Just Lunch Page 4

  ~4~

  I’m stretching with one knee bent and the other leg extended behind me, when I look up and see him again. We run on the same schedule almost every morning. I get to the track around ten, and he’s generally already there and stretching, or comes shortly after I do.

  He is tall and chocolate-brown, with a wiry but well-muscled frame. I notice him not only because he is often here at the same time as me, but because he has amazing calves. They are the calves of an Olympic sprinter.

  As he walks up, to begin stretching next to me at the two-foot high wall that surrounds the track, I am actually in the process of letting my eyes drift downward to his calves yet again when he speaks.

  “You again, huh?”

  I shrug. “Me again. It sucks, right?”

  “What does?” He takes off a fleece pullover and tosses it so that it’s draped over the wall.

  “When you’re about to have a silent, meditative run, and some stranger wanders up and ruins it?”

  He laughs at that, and extends a hand. “I’m Eric,” he says as I take it. “And yeah, it does suck. Unless the stranger is a pretty woman in fluorescent green shorts and a bright yellow tank top. And matching sneakers …” His eyes fall to my feet. “Very impressive how you got all that to … line up like that, color-wise, by the way.”

  I know he’s basically making fun of these obvious markers that I’m a newbie runner, but I don’t care. Starting this new pastime and sticking to it, is one of the few things I’ve done for myself in a long time that makes me proud.

  I nod solemnly. “It wasn’t easy.”

  “I bet.”

  “In fact, it was quite a project. I went to like, four stores before I found exactly the right shade of yellow.”

  Then we are both laughing and I have a guilty jolt of recognition.

  This is what they call “flirtatious banter.” And I am having it with someone other than Rand. It feels treacherous, because flirtation of any kind is Rand’s and my thing. It is peppered throughout every conversation we have, and carries just a hint of the sex we are about to have, have just had, or—if we’re on the phone—sex we are thinking about having.

  Even the most mundane exchanges between us are like that. And for some reason, I thought it was something that could only happen with him. Our irrational chemistry carries over into almost constant teasing and flirting that I thought of as unique, because it hadn’t happened to me with another person before.

  But this man, this Eric, is showing me otherwise, and I resent him for it.

  “And your name is …?” he prompts.

  “Danielle,” I say, looking away from him before the urge to flirt hits me again.

  “You training for something?” he asks.

  “Nope. Just trying to get the machine fine-tuned, and keep it humming like it should.”

  At that, a corner of his mouth lifts into a smile. I can see and feel him assessing me with interest.

  “You’re pretty disciplined about it,” he says, nodding. “ I see you here almost every day. Ever thought about doing an event?”

  “Like what?”

  “Maybe a 5k or something?”

  I make a scoffing sound.

  “Okay, so you probably run that far every day right here,” he concedes. “So, a half-marathon then.”

  “Now that,” I say, “would be an interesting challenge.”

  “There’s one in Brooklyn next month,” Eric says. “If you’re interested, I can send you the details.”

  I hesitate, then nod. “Cool. I’ll take a look.”

  He extends a hand and I think for a moment he wants to shake on it, until he indicates my phone, strapped to my arm. I un-holster it, and hand it wordlessly to him. He briefly shows it to me so I can unlock the screen then types something in. I hear his phone ring in the fleece pullover, and then he hands my phone back.

  “Have a good run, Danielle,” he says.

  Then he takes off around the track.

  Wearing a close-fitting Under Armour shirt and a pair of those trendy tapered sweatpants that guys are into these days, he looks like the picture of the All-American athlete. I watch him for a moment and wonder whether this is how it works.

  Is that how women meet men, and then hook up with them? Was I just picked up by a dude? The thought both thrills and alarms me. And I’m only alarmed because I’m thrilled.

  It was just under three months ago that I was a complete virgin. I had never even handled a penis let alone had one inside me. And true, I have been making up for lost time with Rand, but to think, or feel anything vaguely like attraction to another man? What does that make me?

  My eyes drift toward Eric on the track.

  All this means is that I’m not accustomed to male attention. And I will likely be giddy like this until one day, in the very distant future, I get used to the idea that there is, on this planet, a small subset of men who find me attractive.

  Eric makes his first lap around the track and when he’s alongside me, begins running backwards.

  “No slacking off, Danielle!” And then he winks, which makes me blush. Again.

  Shit. Am I going to have to find someplace else to run?

  “How’RE things with Danielle?”

  “We’re good,” I say.

  But now my antennae are up. My sister thinks she’s slick, but the way she asked that was much too casual. We’re shopping for linens for the new place I’m renting in Bristol, the weekday crash-pad that I’ve recently decided it makes sense for me to rent after all. Alexa told me during that celebration lunch that occasionally after shows, the management and on-air personalities go out for drinks, to socialize a little

  ‘It’s all basically bullshit,’ she said. ‘But it definitely smooths things over when the time comes to negotiate your contract. Not to mention, some of them are fans. Don’t forget that. They’re football fans, and if The Rocket hangs out with them … they’re bound to be a lot nicer come contract time.’

  So that basically tipped the balance, and I accelerated my plan to find a place where Little Rocket and I can crash in Bristol. And I have no idea how to shop to get a place set up, so Freya took some time off her weekend routine to help me get stuff to make it feel like a second home for my son.

  “Are you ever going to bring her around? It’s not like I don’t already know her.”

  “Freya. Can I chill with just her for a minute before you start putting her through your little interrogations?”

  “What interrogations?” Freya drops a white towel she’s been fondling for thread-count or whatever. She stares at me with accusatory eyes. “I like Danielle. Is it wrong for me to want her to come over, get to know her a little bit better?”

  “No, but I know you. It’ll be much more than that. I don’t want her to feel pressured.”

  “Rand, all I’m talking about is steaks on the grill before it gets too cold, a little wine, and some conversation. I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

  I’m thinking that my sister needs to slow her roll. I know she likes Dani. She likes her enough to try to force the issue of where we might be “going” long before I get a chance to savor just being where we are. Where we are works for me right now. I’m diggin’ this woman like I haven’t dug anyone in a long time. No drama, no demands, just … chill.

  Like right now? On a Saturday around noon, I haven’t even called her yet. And she isn’t blowing up my phone, texting and asking where I am and what I’m doing. She’s out doing … whatever. Since it’s a small town, sometimes I even run into her when I’m getting my haircut, or picking something up in the grocery store, and she never does that thing that women you’re involved with sometimes do—move in close so everyone in the vicinity knows they’re more than just a friend.

  Instead, she kneels down to talk to Little Rocket if he’s with me, always greeting him first as though he’s the one she wanted to see—she squats to his level and talks to him like a person, even though the conversation he has
with her tends to be brief—and only once that’s done does she stand upright again and give me one of those smiles.

  ‘Hey you,’ she’ll say, and then we stare at each other a while, grinning like a couple of teenagers. The way she says those two little words: ‘hey, you’ gets me every time. For someone who’d never had sex before me, now, she is just naturally … sexy. It feels like I helped her activate a superpower she probably didn’t even know she had.

  “Anyway, when are we talking about going to Bristol to get all this stuff in the new place?” Freya asks, sighing.

  I’m relieved she’s given up for the moment, talking about Dani.

  Dani is just mine right now, and I like it that way. I don’t want to share any part of what we’ve got going on. I don’t want to expose it to anyone’s scrutiny, judgment, or even their friendly observation. There’s a certain purity to it, and I’m not saying it won’t be ‘pure’ if she comes over to Freya and Garrett’s for steak and wine. It’ll still be that, but once I open that door, it won’t still be just mine.

  “Next weekend. Probably Friday. I have to just send back the signed lease for the unit.”

  “Which did you pick again?”

  I’d shown my sister a couple of options online, for places that I was considering. All of them townhomes since I didn’t need a whole lot of space for what was going to be little more than a weekday crash-pad.

  “It’s the one in that townhouse community that my co-worker recommended to me.”

  “Co-worker,” Freya snorts.

  When I mentioned Alexa by name, Freya almost immediately did a little cyber-investigation, pulling up pictures of her online to show to Garrett. Now, because Alexa dresses a little on the sexier side, and is into social media, Freya’s convinced she’s bad news. (‘What kind of sportscaster dresses like that on the sideline? She ain’t foolin’ nobody.’) It didn’t matter that I explained that being on Twitter, and getting follows on Instagram from fans and players is part of the gig, and helps increase viewership for your show.

  Personally, I have plans to find an intern who’ll do that for me, but I’m not going to judge if that’s Alexa’s thing. I just know now, from hard experience, that it isn’t for me.

  “How much you want to bet she happens to live in that same townhome community?”

  “And what if she does?” I ask. “That would make sense. So, she’d know it’s a decent place to live.”

  I already know that Alexa lives in the same community, because she made it a point to tell me so. I don’t care where she lives, but am sure that Freya wouldn’t buy it, so I keep that little tidbit to myself.

  Rolling her eyes, my sister returns her attention to the towels. She loads eight of them into our cart, setting aside the white ones in favor of grey, which makes sense since everything white in my house winds up grey anyway.

  Tossing in some washrags and hand towels as an afterthought, she moves on to the bed linens, and I follow her, feeling vaguely bored by the entire process. And then, as I watch the back of her head, her loose ponytail resting on her shoulder, a memory comes to me, of my freshman year at USC.

  We’d flown out to California early because I had football camp, and she and Garrett took me shopping for my dorm room. It was like this; me trailing behind her in, I think, a Walmart. She was snippy and irritable that day, asking me my preferences and then hating the choices I made.

  I remember we had an argument right there in the middle of the store because I didn’t understand why she needed me along if she was only going to criticize everything I picked. And I remember wanting her to leave and head back home so I could bond with my new teammates, and get a taste of that sweet college freedom.

  When she wandered off down an aisle to grab I don’t even know what, Garrett had yoked me around the neck in a hug that felt just on the verge of threatening. Then, speaking in a low voice, his mouth close to my ear he said, ‘You better correct your attitude before I have to correct it for you. This is hard for her. Seeing you go so far away. So, tighten the fuck up.’

  Thinking about that now, my eyes almost well up.

  “Frey,” I say.

  “Hmm?” She doesn’t even look up. She is still too busy contemplating sheets. “Too girly?”

  I look at the light blue floral-patterned sheet set she has in her hands.

  “Nah,” I say, though it is. “It’s fine. I just …” I swallow a lump in my throat.

  “You just what, Rand?” She glances over her shoulder at me and sees something in my eyes that causes her to turn to give me her full attention. She rests a hand on my forearm.

  “Thank you,” I say to her.

  “For what?” She sounds almost insulted. “Stop it. Let’s just finish up this shopping.”

  She squeezes my arm briefly before letting go, and turning to look at sheets again.

  I look suspiciously at the green liquid in the clear plastic cup that Eric hands me and grimace.

  “I promise, you’ll like it,” he says.

  “How would you know?” I challenge. “You just met me two seconds ago.”

  “Even a little kid would like it,” he says. “It’s the color that’s throwing you off.”

  When I got through with my run at the high school, he was already done with his, but when I got back to the parking lot I found him there, leaning against a huge, black Ford truck, doing something on his phone.

  ‘Are you waiting for me?’ I said, when he looked up.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

  That wasn’t the response I was expecting. I was just being a smart-ass, which is my default setting when I don’t know what to do. Seeing him standing there was like clumsily bumping into someone on the sidewalk, and then walking into a building, and winding up alone with them on the same elevator.

  He said he was about to text me the details about the half-marathon, but as he was doing that, thought maybe he could tell me about it in person if I wanted to head over with him to get an after-workout smoothie.

  I wasn’t exactly a smoothie person, because according to my Weight Watchers app, they could put a real dent in your points’ allowance. And, frankly, because they sometimes looked like the sludge I was holding in the plastic cup Eric just handed to me.

  “It’s got veggies in it, but fruit as well. Believe me, you’ll be into it. Gives you more energy than five cups of coffee.”

  “So my heart’s going to burst out of my chest, basically.”

  “No. But you’ll power through the rest of your day as though you hadn’t just run four miles.”

  “That does sound like it might be worth it,” I admit, thinking about the long list of errands awaiting me once I get back home, and shower.

  Since the run, I’ve been feeling a little self-righteous, so was thinking about blowing everything off and rewarding myself with a day snuggled in bed, watching some long, subtitled Scandinavian detective series that caught my eye on Netflix.

  “It is definitely worth it.” Eric nods at the cup in my hand.

  Lifting the straw to my lips, I take a slight pull. When the thick, ice-cold mixture hits my tongue, I am surprised. I look at Eric who is nodding in triumph.

  “Huh?” he says. “What’d I tell you?”

  “Delicious,” I admit, taking a longer, more enthusiastic sip.

  “And it won’t mess up your diet.”

  “What makes you think I’m on a diet?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows.

  “Women are always on a diet,” he says dryly.

  Despite myself, I am smiling at him again, because he has a quick wit. Great on the set-ups for one-liners, and funny, without being too funny. Because too funny, sadly, is not sexy.

  Eric inclines his head in the direction of the cluster of tables and chairs off to one corner of the juice bar. “Want to sit for a little? I’m about to grab something for myself and then I can tell you about the marathon.”

  “So, it’s not something I can read about online, or …”

  E
ric smiles. He has the smile of someone who smiles often. It’s easy and relaxed, and asks nothing of me—not even a smile in return.

  “You have a man or something?” he asks.

  The question catches me off guard. I don’t think anyone has ever asked me that before. At least not in so forthright a manner.

  “I … no, not really.” Right?

  “Then why’re you so skittish?”

  “I’m not … skittish,” I bluster.

  He smiles. “Ah, so you’re one of those women who have ‘it’s complicated’ as their relationship status on Facebook.”

  “I don’t do social media,” I say, sidestepping the real issue.

  “Lemme get this ginger citrus smoothie, and we can … y’know, work things out.” There’s that smile again.

  Then Eric turns to rejoin the line, and I stand there for a while, wondering what the heck hit me. This guy is like a bulldozer. He just rolled right on over me, and before I knew what was happening, here I am with him, about to sit down for a smoothie and “work things out” whatever that means.

  I grab a table that has just been vacated by two women with swishy ponytails and yoga outfits, and watch as Eric finishes his transaction. Then I reach for my phone and glance at the face.

  It’s almost two p.m. and I’ve missed three calls, and two text messages.

  None of them are from Rand.

  ~5~

  “So … the other day was fun. You interested in doing it again?”

  I freeze at the question. A beautiful, accomplished woman who excels in the field I am joining, is asking me whether I want to go out with her. And by her tone, I’m sure she doesn’t mean professionally this time.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say noncommittally. “We’ll find some time on the calendar when I’m back up there.”

  This time, Alexa is calling about the townhouse. She wants to know whether I signed the lease on a unit that works for me. And once I tell her that I have, she wants to know whether I need any help getting things set up. I tell her my sister has all that covered, and then the conversation veers into more personal territory.