Finding peace, p.7
Finding Peace, page 7
“Relationship?” He looks like he’s suppressing a laugh.
“You do appear to have a sense of humor, the lack of which is my only absolute deal-breaker, but let’s save us both some time and call this now.” I point from his chest back to mine. “We’re not ever going to work out. I’ll save you another hour of awkward conversation in which I try not to let on that I’m a washed up author who can’t sell the kinds of books she wants to write, and you’re forced to keep evading questions about the real reason you’re here, which I’m now imagining has something to do with a dead body and a shovel.”
His mouth hangs open for a moment, but when the waitress arrives with a styrofoam container for my fries, he starts to laugh.
I dump the fries into the container and close it. “Judging by your reaction, we can still both leave this interaction in a good mood. I got some delicious fries, and you didn’t offend your friend Geo by turning me down flat.”
I spin on my cute, not-at-all-like-a-lily heels and walk away.
At least I ended the date well. I check my watch. I’ve got almost an hour to kill until my interview for a waitress position at Golden Gloves, which is only a few miles away. I decide to eat my fries in the park and watch people.
I love watching people.
Most authors I know do it. It’s almost the perfect writing exercise, honestly. I make up conversations for the couples, mostly, which makes sense given my romantic comedy background.
I start with the long-haired hippie and his sweater-set-wearing girlfriend. Like, how did that happen? Maybe the barista at Starbucks mixed up her non-fat latté and his soymilk blondie? Their eyes locked, and his hair reminded her of that one crush she never spoke to in high school? He secretly craves someone who will scold him like his mother always did, but even more secretly longs for her acceptance?
Or then there’s a forty-year-old woman who’s clearly meeting the twenty-something guy in this park because it’s really, really far from anyone she knows. Is she divorced? Widowed? Was he her kids’ babysitter a few years ago, and they bumped into each other cycling in the park?
Is the college-aged jogging couple as perfectly in unison as they look, from their matching Nikes all the way up to their sweat soaked brows? Or perhaps she’s thinking, even now, about her boss. And he’s trying to figure out how to break up with her and not lose his favorite jogging route.
When did I get so jaded?
I close my eyes and eat the last French fry.
I force myself to think up happy endings for the next half dozen couples, and something odd happens. A weight lifts from my chest. A chef that bakes his girlfriend a baguette that says, “Marry me.” She swoons with joy. A marathon runner who finds a diamond ring in the toe of her shoe early one morning. “Run through life with me,” her hunky body-builder boyfriend says as he hands her a Gatorade.
Sometimes I wish the world thought it was okay to be in love with love. Why does a story have to be ‘deep’ and ‘meaningful’? If my love stories make me happy, why isn’t that enough?
I sigh as I force myself to head to my interview.
Because in the real world, not everything ends with happily ever after. People leave, and people die, and even when they stay, it’s all shades of grey and tan and taupe. No matter how much I wish it was, the real world isn’t full of sparkles and glitter. It just isn’t, no matter how much I wish it to be true. That’s why I should be writing about more important things and not ‘fluff’ as Patrick always called it.
I’m not as excited as I ought to be when I arrive for my interview, ten minutes early as usual, but maybe that’s good. Hopefully I won’t make stupid jokes and tank this one. I really need a job.
As I approach the diner, it’s clear that the golden gloves are, in fact, boxing gloves. The image of huge golden boxing gloves is larger than the words on the sign overhead as I walk into the diner. That’s a plot twist. The entire front of the diner is glass, and only a handful of customers are present right now, which is probably normal for three p.m. on a Wednesday, hence the interview time.
When I walk through the door, a little bell jingles brightly, and a woman with her hair pulled into a loose bun on the top of her head looks up. She’s probably in her fifties, but her eyes are kind, and she’s in great shape. “Are you Anica?”
“I am.”
“This might be a little odd, but my waitress called in sick at the last minute. Any chance you’d be okay with your interview being more of a hands on variety?”
“Will this interview come with tips?”
She beams at me. “I can already tell that you’re my kind of girl.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I say. I grab a menu and start scanning. Pretty standard stuff. Burgers, fries, including sweet potato, my favorite, and milk shakes. A decent sampling of normal diner options, including breakfast all day, and a variety of basic salads. I snap it shut.
“You ready?” The woman bobs her head at a table in the corner with two teenagers sitting at it. “I’m Barbara, by the way.”
“Great,” I say. “And sure.”
I stroll across the shiny tile floor and stop in front of them. “Can I help you?”
They both blink at me. “Do you work here?” The gangly boy asks.
I have to work not to stare at the impressively large pimple on his forehead. “Maybe. This is my trial run.”
“Oh.” He looks down at his menu. “Well, we’re not sure what we want yet.”
I slide into the booth next to the girl. “Tight budget?”
The girl’s eyes widen.
“Believe me, I’ve been there.” I smile. “I’m Anica, and I have a little secret for you. Your best option if you’ve got limited cash is almost always breakfast food. You can get a pancake combo for under six bucks, and it’s usually enough food to share.”
“Can you bring two plates?” The girl gulps. “Or do they charge more for that?”
I don’t laugh, but I do smile. “Absolutely I can, and there’s no extra charge. I’ll even throw in two sets of silverware.”
“We’ll tip you well, I promise.” The boy’s voice cracks when he says promise, and I just want to hug them both.
“I’m sure you will.”
When I pick up the order and grab an extra plate, the cook tosses an extra piece of bacon on. That’s when I know this is a decent place to work. “Thanks,” I say.
The kids split everything right down the middle when it comes, and I revise my original assessment. “Brother and sister?” I ask.
They both bob their heads. When it’s time to pay, I refuse their money and pay for their meal myself. I need money, but not as badly as them. “Don’t take each other for granted, okay?”
“I’d never do that,” the boy says. “Lauren’s my sister, but she’s also my best friend.”
“Good,” I say.
When I get back to the register, Barbara watches me closely. When I grab menus for the trio that just walked in, she says, “You’re hired.” She touches my shoulder. “Not many people are kind anymore.”
So she noticed that I refused their money. “Not nearly enough.”
When the first dinner waitress, Pearl, shows up just before five, I’m almost sad to leave. “Thanks for helping me out today,” Barbara says. “I know it was unorthodox, but I wanted to let you know that the customers have all loved you so far. Any chance that you can work a double tomorrow and lunch Friday?”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll see you then.”
My heart is decidedly lighter when I walk out, with a spring in my step that I’ve missed. I shouldn’t be embarrassed when I tell people I’m a waitress. Serving people has value, and bringing food to hungry people does, too. I’m almost to my car, which looks pretty much like every other car in the parking lot, when I notice another car. A very conspicuous one.
A bright blue convertible Porsche.
Did Ethan follow me here for some reason? I look around but don’t see him. There’s a shipping kiosk, a corner market, and right next to the Golden Gloves, a red brick building with a sign above that says “H. Lunger Gym.”
There’s a gym here? Ethan could have passed two other grocery stores to come to this one, but it seems more likely, given his delicious build, that he’s at the gym. A sudden desire to make sure he’s not a stalker grips me. One little peek into the gym should confirm that he’s actively engaged and not following me around. Plus, he’s easy on the eyes. I wouldn’t mind seeing him work out, as long as he doesn’t notice me looking.
Then he might think I was the stalker.
I cross the street again quickly and poke my head around the corner. Luckily, the door of the gym has a big window on it. I’m peering through when a huge bald man’s face appears just in front of mine. He smiles at me and shoves the door open.
“You lost?” He grins, and even though I know it’s idiotic, my heart races. I have a serious soft spot for alpha males, the kind that are all wrong for a soft-spoken, introverted writer like me.
“Uh, no. I’m new in Atlanta, and I was just looking for a place to work out.”
“We don’t train ladies here,” he says. “But I’m Chad. I’d be happy to work with you in my free time.”
“Oh, well thanks, but—”
“What’s going on?” A gruff voice asks.
“Nothing, Coach. Just getting a number. I’ll be right there.” Chad smiles at me and I almost consider giving him my number. Almost, but not quite. As wrong as Ethan was for me, this guy is probably worse.
Ethan! I was supposed to be looking for him, not flirting.
“I’d better go,” I say.
“Anica?”
Ethan’s standing behind Chad, just tall enough to see me over his shoulder.
“Oh.” I want to die on the spot. What was I thinking coming over here? Now he’s definitely going to think I’m following him.
“Wait, are you pretty boy’s girlfriend?” Chad asks.
“No,” I say at the same time that Ethan says, “Yes.”
Chad’s grin couldn’t be bigger. “Well, you know where you can find me if you decide you want some—” he wiggles his eyebrows “—training, sweetheart.” He turns around and walks past Ethan and the older man toward the back of the gym.
“What are you doing here?” Ethan asks, walking toward me quickly.
“I saw your car,” I admit. “And I was hoping you were in here, and not. . . ”
His eyebrows rise. “Creeping on you?”
It’s my turn to laugh this time. “It seems ridiculous when you put it that way, but kind of.”
“Well, you’re safe. This is a bizarre coincidence, nothing more.”
“What kind of gym is this?” I ask, peering around his broad shoulders. “Are you a fighter, pretty boy Ethan?” I swallow. “Is that your big secret? Are you here to train for something?”
“Not hardly,” he says. “But I do enjoy an occasional sparring match when I have a rough day.”
“Why was today so rough?” I can’t help asking, even though I know he’ll dodge the question. “Our date wasn’t great, but it wasn’t that bad.”
“What are you here for?” he asks.
I point to the left. “I just got a job next door.”
“A job? Writing?” His nose scrunches and it makes him so cute I wish I could grab him and kiss him.
What is wrong with me? “When I get stuck, like I’ve been for, I don’t know, the last few years, I wait tables. Glamorous, right?”
“Well, it’s real,” Ethan says. “And in my experience, real beats glamorous every single time.”
“Yeah—I’m the queen of real. I prefer burgers over salad, remember?” I glance behind him. “And it looks like you prefer controlled brawls in a gym to a good bar fight. Seems smarter.” I tilt my head. “I might have been a little hasty. We might have more in common than I realized.”
“And to set the record straight on one point, I don’t even like my Porsche. That’s my dad’s fault—he’s obsessed with them. I haven’t had time to do much about his overly generous gift yet.”
A dad who gives Porsches as a gift? “I’m feeling a little unloved. Last year my parents gave me a Nook e-reader for Christmas.”
He snorts. “I would have preferred that, actually. Look, maybe we could try this over again,” he says. “You can struggle to tell me the truth in spite of my beautiful face, and I can try to use more than three or four words to answer when you ask me a question.”
An above average sense of humor, seemingly. “Alright, sure,” I say. “But on one condition.”
He lifts one golden eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“You let me stay here and watch you pummel someone.”
“I’m not even sure whether I’m—”
“You can,” the Coach says. “I’d like to see you up against Flint.”
“I knew it,” I say. “You are training.”
“Totally wrong,” Ethan says. “I used to train with Harrison, but right now I’m just blowing off steam.”
“For now, that’s true,” the Coach who I assume is Harrison says. “But if you stay and watch, you’ll see that this boy is really something special.”
“Or you’ll see me lose a tooth, and everyone will stop calling me pretty boy. You never really know how a fight is going to go.”
I can tell that’s one of the things he likes about it, this baffling Porsche-driving Hawaii fanatic, who’s not at all what I thought he was.
“If I let you stay, then you have to let me take you out tomorrow.” Ethan lifts one eyebrow questioningly.
“Assuming you’re not busy getting emergency dental work, you mean?” I ask.
“Exactly,” he says.
“I’ll be working tomorrow, next door. Sorry.”
“Lunch and dinner?” His eyebrows rise.
“Check and double check.”
“Right, well, how about Friday?”
“I’m only working lunch, but I kind of promised I’d babysit my niece and nephew that night. Their parents have a standing game night with a bunch of friends.”
“I like kids.”
Huh? “Are you saying you’d be fine having our redo date be . . . babysitting?”
“I doubt there would be any awkward conversations,” he says. “Or any lulls. Kids kind of iron that sort of thing out.”
“Well, we are supposed to be watching the second Incredibles movie. When Chase found out I hadn’t seen it, I thought he was going to explode.”
“Now I really want to come.” His dimples should be licensed as deadly weapons.
“Alright,” I say. “If you let me watch yours, you can come see mine.”
Ethan’s grinning as he walks away.
And I can’t seem to stop smiling as he pummels the huge guy Harrison sends into the ring to fight him. His old coach is totally right about his hook. It’s killer.
He leans against the edge of the ring as I leave and waves. “See you Friday,” I say.
“I look forward to it,” he says.
Bizarrely, so do I.
7
Ethan
“I’m telling you, you’re a natural. Are you sure you don’t want to train?” Harrison hands me an ice pack for my eye.
“I shouldn’t have even come in today,” I say. “It’s just that I’ve been dealing with some stuff.”
“As I recall, you were dealing with stuff for all four years of college.” Harrison folds his arms and leans against a locker. “No pressure, but I’ll just say this. You always had it in you to be the best, not just alright, but The Best.”
“I’m a boxer, not an expert at this mixed martial arts stuff you do now.”
Harrison guffaws. “That’s what they want, son, boxers. Believe me. The wrestlers, they win a lot, don’t get me wrong. You’d need to learn holds and a wider array of strikes, but that’s not the sexy part of UFC. Wrestling holds are not what draw the crowds. Do you know what clips from UFC get millions of views? It’s the good old-fashioned KOs. The knock outs in five, six, seven seconds, those are watched and talked about, and they’re what keep the franchise hot.” He unfolds his arms and leans toward me. “Do you know who does those, what kind of fighter?”
“Boxers?” I roll my eyes. “Look, I get it. I missed my shot before, yadda yadda. It’s just, that’s not where I see my life going. I’ve never been someone who bets on the long odds.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely positive.”
Harrison shrugs. “Fine. But if you change your mind, I’d be happy to help you put in some work on holds. You’re about fifty times smarter than any other fighter I’ve ever had, and you take a punch like no one I’ve ever trained. Those things combined with your left hook?” He whistles. “I’m really not trying to sell you on it—your head has to be in it. But if it ever was. . .” He walks away, shaking his head.
I head for the locker room to change. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit, if only to myself, that it’s nice to hear. No matter how long I’ve been pretending to be a surfer, deep inside, I’ve always been a fighter, not a peace-loving hippie.
Some things never change.
And if Anica’s working next door. . . On my way out, I pause near my old coach. “Maybe I could come by and work on holds tomorrow afternoon, on the late side, after work.”
Harrison doesn’t smile, but his lip twitches like holding a straight face is costing him. “Sure. And if you suck at them, I’ll stop bothering you about it.”
“Deal.”
The next day, I show up for work early and get right down to business. By three, I’ve only got loose ends to tie up. Which is good, because I’m antsy, and I keep thinking about blushing cheeks and cornflower blue eyes.
