Getting a Grip: A #MyNewLife Romantic Comedy

by M. E. Carter

  She nods, but I can still see a bit of fear. It’s overpowered, though, by that fierce determination I know is in there. It’s the same determination that made her ask to sign up every single day for two weeks until I finally remembered to make the call. She isn’t going to back down now.

  “Ok, beginners!” a baby-faced teenager yells to get the kids’ attention. Were the coaches always this young when I came here? “Let’s head to the mat and follow the leader. I need everyone to run three laps!”

  The bottleneck of children at the gate entrance reminds me of a viral video I saw once of a bunch of piglets all trying to get through a fence at the same time. Their little feet were still moving rapidly even though they weren’t going anywhere.

  The same thing is happening here, except these kids are basically running in place instead of climbing all over each other. Well, there are a couple of the little boys who can hardly take holding back so they wrestle while they wait. I may or may not have laughed when one of them raised his teeny tiny arms up in a muscle pose showing his victory.

  I have to give Fiona credit. For as nervous as she is, she does exactly what I told her to do and she follows the crowd. Soon enough, she runs into a little girl from school.

  And I mean that literally. The other girl was running the wrong direction and they smack into each other. Fortunately, the excitement of seeing each other overshadows any injuries.

  The warm up hasn’t changed all that much since I was a gymnast. Same stretches. Same lunges. Same backbends. Briefly, I feel an urge to run out there myself and start tumbling. But then I remember the last time I jumped on a backyard trampoline with Fiona to show her my front flip, and I peed all down my leg.

  They don’t tell you about that in your health classes in high school. We’d see a huge drop in teenage pregnancy in this country if we only told the poor girls about weak bladders and hemorrhoids. I’m sure of it.

  A door next to me closes, and I glance up, only to do a double-take. “Greg?”

  He stops and smiles. “Hey, Elena. What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing? Do you work here?”

  “Yeah. I thought you knew that.” We both stop and think for a second. “It’s never come up before has it?”

  “I don’t think it has. How weird is it that we see each other all the time and I’ve never asked where you work?”

  “We’re usually too entertained watching the Callie and Christopher show. I guess we shouldn’t be surprised, right?”

  “Yeah. But now that I think about it, I don’t even know your last name.”

  A blush creeps up his face. “It’s Brady.”

  “Oh that’s… wait…” My lips slowly curl up in amusement. “You’re Greg Brady?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m trying really hard not to laugh.”

  “I appreciate that. And also, no. Despite her obsession with the Brady Bunch, my mother didn’t hate me. Much.”

  I have to bite my lip to stop the giggle that wants to escape. Callie is going to have a field day with this one.

  “You don’t happen to have a weird last name or something that would make me feel like less of a freak, would you?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry. My last name is Monroe.”

  “Elena Monroe,” he says. “That’s really pretty.”

  And it’s back. That moment that might be a moment but might not be a moment, and I can’t tell because I’m freaking neurotic. So I do what I do best… look away and deflect.

  “Um,” I clear my throat and sever the mood completely, “are you a coach or something?”

  “Program director,” he corrects me. “But yeah, I coach a lot. Normally it’s the team, but Coach Zach called in sick. I’m filling in for him today.”

  “Oh, Fiona’s going to love that! Today’s her first day, and she’s really nervous.” I peek out onto the floor and find her cutting up with her new friend, laughing her head off when she’s supposed to be stretching. “Well, she was nervous. She looks okay now.”

  I look back over at Greg and he hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. If she’s anything like you, she’s resilient.”

  I’m not sure how to respond to that compliment, except to blush. Sometimes I feel like I’m going through the motions of my life and forget how strong I truly am. It’s nice hearing that someone else besides my mother and Callie can see my strengths.

  “Anyway,” he says, pushing away from the wall, “I’m gonna go get my class moving. You’re sticking around the whole hour?”

  I nod. “Wouldn’t miss it. It’s bringing back all my childhood memories.”

  “Cool.” He keeps talking as he walks backward. “I’ll make sure to come talk to you after class is over.”

  “Ok.”

  He smiles and I smile and he’s still backpedaling until he smacks into the gate, making him stumble and me laugh. But in true gymnast fashion, he hops around and rights himself quickly as he jogs towards the kids.

  Suddenly, I’m extremely disappointed in myself for waiting this long to bring Fiona. I could have spent weeks ogling him from afar without Callie giving me any shit about it.

  Pretending I’m busy texting, I try to take a super stealth picture of Greg in action. Open camera. Zoom in. Click.

  And the flash goes off.

  Several parents turn my direction and glare.

  “Sorry. It’s our first day.” I point at Fiona who waves at me. “See?” My explanation seems acceptable to the uppity parents who turn back to their own tasks, but I happen to glance up at Greg who has his arms crossed and is smirking at me.

  Dammit. Busted.

  Ignoring my embarrassment over the faux pas, I open my text messages and pull up Callie’s info.

  Me: It’s Fiona’s first day of gymnastics.

  Callie: Fun! Does she love it?

  Me: She does. Of course, it helps that she likes her coach.

  I attach the picture, press send, and wait.

  It doesn’t take long for the shouty capitals message I expect to come through.

  Callie: NO FUCKING WAY!!! He’s a gymnastics coach?

  Me: Program director. But he coaches the team.

  Callie: How did we not know that?

  Me: Because we’re self-absorbed and have eleventy billion children?

  Callie: Exactly. But now you get to watch him from a distance and he’ll never know you’re staring.

  Me: I’m leaving now.

  Callie: If he flashes his abs, get a pic for me!

  Me: Already tried stealth mode. It didn’t go well.

  Callie: Lol. Rule #1: Always make sure your flash is turned off. How do you forget every time?

  Me: Shut up. I’m busy watching my kid.

  Callie: Sure you are. Tell Greg I said hi.

  Me: Will do.

  Clicking my phone off, I search the gym for my child. I find her and a few other little girls around her age rotating through stations on the floor. Some are doing backbends on the cheese. Some are doing handstands. Fiona is with Greg, working on her cartwheel.

  Her little arms are high in the air, one foot out in front, as she listens closely to what he is telling her. She nods, he claps, and she pushes off, throwing her legs in the air, hands on the ground.

  And in a split second, somehow she’s fallen and ended up on her butt. I smile, because it’s too much fun seeing my girl learn all the tricks she dreams about every time she watches a competition on TV. Thank goodness we can find most meets On-Demand. It’s tough tearing her away from the boob tube at bedtime before the final competitors perform.

  Fi rubs her head as she stands up, making her lopsided pigtails even more disheveled. Greg then does something I never expected. He stands behind her, pulls the hair ties out, runs his fingers through her hair until she has a high ponytail on top of her head, and ties it all back together like a champ.

  And if seeing a hot single dad do a little girl’s hair didn’t just mak
e my ovaries explode, what happens when she walks away does.

  He lifts his shirt to wipe his brow.

  My jaw drops and I blink several times.

  Holy. Mother. Of abs.

  Not only is Greg handsome, and tall, and kind… he’s ripped. I’ve never noticed before but he’s really muscular. The biceps peeking out of his sleeves are bulging. His shoulders are broad. From behind, when he stretches to demonstrate a technique, his back muscles are rippling. All of those adjectives people use to describe an attractive muscular man apply here.

  “Ohmygod,” I say under my breath. No way I can deny my secret crush now. He has catapulted to a new level of sexy in my book.

  I spend the last thirty minutes of class trying really hard to watch my daughter, but my eyes keep gravitating back to her coach. He’s so good with the kids. Encouraging and motivating and smiling all the time. How in the world this perfect man is divorced is beyond me.

  As the classes wind down and the kids trickle back out the gate, smiles on their sweaty little faces, Fiona bounds up to me. She looks elated and it puts me in a good mood, too.

  “Did you have fun?”

  “Mama, it was so fun!” she exclaims. “Did you see me flip on the bar? Did you?”

  “I did! Your pullover looked great!”

  “Coach Greg said my handstand is super high, too!” She jumps up as high as she can. “Did you see me do my handstand?”

  “I did!”

  “Can we come back next time?” she interjects, not even listening to any of my responses because she is way too excited. “Please, Mama? I wanna do gymnastics again!”

  “Of course you can.”

  “She really did do a great job, especially for her first time.” I look up and my breath hitches a bit. Now that he’s exponentially sexier to me, my puppy dog eyes could become a problem. He has officially succeeded in dazzling me today.

  “I’m gonna come back next time!” Fiona yells and continues to bounce.

  “Okay, okay, calm down kid.” I pat her arm lovingly. “I don’t want to have to Benadryl you when we get home.”

  Greg chuckles. “Hey Fiona, why don’t you go get your shoes on so I can talk to your mom.”

  She bounds away, leaving him and I alone to chat. Well, as alone as you can be in a room full of people thinking they’re training their kids for the Olympics in eight years.

  “Thank you for coaching her today. I mean… I know it’s your job and all, but you’re amazing. I mean… you’re amazing with the kids. Not that you’re not amazing anyway… Oh geez.” I blush and he smiles. It seems that blushing and smiling are the only things we do these days.

  “She’s a natural. I hope you bring her back.”

  “She’s officially signed up for this class so we’ll be here every week at this time.”

  “Good, good.” He clears his throat. “Um, I’ve been thinking. Ok… I’m just gonna say it… Can I make you dinner some time?”

  I… wait… what…. Did he ask me out on a date?

  “Did you just ask me out on a date?” I blurt out.

  “Yeah. Is that ok?”

  “Yeah, it’s totally fine. I …” I pause to gather my thoughts. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that. Are you serious?”

  He scratches his beard. “About the date or about cooking?”

  “Both, I guess. I haven’t been asked out for a long time, so I guess I’m trying to make sure I’m not misunderstanding. Or dreaming.” I squeeze my eyes shut with embarrassment. “Or say stupid things like that out loud.”

  He leans towards me and I swear he is tossing smoldering looks my direction. “You’re not misunderstanding, and you’re not saying stupid things. I would like to take you on a date, but I also like to cook sometimes. Would you like to come over to my place? I can cook for you.”

  His baby blues are locked on mine and I lose all ability to speak temporarily as I’m sucked into his web. Or maybe my hormones kicked up a notch. Either way, I have to shake my head to break myself of the fog.

  “Yes. Yes, I’d like to go on a date with you. And I’d love to not have to do the cooking for once.”

  He smiles and begins to back away. “Great. I’ll grab your cell number off Fiona’s registration paperwork and text you this weekend so we can make plans.”

  “Sounds good. And thanks.”

  He turns and jogs back onto the mat, clapping his hands to take over warming up the next group of classes.

  “Mama, can we go?” Fiona tugs on my hand as I stare at my future date. “I’m getting hungry.”

  “Yeah, um, ok. Let’s go, baby cakes.”

  We turn and make our way back through the crowd and out the door.

  We certainly got more out of her new class than I ever anticipated.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Callie turns her phone to show me the latest text from Ben, who continues to prove himself incompetent.

  Ben: Where are the frozen fish sticks?

  Callie: In the freezer.

  Ben: Which freezer?

  I try to keep a straight face, knowing she’s annoyed. “I guess he forgot the one in the garage broke.”

  “Ugh.” She quickly types out a response and tosses her phone in her purse. “It was last month, and he’s the one who dragged it to the curb. How did he forget that?”

  We slam the car doors and make our way into the newest salon in town. When my mother asked what I wanted for my fortieth birthday, I finally fessed up. I want a new me. I don’t think I realized it until I had my makeover, but I really have enjoyed seeing myself look pretty, and I want to continue to find ways to do that.

  “I’m still wondering why you don’t leave Ben,” I toss out there, hoping not to hit a nerve.

  She shrugs, which I take as a sign that she’s not offended. “Because when he’s not being a total dillweed, he’s kind and caring and affectionate. He genuinely loves us, even though he’s completely inept about getting things done. Besides…” the evil smirk comes out and I know she’s about to share something juicy. “… it’s more fun to cut a hole in his favorite socks when he’s not looking than go to divorce court.”

  “Did you really do that?”

  “Sure did. It was just a tiny hole. But when he pushed his foot into his sock, his big toe went right through. I haven’t heard him cuss like that in a while. It set the whole tone for my wonderful day.”

  “You’re diabolical,” I laugh. “I’m impressed. How come I’m not clever enough to come up with these passive aggressive things?”

  “Because you are way too sweet and kind. I’m jaded from years of him stepping over dog poop and pretending not to see it so I have to clean it up.” We stop in front of a check-in desk, a petite twenty-something with a sleek blond bob and perfect make-up looking professionally indignant at our arrival. “And now we’re going to stop talking about this because we’re seeing Ben’s sister’s niece and I don’t want my cover blown.”

  I mimic zipping my lips and throwing away the key, before meandering around the room. It’s all greens and browns and whites. It’s a very open concept. All the hairdresser stations are in the same big room. A row of sinks is lined up in the back, complete with reclining chairs. Several of the hair dryer stations are off to the side. There’s even a coffee bar. It’s all very swanky and looks very expensive.

  “Are you Elena?” A petite brunette with long flowy hair and a tiny little waist approaches me. “I’m Jordan, your stylist.” The first thing I notice is she has a high-pitched, almost baby voice. This is going to get annoying.

  The second thing I notice is that she puts out her hand and when I think she’s about to shake mine, she goes straight for my hair instead. That’s not awkward or anything. “Hmm. What are we doing with you today anyway?”

  “I don’t really know. I hadn’t thought about it. I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”

  “Uh huh,” she says with a blank smile. The lights are on, but I’m seriously not sure how many people are hom
e. “Come with me.”

  I hesitate but follow her to her station, which is right next to the coffee bar. Her mirror has the standard things taped to it… her stylist license, some ads for styling products, a price list. But all of that is overpowered by dozens of pictures of her with some guy. They’re making googly eyes at each other in some. Kissing in others. Some of them have post its with love notes written on them and things like “J+C” written in swirly letters. It’s like a shrine to their relationship.

  “How long have you been dating?” I gesture to the mirror/shrine.

  “Chad? Um… about six weeks.”

  That’s… surprising. “Oh. I thought with all the pictures, it was longer than that.”

  She giggles. Not like a shy giggle. But like an I’m-barely-out-of-high-school-and-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing giggle.

  I have a bad feeling I won’t be getting out of this chair with any dignity left intact.

  She pulls the hair tie out making my messy bun fall around my shoulders and begins combing through my hair with her fingers. “Callie said I could do whatever it takes to make you feel beautiful. I have some ideas. How much time do you have?”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize my hair was that bad.” And I can’t believe I’m letting a teenager take scissors to my head.

  “It’s not bad, exactly. It’s really healthy. It’s kind of… well, you look like my mom.”

  “I didn’t know being a mom was a bad thing,” I say defensively.

  “No, silly.” She rolls her eyes and already I’m having visions of ripping her voice box out of her throat. Her voice is slightly too high pitched and bubbly. “It’s not bad to be a mom. You don’t want to look like one, ya know?”

  I honestly don’t know, but I let her blather on and try to ignore the dig on how insignificant and unimportant my entire life for the past eight years has been and how I should be doing my best to not look the part. Someday, she’ll get it. The more babies she has, the more she’ll get it.