Maybe Someone Like You

by Stacy Wise

  “I’m guessing you hate mistakes as much as you hate sucking at things.”

  “Yes.” I catch a glimpse of his grin.

  “Was your boss pissed?”

  I picture Kenneth’s face in the elevator, all squints and slashes. “Maybe, but firm is more like it. He’s highly intelligent. I think I’ll enjoy the challenge of working for him.”

  “Based on what I know of you, I think you’ll meet the challenge.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it from his forehead. “Hell, you survived law school.”

  “I liked it—there was a specific goal and a clear path to reach it.”

  “So you’re a girl who likes a plan.” He nods to himself as if making a mental note, and I wonder, once again, if he thinks I’m neurotic. “What if there hadn’t been a clear path?”

  The red numbers marking the time flash in front of me like a warning, and I automatically increase my pace. For the second time in less than a week, all I see is a big blur. How does one navigate with no path? “I might have floundered.” He doesn’t respond, and I turn my head to catch the pensive look on his face. Damn. He’s definitely thinking I’m too uptight. “So, um, what did you study in college?”

  “Bio.” He says it with a smack, as though punching the word. “I dropped out after my first year and decided to get my training certification instead.”

  “My mother would’ve killed me!” As soon as the words are out, I wish I could suck them back in and swallow them. I didn’t mean to insult his choices. His silence only makes me feel worse. “I didn’t mean—”

  He holds up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a popular choice for everyone, but it worked for me.” He leans in, pressing the incline button, increasing it from two to five. Is it his way of making it so we can’t talk anymore?

  Tapping the treadmill like it’s a trusty old horse, he says, “We’re going to get your hamstrings warmed up here.” The easy tone of his voice feels like an offering—a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  “Thanks. They were feeling excluded.”

  “Can’t have that.” He resumes his spot on the bike, and I continue walking, my mind full of questions.

  “Jasmine said you do tae kwon do, too. Is that right?”

  “Yeah.” He tugs a loose thread from the bottom of his T-shirt and begins wrapping it around his pointer finger like a tourniquet. “It’s in my blood. Funny thing is, if my mom hadn’t shown my brother and me a bunch of Bruce Lee movies when we told her we wanted to play the drums, I’m not sure I would’ve started.” He unwinds the thread and flicks it to the ground.

  “Did you ever take the drum lessons?”

  “Nah. I forgot all about them once I started martial arts.”

  “You’re lucky you found something you liked when you were so young. Why do you teach kickboxing instead of tae kwon do?”

  He leans forward. “I teach tae kwon do at another studio a few days a week. The end goal is to open a martial arts studio with my brother.”

  “That would be awesome to open your own place.” Admiration colors my tone, and he shifts his eyes to me. I can feel his gaze even though I look straight ahead, watching the glowing numbers on the display.

  “Thanks. Doing martial arts was the first thing that came easily to me. Or maybe it felt easy because I loved practicing. It was that way with studying to become a trainer, too. It just felt really right.”

  He slaps the stop button on the treadmill. “Okay. Your warm-up is over. Let’s hit the mats.”

  I roll off the treadmill as it slows to a stop and head to the front to get my gloves from my gym bag.

  “Hang on. No need to glove up yet. I’m going to introduce you to some badass kicks today.”

  “That might take more than a day. You’re overestimating my coordination skills.”

  He flashes a grin. “And you’re underestimating my teaching skills.”

  I roll my eyes as I follow him to the row of bags. Jasmine stops near us, her arms full of folded white towels. “Yo, Katie. What’s up?”

  Her hair is different. It’s shaved on the sides, and the spikey part is dyed turquoise blue. Where does she get the guts to take such risks? It looks great on her, but I can’t imagine shaving any part of my head, let alone dyeing it blue. “Hey. Your hair looks cool.”

  She smiles. “Thank you. I was going for something different. Ryan says I look like a Smurf.”

  “A cute Smurf is what I said.”

  “You’re worse than my little brother.”

  “You’re like family to me, too.”

  She sticks out her tongue at him, and he chuckles as we move to the bags. The way he looked at her makes it seem like they share an inside joke. I wish I could duck outside and grab a lungful of fresh air to clear my head. Or maybe I need to bang my head against one of the heavy bags. I shouldn’t be jealous of their relationship.

  “We’ll start with the roundhouse. It’s not the prettiest kick, but it’s the most devastating. Watch.”

  Facing the long black bag, he steps into fighting stance, and before I can blink, his leg meets it with a thud. If it were a person, it’d crash to the ground as if it had been hit by a freight train. He might not think it’s the prettiest kick, but I thought it was beautiful. I want him to show me his idea of a pretty kick, though I’d probably pass out like a teenage fangirl.

  He turns back to me. “It’s like swinging a baseball bat in the sense that you’re using the rotation of your whole body when kicking. The key is staying on the balls of both feet. You want to connect with the shin right above the foot, keeping that leg straight as you make impact. You also need to fully rotate your right hip over the left. That’s what’ll give you momentum.”

  “Piece of cake, right?”

  “Right. Go for it.”

  I step into fighting stance and face the bag, feeling like I’m about to dive into a potentially cold pool even though I’ve tested the water with my foot and know it won’t be so bad. The fear that I’ll do it wrong and get hurt is real. Taking a breath, I pivot and turn and rotate, but the impact is more like a friendly tap. “Was that kind of right?”

  “Try again.”

  I pivot hard and swing my leg, but my kick is too low, and my hip isn’t anywhere near where it’s supposed to be. “What exactly do you mean by turning my hip over? I feel awkward.”

  He places both hands on his hips. “They’re centered right now, but I want the right to end up over the left. Watch my hips as I turn.” He does the move slowly this time, and I watch with interest, reassuring myself it’s okay to stare, since he’s the one who suggested it. But to be honest, my insides are jelly.

  “Now you try. Focus on form, not power. The power will come from doing the move correctly. I want you to kick, reset, and kick again. Then I’ll let you punch holes through my mitts.”

  “Thank you. I look forward to that.” Turning my attention to the bag, I adjust my feet and tighten my fists. The bag looms in front of me, taunting me. Swallowing hard, I tell myself to just do it, but I’m frozen. “I’m scared.”

  He laughs. “Why? What’s the worst thing that’ll happen? You fall on your ass, and I help you up?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Don’t take this so seriously. The only way you’ll learn is by making mistakes along the way.”

  “My fear of failure is strong.” In a guarded tone, I say, “Please don’t laugh if I do fall.”

  A strange look crosses his face. “I promise I won’t.”

  I turn to the bag, but my mind lingers on his expression. Shaking my head, I reset and do the kick. It’s not perfect by any means, but I tried.

  “Better! Keep it up.”

  As I try again, I remember what he said the first day I met him: it helps to get a little angry. I don’t zero in on what I’m angry about, but I seem to have plenty in reserve. It’s just me and the bag, and I’m going to win.

  Sweat slides down my face into my eyes, and I dab at it with the gym towel I brought. M
y breath is ragged, but I feel alive.

  “That was awesome. You moved past the mental block and went for it.”

  “I remembered to get angry.”

  “Works every time.”

  “Somehow I don’t think it’s as much of a struggle for you. The bag cowers when you approach it. And let’s not even talk about the battle ropes. They surrender to you.”

  He wipes a hand down his mouth, but I can see the smile. “You make me sound like a superhero.”

  “Well.” I grin at him. “Now that you mention it…”

  He laughs. “So I can throw a good punch. You’ll get there. Hell, you’ve already come a long way.” He looks at the mirror in front of us and studies himself, expressionless. “It’s easy to build a muscle. Other things don’t come so easily for me.” He flicks his eyes back to mine. “I can relate to your fear of failing.”

  My curiosity is like a boulder rolling downhill. Even if I wanted to stop myself from probing, I couldn’t. “How so?”

  “School.” He pulls in a breath. “It was a freaking battle.”

  “The people or the academics?”

  “Both. I have dyslexia.” He slides his hand up the front of his shirt, as if zipping on a protective shield. “People thought I was stupid. They’d talk loud enough for me to hear. It made me not want to try anything. Getting the diagnosis helped, but the label was there. I was the dumb kid.”

  Horrid, awful people. “That must’ve been really hard. Kids are cruel.”

  “Yeah.”

  The look in his eyes tugs at my heart. It makes me want to go back in time and lecture all the jerks who hurt him. “But look at you now. You’re doing what you love, and you’re really good at it.”

  He presses a hand to his chest. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from someone like you.”

  My shoulders rise and sag. Someone like me? He’s smiling, but it feels like an insult. “I beg your pardon?” As soon as the words are out, I realize I’ve answered my own question. I’m someone who says I beg your pardon in an accusatory tone. I can’t meet his eyes.

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” He tilts his head as though he’s silently trying to nudge me back up. “You’re a lawyer. I’m a college dropout. We’re different. So when I said someone like you, I meant you’re smart, accomplished.”

  “Thanks.” His compliment lies on the floor at my feet, fluttering like a fallen butterfly. For reasons I can’t begin to decipher, I leave it there.

  He clears his throat and points to my legs. “You might want to ice your shins later. You’ll build up a tolerance as you go, but the first time’s always a little dicey.” He glances at the clock. “I’ll walk out with you. You’re my last client tonight.” As we reach the cubbies, he pauses near Javier. “Hey, man. I’m out. See you tomorrow.”

  They bump fists. “Cool. You off to see the ladies?”

  “You know it,” he says with a conspiratorial grin that stirs my curiosity.

  We walk in silence until we reach the door, my mind stuck on who these ladies might be. Trying for a casual tone, I say, “What are you doing tonight?”

  He winks. “Salsa dancing.”

  It’s a lie. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Especially after the way he opened up about his dyslexia. He’s like a multifaceted prism, and I want to know all of his colors. Maybe I should ice my heart instead of my legs. My feelings for him are getting way too warm.

  Chapter Ten

  Ryan wasn’t kidding about my legs. They feel like they need to be cut off and sent in for repair. Ugly bruises cover the center of my right shin. I took a picture of them and almost texted him with the caption, “You were right,” but thought better of it. I’m sure he sees bruises all the time.

  I uncross my legs in the chair I occupy in the minimalistic waiting room of Dr. Martin Culpepper. Kenneth sits opposite me, flicking through emails on his phone.

  The door clicks, and a receptionist appears, greeting us with a smile. Nothing moves but her mouth, and I wonder how many chemicals she had to have injected in her face to keep it frozen like that.

  We reach Dr. Culpepper’s office, and as he stands to greet us, my eyes go wide. He’s positively tiny—a detail that wasn’t conveyed in the smiling headshot on his webpage. He can’t be more than five feet. I’m surprised the bird in question didn’t snatch him up with his sharp talons and fly off.

  I must look like a gangly giant when I reach to shake his hand. I’m only five foot four—a bit taller with my heels—but I feel entirely too large.

  “Thanks for coming across town to see me,” he says, sitting.

  Kenneth nods. “No problem, Doctor. We want to make things as easy as possible for you.”

  Three black cubes displaying breast implant samples sit atop Dr. Culpepper’s desk. Wow. The troll dolls don’t seem so weird now. These would be a downright distraction.

  Kenneth gestures to one. “You must do a lot of business with those.”

  “I do. Pick it up if you’d like.” Kenneth palms one, testing its weight by bouncing it in his hand, and Dr. Culpepper says, “That’s our smooth, round, moderate profile.”

  Are you kidding me? The case has absolutely nothing to do with breast implants.

  “Huh,” Kenneth utters, as though he’s giving the boob a lot of thought. “Kind of feels like a stress ball, but more pliable.” He rolls it between both palms and closes his eyes. I have to pretend it’s a ball of dough he’s prepping for a baking sheet, because otherwise…ew. He opens his eyes, and a lazy smile bends his lips. “I actually prefer this to the stress balls I use.”

  Oh, for the love of God. If he thinks for one second about asking for a few samples to stuff in his stress-ball jar, I’m going to die.

  “Makes sense. They’re built to feel nice.”

  I cringe.

  Kenneth places the implant back on the cube, thank goodness, and takes out a pen and legal pad, all business. Maybe he finally remembered I’m sitting here right next to him while they’re fondling breast implants.

  “Our plan is to proceed as though we’re going to trial. We’ll need to get some information, including itemized documents of your lost earnings and the personal medical records you acquired as a result of your injury.”

  Dr. Culpepper launches into a description of his illness, the misdiagnosis, and his eventual surgery. To be honest, the entire discussion kind of creeps me out. There’s no way I could’ve ever become a doctor.

  “Stronger regulations need to be in place,” Dr. Culpepper says. “If that bird had bitten a child, serious damage could’ve resulted.”

  Bingo! In reading the facts of the case, I had questions about Dr. Culpepper’s motivations for filing suit—if he had any above and beyond monetary compensation. I like that he wants changes implemented.

  As our meeting winds down, Kenneth turns to me. “I’ll have you stay to collect the documents, since I have another meeting in thirty minutes. You can grab an Uber back to the office.”

  “Sure.” If I time it right, I’ll be able to call Hannah during her lunch break and check in. She said Alex hasn’t mentioned the rings again, but he’d snuck a photo of the one she liked.

  Dr. Culpepper smiles at me from across his desk as Kenneth leaves. “I’ll get those documents from my secretary. Feel free to look at my books while you wait. Not that you need any work done,” he adds quickly. “People pay to have noses like yours.”

  I offer a tentative smile, wondering if he also subtly checked out my chest. Pushing the thought aside, I slide my phone from my briefcase. Kenneth has been gone only ten minutes, and I have two new emails from him—the first asking me to research and write a memorandum for a case involving a nurse who was injured while working in the ER, and the next asking me to write an article on legal and ethical issues regarding third-party litigation funding for a law magazine.

  Taking my laptop from my bag, I begin reading the file on the nurse. Before I reach the end, Dr. Culpepper’s secretary steps in with a
folder. “Here are the documents. I’ve placed my business card on top in case you require anything additional.”

  “Thanks.” I head to the elevators and tap my Uber app. My phone rings when I land on the first floor. Kenneth’s number shows on the screen.

  “Hi, I’m heading back to the office now.”

  “Are you still in Beverly Hills?”

  “Yes. I’ve just finished with the doctor and am waiting for my car.”

  “Good, good. Listen. I screwed up and forgot my girlfriend’s birthday. I need you to have your driver stop at Gable’s so you can pick up a gift. Make sure it’s something she likes.”

  “Okay. I’m on it. What does she like?” I wait for his answer. “Kenneth? Kenneth?” but he’s already hung up. I dial him back, but it goes straight to voicemail. I slam my phone against my leg and pace down the street, keeping an eye out for my Uber.

  I click onto Facebook and type Kenneth York into the search bar. It’s a long shot, but maybe I’ll get lucky and discover the identity of his significant other. If she has a public profile, I can glean some information about her.

  Four Kenneth Yorks pop up. The pictures are tiny, but I recognize him in photo number three and tap on it. My car arrives, and I climb in, directing the driver to Gable’s. As he navigates his way up Camden toward Little Santa Monica, I touch the about button, hoping Kenneth’s relationship status will provide me with a name.

  But there’s nothing. Just a big, fat blank space. I scroll through his posts, but the most recent one is two years old.

  We pull up to Gable’s, and I ask the driver to wait.

  A man in an elegant suit approaches me, his hands clasped like a mortician’s. “Hello, madam. May I be of any assistance to you?”

  “Yes, thanks. I need to buy a gift for my boss’s girlfriend.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Um, I’m not certain what she likes. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Indeed. Perhaps a fine perfume bottle or a set of Rogaska champagne flutes?”