers, Andrew gave a brief overview of the city’s history. I jotted notes in my notebook, ears burning, freshly determined never to upset him.
He tapped the window as we pulled off the main road. “Welcome to the Olympic Village!”
Toronto’s waterfront was filled with construction. A crowd of hard hats stood below as a gigantic logo of the Olympic rings was hoisted over one of the buildings. I was so grateful for the distraction, and Andrew seemed a little more pleasant when we disembarked.
I rolled my suitcase to the entrance, bending fully back to look up at the buildings. They were so tall and imposing. We crossed into a lobby in the midst of construction with an enormous courtyard built inside, mostly red tape and fluttering plastic wraps.
“Your dormitories are this way.” Andrew gestured us to follow him, pushing aside a stack of cardboard boxes blocking the elevators. “Roommate assignments are listed on the doors!”
Our rooms were more like storage closets. We didn’t even have our own bathrooms. Since the piping system wasn’t finished, the entire floor had to share one. Which wasn’t listed in the internship’s welcome packet.
Disappointment tried to move in, but I refused to let it ruin my first day in Canada. I was staying in the Olympic Village. This was an opportunity of a lifetime, I had to be grateful.
I peered into what would be my room for the summer. Two twin beds, a single desk, no windows. The names on the door said Tallulah + Winona.
A girl held out her hand, her dark hair tied in an impeccably smooth ponytail. “Winona McCarthy. Originally Worcester U, now Liberty. What fellowship are you with?”
“Fellowship?” I echoed, taking her hand.
“Who’s your benefactor? Association?”
“I—I don’t have any of those.”
“No, seriously.”
“I—I am serious?”
Her eyebrows furrowed, and she shot a confused look at the closest intern, a guy with a flat cap and a permanent scowl. Without another word, they moved on, and I shuffled after them, wishing my hands hadn’t been so clammy for the handshake.
There wasn’t much to see of the Village itself.
So much of it was too dangerous to visit, with yellow-warning signs on the doors restricting people from investigating.
The only section that seemed complete was our workstation.
Arguably, it was the best part of our makeshift tour.
We had cubicles to work in, a meeting room with wall-to-wall bookshelves, and our own copy room.
I trailed behind the rest of the group, unsure of how to feel. It was an adorable workstation, but this internship wasn’t what I expected. Not at all.
“I guess someone’s spilled the secret,” Andrew said lightly and everyone straightened up.
Secret? With a quick glance around, I realized nobody else looked confused. What secret?
“You’ll have a paper and a profile to complete for this internship,” he reminded us, which was already outlined in our emails.
“Tomasini and his panel of judges will determine a winner for each project.” He took a deep breath, as if he was waiting for a drum roll.
“The person selected from that duo of winners will get to interview Joe Tomasini himself for The Toronto Chronicle.”
Oh my god, The Toronto Chronicle? That was it! That was why everybody was glaring at each other. We were competing for the same prize. This was a battle of blood for a spot in one of the biggest newspapers in North America.
Well, they were competing. Not me.
I wanted to be a journalist. Not in front of a camera, or running my own newsletter, or a one-woman show, no, I wanted to research and report on stories that no one else bothered to.
I especially wanted to work for The Oklahoma Record, with their Tulsa-based investigative branch. They’d already rejected my internship applications five years in a row, but with the Olympics on my resume, I was hoping the sixth time would be the charm.
That was what I wanted.
Interviewing Joe Tomasini, some famous retired hockey coach, was nowhere near my list of goals.
Sure, winning the competition would’ve given real credit to my name, but I was already working for the Olympics. Competitions like this had never been my strong suit, and I didn’t want anyone to be my rival. The rest of them could fight each other to the death. Leave me out of it.
“I do have to warn you…” Andrew reached behind a desk, fishing something out. “The Olympians train hard and play hard.”
Something flew through the air and I fumbled for it before I realized what it was.
I gawked at the hundred-count box of condoms. “Oh, gosh.”
“These athletes are here to have fun.” Andrew tossed more boxes. “We don’t want any pregnancy scares. There’s free condom vending machines on every floor, free STI testing at the medical center Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
I couldn’t believe how casually he was talking about sex or the group’s indifferent reaction. It was like they’d heard it before. Some of them even stuffed the boxes in their backpacks.
Well…
While Andrew talked about the rules of the Olympic Village, I slipped out the folded piece of paper from my wallet. It’d been folded so many times, there were deep creases.
It was my incredibly inappropriate bucket list of seven items. One of them crossed off, one of them I’d given up on, so I’d crossed that one off too. Which still left five items to accomplish.
This bucket list had gone untouched for a long time. Ever since I’d broached it with Fridge…I didn’t want to think about that. With new resolve, I placed the box of condoms in my backpack.
This trip wasn’t about Fridge. It was about me.
And I planned on using that box.