Maybe Someone Like You

by Stacy Wise

  Chapter Four

  It’s only ten a.m. Monday morning, but the sidewalks are already popping with activity, filled with tourists and kids soaking up the last bits of summer. Kids with floppy hair and zinc-covered noses whisk past me on skateboards, not a care in the world. They zigzag down the sidewalk, barely missing pedestrians as their laughter rings through the air, totally oblivious to the harsh realities of life.

  By the time I was their age, I’d had my jolt of reality. But before that, I’m sure I looked just like them, albeit an East Coast version. We lived in a doorman apartment building overlooking Central Park right next door to Gran and Grandpa. They owned both apartments, and my dad had grown up there.

  He wouldn’t have liked Thomas’s office or his hunting hobby. His photo of an elderly gorilla won him National Geographic’s Gold Medal Award. A copy of it hangs in my bedroom. There was another shot of a lion standing protectively over his cub that my dad never sold. He gave it to me when he returned from a particularly long assignment. “No matter how far away I am, an invisible tie will always bind us. You see how this lion looks at his cub?”

  I nodded. Even at my young age, I could see the love in the lion’s eyes.

  “That’s how I feel about you, Katie-Kat.” He touched his nose to mine. “Even when you’re not with me, you’re with me.”

  My chest tightens at the memory.

  He died of a heart attack at Glacier Park International Airport in Montana. Mom later told me she found a small copy of the lion and cub photo next to my school picture in his wallet. It was the last picture of me with the smile of a little girl. In all the ones that followed, I have the weary look of someone who carries the heavy burden of knowing not all endings are happy ones.

  At the end of the block, I reach the post office and take the three handwritten thank-you notes from my bag. One for Thomas, one for Steven, and one for Patty. She won’t have any say in whether I’m hired or not, but I liked her.

  I scan the pickup times on the front of the big blue mailbox and drop them into the slot, making a wish as I do. As much as I wasn’t initially certain, I am now: I want this job.

  The skittering of wheels startles me. An unmanned stroller is gaining speed and heading right at me. I lurch forward, grabbing the plastic snack tray to stop it. The stroller spins to the side, nearly tipping, and a sippy cup clatters to the ground. A toddler stares at me, her bright green eyes uncertain, as though she’s not sure whether to laugh or cry.

  A woman is racing down the sidewalk. “Oh my God! Thank you! I don’t know what happened.” She swoops down to unfasten the straps, plucking her daughter into her arms. “Oh, my little sweetie. Mommy’s so sorry.” She places a hand on her daughter’s soft red curls as tears form in the corners of her eyes.

  I pick up the sippy cup and place it on the tray. “I’m glad she’s okay.”

  The mom looks at me, dazed. She kisses her daughter’s forehead. “I thought I’d set the brake. I stopped to take a phone call and…” She shakes her head. “I’m just grateful you were here. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. She’s really cute. What’s her name?”

  “Sydney.” She exhales the name.

  “Hi, Sydney. Nice to meet you.”

  The little girl holds up two pudgy fingers. “I’m two. You lie sa?”

  I look from Sydney to her mom. “What?”

  “She’s asking if you like Elsa. From Frozen? She loves that movie.”

  I turn back to Sydney. “I like Elsa, too, but Olaf’s my favorite.”

  She grins, causing her cheeks to form perfect little apples, and she tucks herself into her mom, who rattles out a sigh. “I’m Emily, by the way.”

  “I’m Katie.”

  “Thanks, Katie. I can’t imagine what could’ve—”

  “It’s okay. The good news is she’s fine.”

  As I head up the hill to my apartment, I consider again how quickly things can change. Had I gotten stuck at a red light at the crosswalk, I would’ve arrived at the mailbox seconds later and wouldn’t have been there to stop the stroller. Lauren would say it’s a sign. If only I knew how to read it.

  The gym is warm, and a large fan hums in the corner, blowing around hot air. Across the mats, Ryan blasts one of the hanging bags with calculated punches like he’s fighting for his life. He hops back from the bag, but in an instant he’s in the air, slamming his leg against it with a startling smack. It’s like a lethal dance, savage and beautiful all at once.

  He tugs off his gloves and jogs over to me. His easy smile is such a contradiction to the man who was just attacking the bag. “Kate-E! You ready to kill it?”

  The way he says my name like I’m a rap star makes me feel cool, like I fit in here. In my mind, I can hear Mom saying, Perhaps you should ask him to call you Katherine if he can’t manage Katie properly. I take in his messy hair and pumped-up arms, my heart racing. I’ve never been a fan of muscle shirts, but the shape of his biceps and the swell of his shoulders are inciting a swift change of heart. “Yeah. I mean, I think so. I obviously won’t be able to do what you just did. That was insane.”

  “Thanks. I strive for insane.” He touches his chest, and I have an incredible urge to reach out and touch it, too. “Put your shoes and socks in a cubby, then grab a rope from the hook and start jumping. I’ll meet you on the mats in a sec.”

  As I remove my shoes and socks, I consider my feet. The red polish is chipped, and the fireworks design now looks like ugly blue paint splatter. Typically, I stay on top of my pedicures, but after the breakup I let my nails go to hell. Brad would cringe if he saw them. He always liked my perfectly polished nails. It should’ve been a clue to his level of depth.

  After arranging my gym bag in the cubby, I select a rope and begin jumping. I’m in a pretty good rhythm when Ryan steps over, looking decidedly refreshed. His hair is wet and slicked back, and he’s wearing a clean T-shirt, though not a muscle shirt this time. I shake off the glimmer of disappointment. He leans against one of the hanging black bags as if they’re old pals. “Try jumping with both feet. Boxers don’t skip rope.”

  My feet tangle in the rope as I stumble to a stop. “I thought I was.”

  “You were skipping. It’s still a good warm-up, but I want you to land both feet on the ground at the same time. Softly, like a cat.” The way he says cat makes it sound like the most enticing animal on the planet.

  I adjust my grip and start over, prepared to do what he said, but my feet don’t get the message. I’m nothing like a cat; I’m a clomping elephant. “I feel stupid that I don’t know how to jump rope correctly.”

  “No big deal. You’ll get it. Keep it up for another minute, and we’ll get started with some punches and kicks.”

  He appears unconcerned, but it doesn’t prevent a ribbon of fear from weaving through me. How am I going to manage punching or kicking if I can’t master a playground pastime? I’ll probably miss the bag altogether and dislocate my hip. An ambulance will scream me to the emergency room where the person at the front desk, who strangely resembles the girl with the cropped hair, will shake her head, tsk-tsking. You should’ve tried yoga, she’ll reproach, like my injury could’ve been prevented if only I’d made a better choice.

  “All right. Time’s up.” Ryan steps closer, interrupting the tragedy that plays out in my mind. He takes the rope and passes me a pair of red boxing gloves. “Put these on.”

  After watching me attempt the Velcro strap twice, he takes over, fastening it securely as I hold my breath. With his fingers pressed together, it’s easy to read the word. “Love.” But there’s something new—a flash of purplish black. His thumbnail is bruised. Did he injure it here? Or maybe he was in a hurry this morning and smashed it in the car door. He pats my glove. “Okay. The first thing you need to learn is your fighting stance. You’re right-handed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your left foot is forward and the right is back.” He moves his feet, demonstrating. A scorpion winds its w
ay across his left calf. The tail portion is shadowed, giving the illusion that it’s raised and primed to sting. I wonder if he chose the tattoo because it looks dangerous or because his astrological sign is Scorpio. “Keep your legs bladed, like this,” he continues. “That way you’ve created an angle to your opponent, and you can avoid punches.”

  “That’s certainly good to know.” I consider asking if there will be a time when getting punched is an actual concern but decide I don’t really want to know. I position my feet carefully, copying him. He steps closer and taps my foot with his. God, he smells good, like he scrubbed off the sweat using soap scented with hints of the ocean. “Move this one to the right.”

  I shift my foot and glance at him. “Like this?”

  “Yep. You look good. Now the next step is punching. Keep both hands up by your face to protect it. You’ll start with the left—it’s called a jab—and then the right cross. Watch.”

  He turns to a bag and fires off two punches. His shirt strains against his muscular shoulders, a stark contrast to the bony physique visible through Brad’s T-shirts. He shifts his feet and hits the bag again before facing me. “Did you see how I turned my shoulder in to the cross?”

  “I did.” I might not have focused on what he did with his shoulder, but I certainly had my eyes on it.

  He holds up some punching pad things and nods. “Give it a try. Aim for the center of the focus mitt.”

  I glance at the small oval-shaped mitt in his hand and calculate the risk. “Maybe I should hit the bag. What if I miss and hit you in the face?”

  He raises a brow. “Won’t happen.”

  “How do you know? I can barely jump rope.”

  He doesn’t even try to hold back a laugh. “I know how to avoid a punch. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have any teeth.”

  “Very funny.”

  He claps the mitts together, making a satisfying smack. “I’m serious. Now punch!”

  I blow out a breath and let my fist fly, missing the target altogether.

  “I like the power,” he says with a solemn nod. He slaps his mitts together again before holding them up. “Keep your eyes open next time, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “No apology needed. Keep those arms up. Just try the jab.”

  With my eyes fixed on the pad, I reach out to hit it, but something commands me to hesitate, and I drop my arm. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s like I want to do this but can’t.”

  “You’re overthinking it.” He presses his lips together and looks upward before returning his gaze to mine. “I have an idea. You’re going to shove me, right here.” He pats the center of his chest. “Then I want you to step in and give me a jab, cross. Got it?”

  “Shove you?”

  “Yep. You’ll have to use your legs, not just your arms. I weigh a lot.”

  I try to keep a neutral look on my face, but laughter spills out of me. “You’re not kidding.”

  “Hell no. Let’s go.”

  I clear my throat in an attempt to swallow my giggles. “Okay. I can do this.” Even to my own ears I sound unsure. Nonetheless, I place my gloved hands against his chest and push. It feels like I’m trying to move a big piece of furniture. He steps back, and I do the jab, cross.

  “Use your legs and bend your arms when you push. We’re going all the way across the gym and back, so you better get fierce, Katie!”

  I brush back a loose strand of hair and gaze at the length of the gym. Frustration boils inside me. I use my legs and push hard at his chest. He staggers back, and I whack the mitts, forcing him to step back again. Knowing that I’m making him move causes something to click in my brain. Shove, jab, cross. It feels powerful. He’s more than a head taller than me, and must outweigh me by eighty pounds, but I’m doing this. We reach the end of the mats, and I heave out a breath.

  “Don’t stop now. We’re going back. You’ve got this.”

  I don’t see anything but his focus mitts as I move across the mats. I’m absorbed, determined. Each time my gloves make contact, there’s such a force of energy I half expect to see sparks erupt between us. By the time we finish, sweat drips into my eyes and trickles down the center of my shirt. I bet the girl with the pink gloves would high-five me if she were here.

  “That was awesome.” He pats my shoulder. “Was it easier to punch when you didn’t have time to think about it?”

  I use my arm to wipe my forehead. “Yeah.”

  “Good.” He tips his head toward the cubbies. “Grab some water, and then we’ll get after it again.”

  I struggle to press the ten-pound weights up over my head one last time. When I finish, he takes them from me and racks them—probably so I don’t chuck them in his direction. I look at his hands and notice his bruised nail again. “How’d that happen? Did you slam your thumb in a door?”

  He turns his hand and glances at the bruise as though he’s already forgotten it’s there. “Nah. I was helping a friend hang some pictures in her apartment. She distracted me, and I hammered my thumb.”

  A girlfriend? Or a friend who’s female? Whatever the case, a million ideas of how she could’ve distracted him stream through my mind. In every one, she’s gorgeous and nearly naked. I shake my head, hoping to kill the image. “That must’ve hurt.”

  “It wasn’t so bad.” He grins. “And I rescued a spider in the process. She screamed because she saw one in the kitchen. She wanted me to kill the little guy.”

  Oh, thank God. I would’ve died if he’d started to tell me about a sexy escapade. Spiders are downright pleasant in comparison. “What’d you do? Capture him in a jar?”

  “Nah. I let him crawl onto my hand, and I carried him outside. Spiders are cool.” He runs a hand across the untouched skin of his elbow. “I’m thinking of getting a web here and having it spread out into the roses.”

  I can’t think of anything I’d rather not have tattooed on my body. Well, maybe a scary clown. “Interesting.”

  “Right? Spiders use their webs to capture food, but if their webs are broken, they eat the remnants and use the protein to spin another. It’s fascinating.” His eyes meet mine. “They take what’s broken and use it as fuel for something new. We should all be so smart.”

  “I never thought I’d say this about spiders, but that’s really cool. A web would look great.” I want to ask if his tattoos all have meaning but hold back. It’s really not my business.

  He straightens and takes on a serious tone. “So how’re you feeling? It’s a hell of a great workout, isn’t it?”

  I move a hand to my shoulder, massaging it. “Or just hellish.”

  “Never hellish. Always awesome. You’ll build your endurance if you keep it up. Are you interested in continuing?” He reaches for a gallon jug of water and swigs.

  I consider his question. As tough as it was, I feel good. Alive. Better than I’ve felt in ages. “Maybe.”

  “Cool.” He swipes a hand across his mouth and caps the water bottle. “Javier—he’s the one you saw teaching the class when you first came in—has a spiel for potential clients, but I hate that crap. He owns the place, so his world. But my feeling is, if you like it, awesome. If not, it’s stupid to join a gym and never go.”

  He makes a good point, but something inside tells me it won’t be a concern. “I like the idea of having to answer to a trainer. Besides, you’re someone I wouldn’t want to piss off.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “Why’s that?” he asks, his tone guarded.

  God, I hope I didn’t insult him. Maybe people constantly make assumptions about him because of his tattoos. Even I might have done that before I met him. “You seem like the type who enjoys finding new ways to torture your clients with super-fun conditioning exercises.”

  His laugh is tinny, but his smile is genuine. “You know it. Although let’s not call it torture.”

  “Torment?”

  He places a sturdy hand on my shoulder. “Not torment. A gift.”
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  I nod. “The punching is a gift. A very satisfying one, I might add. But I’m not prepared to call the conditioning a gift.”

  “Maybe one day you will. I like a challenge.” He grins. “Come on back, and I’ll set you up with Jazz to get your paperwork done. She’ll hook you up with some gloves, wraps, and a T-shirt.”

  I follow him to the desk, smiling to myself. I never imagined I’d own boxing gloves.

  “Hey, Jazzie. Katie is signing up for training. I’ll leave her with you to do the paperwork. Cool?”

  She flashes her dimples. “Sure thing.”

  Ryan reaches a hand to high-five me. “I need to track down my next client. You were awesome today, Katie.”

  “Thanks.” I take a seat as he returns to the front of the gym, and she types on her keyboard before turning her computer screen toward me. “Here’s our pricing list. The more you sign up for, the cheaper it is per session. New clients typically do the ten- or twenty-session package.”

  I scan the prices. It’s far more than I want to spend, but I have to believe I’ll be getting a solid paycheck soon. Very soon. “I’ll do the twenty-session package.”

  “Great.” She turns the screen back in place. “What’s your name again?”

  “Katie. Katie Capwell.” I pause as her fingers dance across the keyboard. “You go by Jazzie?”

  Her fingers freeze where they are, and she looks at me. “It’s Jasmine. Only Ryan can get away with calling me Jazzie.” She narrows her eyes, and just when I think she’s going to fire off a scathing retort, she smiles. “He’s a total clown, so I let it slide. But anyone else will get punched in the face.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She resumes typing. “You’ll learn a lot from him—he’s an awesome martial artist and instructor.”

  “Yeah. I saw him kickboxing when I came in today.”

  “You should see his tae kwon do. He has his fourth-degree black belt. The guy can break a stack of cinder blocks with his bare hands. Crazy shit.”

  A fourth-degree black belt? I had no idea such a thing existed.

  Ryan approaches the desk as Jasmine swipes my card, and I grab a look at his hands. Was his fist black-and-blue for weeks after smashing the cinder blocks? God, he could’ve broken a bone. If he had a girlfriend at the time, I bet she iced his hands—or maybe Jasmine handled that for him. He reaches us and says, “Hey, Jazz. Have you seen Claire? She’s my six o’clock.”