Happy New You

by St John Brown, Brenda

  Two minutes later, I’m back in front of the window, but this time I have my phone to my ear and the bridge of my nose trapped between my thumb and forefinger. I pace back and forth, gradually morphing my expression into my best simulation of anguish. In other words, I channel Seth. There’s no one on the other end of the line, but as I quicken my pacing and silently wail, “Why? Oh, why, God?” into the air, I can only hope I’m getting Allison’s attention. When I shoot her a quick look, however, I’m greeted with narrowed eyes and a pinched mouth.

  Okay, plan B.

  This one takes a few minutes, but I return to the window, a borrowed law book in hand, except that I’ve wrapped the cover in paper and used a Sharpie to write “Fifty Shades of Grey” in giant block letters. I show her the book and then crack it open, pretending to read. For my first reaction, I cover my mouth in shock and widen my eyes, bringing them straight to her. When I get nothing back, I move on to fanning myself, then snapping my fingers with a mouthed, “Oh, no he didn’t!” before the pièce de résistance where I spread the book on the window and pretend to reach for my zipper, which I don’t even have because I’m wearing track pants. This finally appears to do the trick. Allison stands abruptly and leans over the table to shake the two men’s hands. Proud grin in place, I hide the purloined book behind my back and lean against the wall. Just before the parties filter from the room, a petite redhead slides past me and I bite my lip, realizing only then that I very well could have been caught while I was screwing with Allison.

  The redhead pauses and backs up, her eyes traveling the length of me. Oh, shit. I know that look. “Oh my God, are you Mateo Ramirez? The shake guy?” Her gaze doesn’t stop at my face but traces my biceps and forearms before settling on the waistband of my low-slung pants. Why in the hell is everyone so obsessed with the damn Instagram videos? No, I want to respond, I’m Mateo Ramirez, the kick-ass personal trainer working to build my fitness empire. Care to invest? But I just send her a polite smile as the two men give us a curious glance and Allison’s expression suddenly shutters. What is that all about?

  Al trails the men to the ice palace of a lobby while I do my best to shake off the redhead. I’m about to follow Allison’s path when she comes storming back down the hall and shoves past me to get to her office. I guess she didn’t enjoy Fifty Shades? I tilt my head into the room to test the waters and find her shoving some folders into a black satchel like they’d shot her dog. Next comes her laptop, which apparently managed to offend her even more gravely.

  She doesn’t look up, but her voice is tight when she speaks. “I have a job to do here, you know. This may be some joke to you, but it’s my life!” She finally looks up and her eyes are wet.

  I feel like a total asshole.

  Her hand shoots out in the direction of the lobby. “Those were important clients. Ones I’ve worked my ass off to bring on board and you stood out there like treadmills and jump rope should be my highest priority.”

  I step fully into the room, possibly risking my balls but knowing I have to. “I promised to keep you accountable.” There’s obviously more going on here than her being mad at my hilarious charades routine, so I don’t mention the L-sits.

  “Really?” she interjects. “Because it looked like you were having the time of your life trying to get me to fuck that meeting up.”

  “Al.” I don’t know what else to say.

  Her eyes drop to the desk again and she hoists her bag up onto it. “Mateo,” she responds, her voice quiet.

  My heart drops to my stomach at that one word and I give my head a firm shake. “Not Mateo. Matty.”

  She coughs out an uncomfortable laugh. “I’m sorry but that was important to me. I don’t know if I have time for this.” Then she swipes her wool coat from its resting spot on a hook and quickly wraps herself in it. Her shields are firmly in place. “I have to go.”

  And I let her. For now. Because it’s clear she forgot the gravity of a pinky promise. And that neither one of us is a quitter.

  5

  Allison

  February

  My stomach is unsettled, which is not how I want to spend my morning. I have calls to make and clients to coddle. Before I can do that, though, my phone pings with another text from Mateo. Over the last few weeks he’s hit me with five phone messages, six texts, and one mystery box that turned out to be a tub of protein powder. Not exactly subtle messages, especially when his tone has gotten more curt with each unanswered contact.

  A wave of guilt washes over me at the thought of Matty and how I turned him down after I specifically asked him to hold me to my promise. His messages have gone from tough love to terse and I don’t blame him a bit. Although the way he behaved at my office, nearly costing me to lose the trust of an important client, eases some of that guilt.

  I wonder vaguely if eating a little something would help calm my stomach. Avoidance is clearly alive and well in me.

  Grabbing an apple off my desk, I wander away from my phone to the break room—a room I only know how to find because of Treat Tuesday. I just don’t understand the purpose of a room at work where you take breaks. You’re at work. Do work, don’t take breaks. And to think management built a whole room just for people to slack off.

  I’m three bites into my freshly washed apple when I spy a poster on the wall: Raise the Bar Challenge, in all caps. Pictures of kiddie bounce houses fill the bottom half, with adults smiling maniacally mid-bounce and inadvertently flashing midriff. It’s so bizarre I almost miss the explanation at the top.

  Congrats to our winners of the tenth annual Raise the Bar Challenge! Team Injunction Warriors took first place, narrowly beating the management foursome of Team Paper Pushers! Sign up today to lock in your spot for next year!!

  That seems like an excessive use of exclamation points for a lame work-sponsored event. Why grown men and women would fling themselves through these bounce houses is beyond me. A sweaty race outside? No, thanks.

  But I study the way Mr. Benson’s arm is flung over a guy’s shoulders while they smile for the camera. I can never remember that guy’s name, but I know he started around the same time I did. And he was promoted a few months ago.

  Suddenly I’m flashing back to Dani’s house on New Year’s Eve, her voice telling me how boring I am and then Mr. Benson saying I have no personality. The sting of their assessment still feels as sharp now as it did then. Stiffening my spine, I mentally gear up for battle. I’ve worked my ass off to be promoted. There is no way I’m losing out because I’m not social enough. I can socialize. I’ll social better than Zuckerberg. Just you wait and see.

  My jaw drops and an unfortunate amount of juice from my apple dribbles down onto my silk blouse. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. I have to join the Raise the Bar Challenge! I need to show everyone what a team player I am. Look at me over here in a kiddie bounce house. Look how fun I am!

  It’s perfect. It’s serendipitous.

  Tossing the rest of my apple into the trash can, I spin on my heel and march back to my desk. I’ll kill two bad ideas—this has to check off the getting in shape resolution—with one phone call. I need Mateo’s help. He’ll know how to train me so I can attack that bounce house like the ninja warrior I know I am deep, deep, deeeeeeeeep down inside.

  It pays to know thyself. While I’m still on the high of thinking I’m a badass on par with Wonder Woman, I log into the HR site and officially sign up for the challenge nine short months from now. Hitting the submit button, I sit back in my executive chair and breathe slowly, getting my heart rate to drop back down to a healthy level. I’m locked in. No way to quit now. Bring it, bitches.

  Next is the hard part. I need to call Mateo and grovel. I’m relying on his nature to bend over backwards to help people. Maybe I should think of a bribe of some sort to sweeten the deal. I could offer to cook him a meal sometime. No, that wouldn’t work since I can’t cook anything more than spaghetti and I’m sure that’s way too many carbs for his chiseled abs.
My brain draws a complete blank, which deflates some of my gusto.

  I literally have nothing to offer him. Unless he needs a multimillion-dollar contract negotiated. That’s about all I can do.

  “Okay, I really do need to get a life. Or a hobby, at the very least,” I mutter as I pick up my phone and find Matty’s contact information. This is going to take more than a text message. Grovelling requires an actual phone call. It rings and rings, finally ending in a voicemail message.

  Hi, you’ve reached Mateo Ramirez. Please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Make it a healthy day. Beep.

  I snort at his so-very-Mateo, upbeat message, but secretly I find something beautiful about his positive attitude never changing.

  “Hey, Matty, it’s me. Allison. Al.” Deep breath. “Hey, listen, any chance you can fit me in? You know, for training? I, uh, apologize for avoiding you. I really shouldn’t have blown you. I mean, blown you off. You know, for working out.” Christ on a cracker, this message is a disaster. “Could you just call me back and let me know if you can meet me here and we’ll train? Okay, thanks, bye.”

  I rush to hang up and think maybe Dani has a point with her whole “you need to socialize more” thing. My cheeks are on fire and the only remedy is to jump back into what feels like page two hundred seventy-five of this ridiculous contract and lose myself in the minutiae. It’s what I do best.

  * * *

  My stomach is growling something fierce after being ignored through lunch and all afternoon, so I tell it false promises of beef and broccoli from Jade Palace. There’s no way I’ll make it out of the office in time to grab takeout for dinner. More like another peanut butter and jelly sandwich while standing over my sink before I collapse into bed at midnight.

  The knock on my door brings my head up with a start. Standing in all his chiseled glory is Mateo, his arms crossed over his chest in that puffed up pose all trainers seem to use. Despite the hat shadowing his eyes, I feel the weight of his gaze as it flits across my chest.

  “You gonna train in that blouse?”

  Ouch, not even a hello today. I guess I shouldn’t comment on his lack of a proper greeting since he made time for me on such short notice after I’ve been avoiding him for weeks.

  I wince a little. “If I have to.”

  I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping he doesn’t actually expect me to work out in a three-hundred-dollar blouse. “I didn’t hear back from you, so I wasn’t sure if you got my message.” I stand, closing my laptop and trying to keep my eyes on his face. They keep wanting to make a slow pass down his body, which is crazy. This is Matty we’re looking at here. He’s been my friend since ninth grade, well, minus the last four years when we barely spoke.

  His eyebrows pucker, which is oddly endearing, but it’s because I remember him making that same face before he developed all those muscles. And that five o’clock shadow. And the chiseled jawline. Okay, maybe looking at his face isn’t the best idea either.

  “I did leave you a message. I said I’d be here and you owe me some L-sits for blowing me off, but I’ve changed my mind. You owe me burpees now.” He leans down to grab a black bag I didn’t even notice and throws it to me. Though I make a valiant effort, I still fumble, and it falls to the ground. Jeez, warn a girl, would ya.

  “What’s this?” I point at my feet, where the bag stares up at me. I could be wrong, but I think one side of Mateo’s mouth is lifting. Aha! His tough-guy mask is slipping.

  “Extra clothes. I figured one day you’d finally call me and I’d be ready. Go change and I’ll meet you back here.” He strides in and has a seat in the chair opposite my desk, his all-black outfit in stark contrast to the all-white club chair.

  “You bought me clothes?” That’s so sweet and now I’m back to feeling both guilty for ignoring him for weeks and oddly flattered he was prepared for my call.

  He smirks at me and I wonder when he learned to do that so effectively. “Relax, Al. It’s sponsored crap I get from supplement companies.” He glances at his watch meaningfully.

  “Alright, alright. I’m going.” I grab the bag and make my way to the ladies’ room to change. I didn’t know supplement companies gave away name-brand sneakers in exactly my size, but hey, I’ll take ‘em. The shorts are too big, so I roll the waistband, which makes them a little too short for my liking, but short is better than having them fall off mid burpee. The black T-shirt is decent, but when I catch the wording on the front, I let out a groan.

  In bright neon green are the words BEAST MODE.

  I hightail it back to my office and step through the door, fully intending to let Mateo have it. But before I can utter a word, he’s standing there taking my picture, his cell phone in his hand like he was waiting for me to walk in. I glare at him, but he doubles over laughing anyway.

  I lunge for his phone but he’s too fast for me, holding it above his head where I can’t reach even when I try to jump for it.

  “Oh my God. That’s priceless!” He’s still laughing so I elbow him in the gut to shut him up. Unfortunately, I don’t account for the abs of steel so my arm bounces off and I swear I’ve already pulled a muscle. Losing interest in the incriminating picture, I try to shake off the pain in my arm. As much as I hate that he has photographic evidence of this hideous outfit, I like that he’s teasing me again. Kind of like the last four years of distance—and me blowing him off for weeks—didn’t happen.

  “I can’t wear this, Mateo.” I put my hands on my hips and try to give him the look that means business.

  He glances at me and then bursts out laughing again. When I stomp my foot, he looks at me and at least attempts to pull it together, his lips wobbling while he fights a smile.

  “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m good. It’s the only shirt I have in your size, so it’ll have to do. Come on.” He grabs my elbow and ushers me out the door. “Let’s hit the gym!”

  I lead the way, like a prisoner walking to their execution. A junior associate—pretty sure his name is Milton or Melvin or something—passes us in the hallway and winks at me. “Love the shirt, Ms. Gottlieb,” he throws over his shoulder as he walks by. Mateo snorts and I don’t bother looking at him.

  “Just shut up.”

  * * *

  The next morning brings pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before. The sun hasn’t even risen, and I ache down to my very bones. Rolling out of bed, I push back my covers and attempt to stand to turn my alarm off, but my calves lock up and I fall right back onto my mattress. Cursing Mateo with every swear word I’ve ever learned living in New York City, I inch my body across my comforter and over to my nightstand, intent on reaching my cell phone. Just stretching my arm out this far feels like I’m ripping muscle right off my joints.

  My brain is foggy as I try to open the lock screen of my phone. Dear God, even my fingers ache. How is that even possible? But then again, I didn’t know doing two hundred lunges in one day was possible. Or how about the endless burpees I had to do because I cancelled on him three weeks prior?

  Betcha didn’t know burpees are the devil’s work. Up, down, up, down, repeat a thousand fucking times. What’s the point of all that? Do you want me up? Or do you want me down? Decide already!

  I finally get my fingers to cooperate and hit call, not even caring that it’s barely five a.m. If I’m in pain, Matty’s coming on that ride with me. I scan my white ceiling while I wait for him to pick up, wondering if it’s the only thing I’ll see today. You know, since my body hates me.

  “Hey, Allison! How ya doing, Sunshine?” His upbeat voice filters through the phone, along with some heavy breathing.

  “Um, terrible? There are little knives stabbing every square inch of my body. You need to come over and get me dressed. My body’s not working any longer.” I pause, realizing I just invited him over to dress me, which is awkward, but then again, he already knows that about me. I’m the girl who came to my first Friday football game in high school in a full jersey and with black strea
ks under my eyes when all the other girls were in cutesy cheerleader-type outfits.

  “What the hell are you doing anyway?” The breathing noises have intensified and while one might think it would be creepy, it’s oddly not.

  “I’m on my morning run.” Like that’s a normal thing normal people do. Other than Mateo, I’ve never met anyone who got up after an all-nighter of studying to go for a run. Guess some things haven’t changed.

  A horn blares through the phone and I roll my eyes. “Jeez, Matty, it’s still dark. Don’t get run over. You can avoid those kinds of accidents by not going for runs, you know.”

  He chuckles and my body doesn’t ache so badly anymore. “Get up. Get some protein in you and get moving. The longer you sit still, the more you’ll tighten up. I gotta run…get it? Gotta run?” When I only groan, he continues, “Take some ibuprofen and I’ll see you tonight. I’ll text you the address, okay?”

  “Yeah, we’ll see.”

  “Seven o’clock, Al. I’d hate to make you do more burpees and go all beast mode again.” He snickers, finding himself truly hilarious this morning.

  I don’t bother replying, just hit “end call” before flopping back on the bed with a frustrated scream. “Arghhhhh!” Rolling over gingerly, I set my sights on the bathroom door and the shower that awaits me there. “One step at a time, Gottlieb,” I whisper to myself, already moving in the right direction.

  But between the pain lacing up my limbs and his teasing, I’m already irritated.

  And it’s only five fifteen in the morning.

  6

  Mateo

  February

  I shake hands with my old training buddy, Jake, who’s just opened a parkour gym in a refurbished warehouse in Brooklyn. Obstacles have been set up to simulate an urban setting. People can run, jump, and climb to navigate any route they choose. Tonight he’s letting us use his facilities for a private session—I check my watch—if Allison shows. Two minutes until she’s officially late. Sitting on a wood box just inside the doorway, I can’t help but hope she’s late. She might think my career choice is a joke, but I’ll show her just how serious I can be.