Happy New You

by St John Brown, Brenda

  “Obviously when you’re learning to cook this signature dish, you’ll need a taster.” He grins. “Just saying.”

  “I think you mean I’ll need a tutor, then a taster. You haven’t seen my cooking skills.” I can’t even remember the last time I turned on the oven because I live on takeout and client dinners. Which reminds me...I smack my hand down on the table as I scribble on my napkin, “8. Prove I’m a team player at work.”

  Mateo leans over to read my writing—it’s not great at the best of times—and he smells kind of amazing, like fresh air and pine trees. Before I can ask him about his cologne, he says, “What does being a team player have to do with cooking?”

  “Nothing.” Although I can just imagine the look on everyone’s face if I brought in homemade baked goods on our monthly Treat Tuesday. It could almost be worth it for the expression on Mark Benson’s face alone. Then I sigh and say, “But my boss says I’m not a team player and it’s a problem.”

  Mateo nods like he knows exactly what I’m talking about, and for all I know, he does. Maybe Dani filled him in on my little episode, which would be horrifying. Even though he’s known me since I had braces and frizzy hair, I don’t want him to see me the way those people in there saw me tonight. “Your fitness resolution can help with that. Maybe we can get you playing some basketball or tennis?”

  I’m glad I didn’t take another sip of champagne because this time it would definitely be coming out my nose. I shake my head. “God, no. Don’t do that, please. I’m terrible at sports that involve balls. They’re round and unreliable.”

  Mateo laughs. “Round and unreliable?”

  I push his arm. “Stop it. It’s true. And come on. I only have eight resolutions and it makes me twitchy. Help me think of two more.”

  “How about self-care? Improvement is great, but you need a balance.”

  “Um, self-care?” I swallow down the laugh building in my throat because surely Mateo doesn’t mean what I think he means. Although I’m very good at taking care of myself, as my vibrator can confirm. Just because I haven’t had sex in nine months doesn’t mean I haven’t had an orgasm, thank God.

  Mateo gives me an odd look, like he’s pretty sure where my mind went but he’s not willing to call me on it. “You know, meditation, massage, even reading a book for pleasure.”

  “Good idea.” I write it down. It’s one thing to spend too much time at the office, but the aches and pains I anticipate with going to the gym might actually get me to schedule that girly spa day my mom and Miriam are so damn eager to include me in. “And?”

  He looks at my napkin and shrugs. “You’ve covered all the bases, Al.”

  “You write me one, then.” I shove the napkin in his direction. “Come on, you do this for your clients all the time, right? Pretend I’m your client and get me to an even ten.”

  Mateo looks at me with raised eyebrows for ten seconds before scribbling something down on the napkin and then folding it over and tearing off the bottom. I see the number ten and nothing else as he slips it into his wallet.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Isn’t that my resolution you’re holding hostage?”

  “Not holding hostage. Saving.” There’s that Matty grin again. “You said to treat you like a client, and I never give a client the whole program on day one. Ever.”

  I laugh, but whatever I’m about to say is drowned out by the blare of the TV from the front of the deli starting the countdown for the ball drop. Mateo glances at me and starts shouting along with the TV. I join him, the teenagers at the front chime in, and even the old couple who were eavesdropping participate. When the big silver ball drops, everyone cheers and Matty grabs my hand, giving it a long squeeze as we laugh and cheer along with everyone else.

  When the deli quiets again, Matty raises his paper cup to mine and we tap them together. I’m mid-swallow when his hand snakes beneath the table and comes up holding a cupcake. He looks sheepish as he places it on the table and says, “They don’t have any candles—it violates the fire code, apparently—but happy birthday, Al.”

  My cheeks flush with pleasure. “I can’t believe you remembered my birthday.”

  “Not to be funny, but your birthday is kind of a major holiday.” He gives me what can only be interpreted as a side-eye. “And if you think I’d forget Al Gottlieb Day, we missed a serious resolution on your list.”

  “And what resolution would that be?” I ask with a laugh.

  “That every day is Al Gottlieb Day, of course.” Mateo wriggles his eyebrows. “Although this is obviously the biggest Al Gottlieb Day of the year, being your actual birthday and all.”

  “I’m thirty, Matty.” I say it in hushed tones, even though the old eavesdropping couple are shuffling out the door now.

  “Thirty is the new twenty. Isn’t that what they say now?”

  “Um, no. But they do say life begins at thirty, so I’m going to try to embrace that.” My expression turns serious. This is a big opportunity for me. I could really turn things around this year...if I stick to the plan. “Promise me you won’t let me bail on these resolutions.”

  “I won’t let you bail.”

  “Do you swear?” My tone grows more insistent and I flap my napkin list of resolutions between us.

  He holds out his hand, waving his pinky at me. “Pinky swear, Al. I won’t let you bail or fail.”

  I link my pinky with his. With my other hand, I drain my paper cup, and then I say, “Okay. Here’s to you keeping me honest, Matty.”

  He smiles and drains his own cup before saying, “And here’s to you getting everything you want and more this year.”

  I wave the almost-empty bottle of champagne and pour the last of it between our two cups, saying, “I’ll drink to that.”

  “I’ll drink to you, Al. You’ve got this. I know you do.” Matty’s voice is filled with conviction. He believes what he’s saying. He believes in me, and I can’t even pretend it doesn’t feel damn good.

  4

  Mateo

  January

  I consider the head of tangled brown hair hiding halfway under the blanket on my couch, unsure what my next move will be. When a guttural snore sounds from beneath the plaid covering, my mind is made up and I give the couch a solid kick.

  “Get up, asshole!”

  “What the hell?” My roommate’s head jerks up before he covers it with a bracing hand and shifts the blanket, revealing a bare chest I in no way needed to see. Please, God, let him be wearing pants.

  I cross my arms. “Couldn’t even make it to your bed? People sit here, you know.” The scent of sweat and day-old liquor rises to my nose, making me cover it with the back of my hand.

  Seth rubs both hands over his face, taking an extra moment to give his overgrown scruff a healthy scratch. He’s an unholy mess and has been for weeks. “Can’t a guy be left to enjoy his hangover in peace?” His voice is coarse from disuse, but still manages to sound petulant.

  I make a show of looking at my watch before eyeing him again. “Not when it’s two in the afternoon. Come on, man.” I prod the couch again with my foot. “Let’s go for a run. You’ll feel better.”

  “Hmmph.” He grunts and rolls over, pulling the blanket up to cover himself again. “I’ll feel better when Will Keller admits he was wrong and lets me back in my fucking kitchen!”

  Good God. Melodrama, thy name is Seth Young. It’s been the same thing for the past four weeks since the head chef at some trendy-ass joint called Turnip fired Seth from his sous-chef position for refusing to allow some plates to be served. Hotheaded on his best day, Seth lit into his boss with some bullshit diatribe about the purity of food and who the fuck knows what else. Not surprising in the least that he found himself on his ass on a Manhattan sidewalk ten minutes later. Now my roommate spends his time waiting tables and drinking himself into an altered state nightly, waiting for an apology that’s never gonna come.

  I can’t pretend to understand how Seth lets his emotions overrule his be
tter sense, but you’ve got to at least admire his passion. It’s one thing we have in common. What I can’t stand, however, is this month-long pity party. Before I can think better of it, I reach out and snatch the blanket from Seth, letting out a relieved sigh at the sight of athletic shorts covering his lower half.

  “See, you’re already dressed. Let’s go!” If I’m louder than strictly necessary, it’s only for his own good.

  In truth, I need a distraction, and a run with Seth will hopefully do the trick. This evening is my first training session with Allison, and the first time I’ll see her since New Year’s Eve. Just the thought of her perfectly incongruous getup of sexy red dress and clunky boots brings a smile to my lips. She was the image of beauty and sincerity that night, with not a small amount of unintelligible nonsense and inebriation thrown in. And she made my night—hell, my whole damn year.

  She’s been dodging me in favor of work for way too long, and it felt so damn right sitting across that worn Formica table from her, sipping champagne out of paper cups and planning out Al’s world domination. I hated seeing her doubt herself and allowing other people’s opinions to eat away at her grit and confidence.

  But I can’t be upset that it opened up an opportunity for us to finally spend some time together.

  I stretch my quads as Seth mutters curses under his breath and goes to his room to change. I keep my grin to myself. Once we’re both dressed for the weather and out on the sidewalk, we dodge pedestrians on our way to Astoria Park where we’ll take advantage of the trails and maybe even the running track if I think Seth has it in him.

  From his labored panting, however, I kind of doubt it. “Don’t you have some paying client to torture instead of me?”

  “You should count yourself lucky. I don’t do a lot of pro bono work.” Which takes my mind right back to Al and our session tonight. I pick up my pace and hear Seth swear again.

  “Jesus, Mateo. I’m not one of your protein shake junkies. Gimme a break here!”

  Since pushing a guy to cardiac arrest would do nothing to help my career, I decide to cut Seth some slack and slow down. My own breath is fast, forming puffs of condensation with every exhale.

  “What is with you today, anyway? You’re even more annoyingly energetic than usual.”

  My steps falter and I almost plow into the back of a stroller-wielding supermom. She scowls as we pass, never pulling the phone from her ear as she balances her Starbucks cup on the stroller handle. I wave an apology and catch Seth’s eye. Shit.

  “This is about a woman!” His annoyed expression is replaced by a smug one.

  “The fuck it is. It’s about getting your sorry ass into shape so you don’t become one with the couch.” We stop at an intersection to wait for the light and my blood hums to get to the park so I can run this nervous anticipation into the ground. The frigid air stings my nostrils on every inhale and I try focusing on that.

  Seth’s barking laughter tells me I’m as transparent as a tall glass of Tito’s. But the hell if I’m about to have some heart-to-heart with a guy whose idea of a relationship is barely catching the girl’s name before he pins her to the wall of her apartment stairwell while his Uber waits outside.

  “At least one of us is getting some horizontal refreshment.” He takes off before me into the street. Since when is Seth having girl problems? There never seems to be a shortage of women who consider his whole rock-star chef routine interesting enough to merit an invitation to their apartment for the night.

  I take off after him. “I’m not getting…refreshments. I’m helping her out with a bit of training.” There. That should close the issue. We step onto the paved park loop, finally free of cars and pedestrian obstacles.

  “And, I suppose you’re doing this purely out of the goodness of your heart?” Seth pants, still determined to interrogate me.

  What am I supposed to say? Helping Allison does come directly from my heart—and my gut. And every other organ I own. I settle for, “Something like that.” Then I quicken our pace so Seth can’t talk anymore. Our shoes pound the pavement in rhythmic beats and we continue across the mostly abandoned park. Nobody else is insane enough to exercise in this cold-as-fuck New York weather. They’re all safely inside heated gyms and corporate work-out centers.

  I scoped out the building where Allison works yesterday, making sure we’d have a convenient location to start. Of course, it has row after row of top-of-the-line equipment in a large facility on the ground floor. I always begin clients with a general fitness assessment, and it will be no different with her. Well, apart from this assessment offering me an opportunity to fulfill my lifelong goal of putting my hands on Allison Gottlieb’s body. More than a few nights, and mornings, have been spent imagining doing just that. I flex my frozen fingers at the mere notion. The last time I really touched her was when we slow-danced at prom.

  Seth’s steps grind to a halt after we complete the loop. He bends, chest heaving, hands to his knees. “Go on without me. I’ll just curl up and die over here.” He points blindly to a spot under some trees.

  I roll my eyes and circle back to him. “At least do some stretches or you’ll be hurting tomorrow.”

  He waves me off. “Whatever you say, Captain America.” He finally stands upright and his face is red from exertion and cold. “Just a piece of advice, huh.” He continues before I can protest, “When you’re helping this girl you want to bang, try not to kill her on the first day. It’s bad form, really.”

  * * *

  Allison’s office is on the thirty-second floor of a swanky high-rise on 7th Avenue, with a security detail the president would envy. After providing identification and waiting while they determine how likely I am to rob the joint, I’m granted access to the elevators. Thank God Allison told her firm’s reception to expect me because I’m not looking forward to more of that. I step off the elevator on her floor to the sight of white everything. Well, I’m sure white is the wrong word for the paint and upholstery color. Something this high-class surely has a name like Pensive Stillness or Cygnet’s Innocence or some such shit. The space is sparsely furnished with white leather sofas, lacquered tables, and huge blank canvases on the walls that probably cost more than a year’s rent for our Astoria apartment.

  I give an inward shudder at the notion that my life could have brought me to a place just like this if I’d finished that last year of law school. Or maybe worse yet, I could have followed in my parents’ footsteps as surgeons and I’d be spending my days elbow-deep in someone’s internal organs. No thanks. I look down at my gray jogging pants and Nikes, hoping to God I’m not tracking dirt on the floor.

  A young guy in a sharp suit sits at the large barren desk in the center, talking into a headset and typing on the smallest keyboard I’ve ever seen. He does a slight double take when I approach, but otherwise seems entirely uninterested in my appearance.

  “Excuse me. I’m here to see Allison Gottlieb,” I say when he stops talking into the mic. He doesn’t appear to have heard me at first. “Mateo Ramirez. I have an appointment.” Now, why do I feel the need to explain myself to this guy?

  Still not bringing his eyes up, the guy points to his left. “Through these doors, down the corridor, eighth office on the right. I’ll buzz you in.”

  I adjust my ball cap and mutter a thanks before heading in the direction of Allison’s office. My heart rate picks up and I will it to slow. This is my friend. She’s going through a rough time and I’m offering to help. That’s it. I wonder how many times I’ll have to remind myself before it sticks.

  I pass office after office, many with doors closed and lights off. Considering it’s going on six thirty, it’s no surprise. But I pause at a large window to a conference room halfway down the hall. Two suited men sit with their backs to me, and across the table is a very poised and very stunning Al. Her golden brown hair is pulled back from her face in a tight updo, and her makeup is less dramatic than it was on New Year’s, allowing the liquid warmth of her brown eyes to
run the show. She’s listening intently to one of the men and when she takes a breath to respond, she catches sight of me in the window and her mouth drops open in a little O. I feel the corners of my mouth curl upward and I raise my eyebrows. She doesn’t move, her expression frozen like one of those garden gnome statues—but, you know, way hotter.

  My eyes widen as it’s clear she’s lost her train of thought and I’m to blame, so I gesture hurriedly, encouraging her to speak. She eventually blinks and assumes an apologetic smile directed at the men in front of her. Damn, she really does need to give herself a break.

  I expect her to wrap things up and come out to meet me, but after a few minutes, it’s clear their conversation isn’t ending. I pretend to knock on the window and she glances up again, putting up a subtle index finger, asking me to wait a minute. I wander down the hall, checking out more of the boring “artwork” and taking a peek into her office, where I ditch my jacket on a chair. It’s no surprise that her desk is immaculate. A ledger and two pens are perfectly aligned with her closed laptop, and the only personal items on the surface are a family photo and one shiny red apple. I can’t fault her choice in snacks, so at least we’re off to a good start.

  After what I consider to be more than sufficient time to wrap up a meeting, I return to the window, but they’re all in the exact same positions. A glance at my watch shows it’s been twenty minutes. I’m not sure what Allison thinks is going on here, but in my personal-training rulebook, you’re on time or you do L-sits. And by my calculations, she owes me a couple dozen. I can’t even feel bad about it—she was the one who made me swear I’d help her follow through on her resolutions.

  I make a show of tapping my watch and she peeks at me out of the corner of her eye, her head shaking almost imperceptibly in response. Oh, so she thinks she’s running this training session. I narrow my eyes at her and see her mouth get tight. Game on, Al.