Good.
She needed an ass kicking.
One of the best things about spin class, she’d decided as Amanda turned up the pumping music and got them moving, was that she needed to focus. She couldn’t let her mind wander because Amanda had her concentrating not only on not falling off the bike, but on shifting gears. Up and down, up and down, standing, sitting, standing, sitting. Spencer had no choice but to pay attention, follow directions, and—her favorite—track the counter that told her how many calories she’d burned.
There was no time for dwelling on anything else.
Forty-five minutes later, Spencer was pretty sure she was dying. Which was par for the course and meant spin class was going exactly as planned. She stood and pumped her legs as Amanda shouted for her not to drop her ass, not to give up on this hill, to keep pushing, pushing, pushing! Sweat rolled down the center of Spencer’s back, dripped from her temples, covered her chest. Her lungs heaved, her quads burned, and still she pushed, pedaled, sprinted, doing her best to outrun those damn demons that refused to leave her alone.
When she finally hit the cool-down phase, Spencer sat back on the bike, hands on her hips, and pedaled easily, the sense of accomplishment washing over her. This. This was why she continued to go to class. This feeling right here? This pride? This feeling of triumph? It’s what kept her going. Not to mention that her legs and heart felt stronger.
Back in the locker room, Spencer felt infinitely better. Things still weighed on her, of course, but that rush of endorphins definitely did what it was supposed to, and she felt at least a tiny bit lighter. What made her feel even lighter still was the text on her phone from Lucy.
Future mom-in-law driving me nuts. Time for coffee? Lunch? Anything? Please? Save me.
With a grin, Spencer texted her back, and half an hour later, they sat at a little café halfway between the gym and Lucy’s place. Spencer dug into her plate of scrambled eggs, suddenly famished.
“You didn’t kill her, did you?” she asked Lucy.
“Who? Ethan’s mom? No.” Lucy grinned. “She’s really very nice. She’s just…a bit on the exuberant side when it comes to the wedding. I think she’s bummed she’s the mother of the groom and not of the bride because she really wants to be a part of all of it, and I can almost see her forcing herself not to be.”
“Aww, that’s kind of sweet.”
“It is. But also, exhausting.” Lucy sipped her coffee and eyed Spencer’s breakfast.
“Help yourself,” Spencer told her, pointing to the plate with her fork. “I won’t eat it all. But spin class makes me so hungry.”
“I’m so impressed with your drive.” Lucy’s face lit up, her pride in Spencer evident.
Spencer gave a half shrug. “Thanks.”
“You really enjoy it, huh?”
“What? God, no. I hate it. Every second of it. It’s awful. But I like the way I feel when it’s over.”
“Fair enough.” Lucy snagged a slice of Spencer’s toast. “Was Rebecca there?”
Spencer shook her head, an odd mix of relief and disappointment around her answer swirling through her. “No, I didn’t see her. I’m not sure she works on the weekends.”
“She was in the parking lot yesterday when I left talking to some woman with a Lexus.”
“Yeah, that was Marti.”
“Your Marti?”
“Yep. I was running late, and she was picking me up.” Spencer thought back on the conversation. “You know what? Rebecca stuck up for me.”
Lucy’s brow furrowed. “What? What does that mean? I’m going to need details, please. She stuck up for you how? Against who?”
“Whom.”
“What the fuck ever, just tell me the story,” Lucy demanded, with a laugh.
“Against Marti.”
Lucy’s eyes went wide. Then she made a rolling gesture with her hand, urging Spencer to continue.
“It was no big deal. Just…Marti jokingly said I was not athletic and that I’d always been kind of…soft.” She didn’t like saying it. True or not, it still stung. Spencer pursed her lips and pushed them sideways, making a face.
“Wait.” Lucy held up a hand. “Your fiancée told your trainer you were soft? Like, squishy? That kind of soft? Not, like, softhearted or a pushover or something? But literally soft of muscle? Like, flabby?”
“Exactly like flabby.”
“Wow.” It was as if Lucy needed a moment. She sipped her coffee, took another bite of toast, chewed. Finally, she asked, “What did Rebecca say?”
Spencer scooped up the last of her eggs, held the fork aloft as she squinted, pretending to search for words that she knew by heart. “She said I was anything but soft. That I work really hard and that I’m getting results. Visible results.” She didn’t add the low timbre of Rebecca’s voice, how it had felt a bit threatening, like Rebecca was protecting Spencer. She didn’t mention how much she’d liked that.
“And Marti’s response was…?”
“‘If you say so.’” Spencer made air quotes around the other sentence she wouldn’t forget.
“Wow.” Lucy blinked at her, seemingly stunned into silence. “Just…wow.”
“Yeah.” Spencer picked up her mug as the waitress stopped at their table and warmed up Lucy’s. They sipped quietly for several moments.
“Hey, Spencer, can I ask you something?”
Spencer nodded. “Sure.”
“I might be overstepping,” Lucy warned, her face hesitant.
Spencer reached across the table and closed a hand over Lucy’s. “You can ask me anything. Despite only knowing you a short time, I trust you. It’s weird.”
Lucy smiled. “I feel the same way.”
“Good. Shoot.”
Lucy looked down, studied her coffee in the mug. When she looked back up, her eyes were soft. Tender. “Are you happy?”
Three little words. That’s all they were. Three little words. Four syllables. Eleven letters. But they settled down onto Spencer’s shoulders with the weight of the lead vest the dentist used when taking x-rays, heavy and constricting, making it hard to take a full breath. She let the question roll around inside her, twist and turn, spin one way, then the other, until finally, she knew she had to answer. She owed Lucy an answer. An honest one.
“About four years ago, I was head over heels in love.”
Lucy seemed to settle back into her seat, as if she knew some major information was coming her way.
“Her name was Chelsea and she was an anesthesiologist. Beautiful. Tall, long dark hair, huge brown eyes. I had never fallen so hard, so fast as I did with her. We dated for over a year, but I knew from the first month that I wanted to marry her.” Spencer knew her voice had gone a little dreamy, but she couldn’t seem to help it. That was how she’d felt in those first few blissful months with Chelsea: like she was in a perpetual dream state. “We didn’t talk about it, of course. No better way to scare somebody away than tell them you want to marry them after five dates.” She laughed, but there was an edge. “But I planned it in my head. I could see it. We’d have beautiful lacy white dresses and our fathers would walk us down the aisle and it would be magical. When I came out, I assumed that kind of a wedding was no longer an option, but with Chelsea, it felt like I got it back, like the possibility had returned.”
Spencer glanced at Lucy, whose face was a mix of enthralled anticipation and dread. It was obvious she knew the story didn’t have a happy ending.
“It was our fourteen-month anniversary—I was silly like that back then, celebrated monthly anniversaries like a child—and I decided this was it. I was going to pop the question. I planned it so meticulously. Made reservations at our favorite restaurant. For both of us as well as several of our friends and my parents. I had them all set to come in after us and sit behind Chelsea so she didn’t see them. The waiter was to drop the ring in her glass of champagne and we’d toast and I’d get down on one knee and ask her. And then we’d have a big celebration.”
; Spencer didn’t go back there often, didn’t allow herself to. But it had been a while, and she was surprised to find that it hurt the smallest bit less than last time as she envisioned that gorgeous restaurant, the white linen tablecloths, Chelsea’s little black dress and upswept hair.
“What happened?” Lucy asked, her voice so quiet, Spencer wondered if she was afraid of breaking something with it.
“She said no.”
“Oh, Spencer.”
“Not only did she say no. She laughed at me and then got angry. Asked me how I could be so stupid as to think she’d want to get married, that she was never going to get married and how could I not know that about her. She didn’t realize we had guests there, so all our friends and my parents heard all of it. When she saw that, she got even angrier, said I’d humiliated her and stormed out of the restaurant.”
“Oh, no.” Lucy brought a hand to her mouth. “Spencer.”
“I spent the next year wondering how I could have possibly misread the signs so badly. Any confidence I had, Chelsea took with her when she left the restaurant. I tried to crawl back up from that but found myself second-guessing everything I did, every decision I made.”
“And when did you meet Marti?”
Spencer inhaled slowly, let it out, feeling a sense of relief at having told the story to Lucy. “About a year later. We were at a party together and she came up to me, said hi, brought me a drink. She did most of the talking but was charming and sweet, and I liked her right away.”
“You started dating?”
Spencer nodded, thinking back to that time when things were new and fresh. Though, if she was going to be honest, she had to admit that one thing that kept her in it. “Marti’s very assertive. She’s decisive.”
“So you could just follow along.” Lucy said it with no accusation, but Spencer heard it and, for the first time, actually absorbed it. Felt embarrassed. Felt shame. Felt weak. “And she said, ‘let’s get married,’ and you said, ‘okay.’”
Spencer grimaced. “Not quite. I tend to just…go along when it comes to Marti. It wasn’t an actual proposal. More of a ‘hey, we should do this at some point’ kind of thing.”
Lucy shook her head. “Oh, Spencer.”
“I know. I know.” Spencer hung her head. “I’m a mess.”
“You are, but I don’t understand why. You’re wonderful. You’re smart and beautiful and funny and I adore you. Why don’t you?” When Spencer didn’t answer, she asked, “When’s the last time you were happy? Be honest.”
Spencer didn’t need to think about it at all. “Last Sunday in the bar with you guys and then with Rebecca and her friends.”
Lucy smiled. “Why?”
“Because I felt like I could be myself.”
Lucy sat back with a smile and folded her arms across her chest as if she’d accomplished something. “There you go.” She said it like she’d just solved the problem, like the solution was crystal clear and sitting in the middle of the table.
Was it?
Chapter Eighteen
Turtle’s was a mob scene on Sunday. The weather had turned and it actually felt like football season. Toss in the drizzle that fell from the sky, and apparently everybody had decided to watch the games from this particular bar.
Nick had gotten there first, as always, and saved their usual barstools. Rebecca sat next to him on one side, Dwayne on the other, and Kevin had been able to join them as well. The Giants scored on the TV across the room, and that half of the bar erupted in shouts of happiness and applause.
“How’s Michelle feeling?” Rebecca asked, as she leaned in and snagged a stalk of celery off Nick’s enormous plate of wings. Only three remained.
“Morning sickness,” he replied, his eyes not leaving the screen above them as he put an entire wing into his mouth and pulled out a bone like a cartoon character would. It never ceased to amaze Rebecca. Nick flexed his left hand, then grabbed another wing.
“Ugh. That’s got to suck,” she said, turning back to the game.
“Oh, come on, ref!” Dwayne said, from Nick’s other side. “Put your glasses on, goddamn it.”
“She seems to be doing okay with it,” Nick said.
“And are you being helpful?” Rebecca asked him, her voice gently scolding as she bumped him with her shoulder.
Nick held up a hand like a Boy Scout. “I swear, I am. I even offered to hold her hair back this morning, but she shut the bathroom door in my face.”
“Maybe I’ll go see her tomorrow, see what she needs.” Again, the other side of the bar erupted in cheers. “Man, the Giants are killing it today.” Something hit her thigh, and when she looked down, there was a large spot of wing sauce on her jeans. “Aw, Nick, come on, man, stop dropping food on me.” She looked up to see Nick’s eyes widen in confusion and his face drain of color. “Nick. Nick!” Rebecca slid off her stool and reached for him. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t…know…” He grabbed his left biceps with his right hand. “I feel…weird…” Then he moved his hand to his chest. “Trouble…breathing…”
Dwayne picked up on the situation, jumped off his stool, and put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Dude. What’s going on?” He looked at Rebecca, panicked. “Jesus, is he having a heart attack?”
“I don’t—” Before she could finish her sentence, Nick dropped to the floor like his legs had been yanked out from under him, and somebody was screaming to call 911 in a horrified shriek. Rebecca didn’t realize right away that the shrieking was coming from her.
* * *
“I hate hospitals,” Kevin said, as he paced back and forth in front of the row of chairs. “The sounds. The smell. God, the smell.” He made a face and ran his hand through his hair for what must have been the fiftieth time, judging by how it stood straight up on its own now.
Rebecca sat in one of the very uncomfortable chairs. They were deceiving, really, those chairs. All nicely upholstered, pleasing color schemes of turquoise and terracotta, very Southwestern, which was maybe meant to relax visitors. But they were hard as slate. Rebecca’s ass protested. It felt like she was sitting on plywood. Just one more thing to add to her already skyrocketing stress levels.
“God, when will they tell us what’s going on?” Dwayne’s voice was a near whine, and as he lifted his hands out from his side, Dave came skidding into the room as if he was wearing only socks on his feet.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, breathless. They’d called him out of the theatre where he was on a date, and he hadn’t hesitated. “Is he okay?”
“Michelle’s in with the doctor now,” Rebecca told him. “We’re waiting.”
“Jesus Christ, he had a heart attack, didn’t he?” Dave dropped into a chair next to Rebecca. “I knew this would happen. I knew it. I kept telling him it was only a matter of time. The way that guy eats.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dwayne said quietly.
“Dude, you know I’m right.”
“Yes, I know you’re right. I just don’t want to hear about it right now. Okay?” Dwayne glared at him and Dave held up his hands in surrender.
“Yeah, okay. Okay. Sorry, man.”
Quiet settled over them again, no sound in the waiting room except for the soft hum of the wall-mounted television in the corner broadcasting the local news.
Rebecca was worried. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this worried. Nick’s face, the gray pallor of his skin, the terror in his eyes as he fell. He didn’t know what was happening to him, to his body. She’d held his hand the entire time he lay on the floor, waiting for the ambulance. The bar had gone eerily silent, people standing around him, trying not to stare and failing. The ambulance had arrived in record time, thank God, and they’d loaded him in and promised Rebecca they would take good care of him as she reluctantly let go of his hand and watched them zip away with her best friend in the back.
Dave was so right about Nick’s eating habits. His exercise habits—or lack thereof. Honest to God, if
he pulled through this, Rebecca was going to beat him into shape with a club if she had to. Damn him. Why didn’t he listen to her? Why didn’t he listen to anybody?
If he dies on me…I swear to God, if he dies on me…
She didn’t have time to finish the thought because Michelle appeared in the doorway. Everybody looked up at her, and it was as if every movement in the world stopped. Just froze. Breath held. Nobody blinked. Michelle’s expression was still worried, but Rebecca could sense a slight relief.
“He’s going to be okay,” she said, and the entire room let out one huge breath.
“Thank fucking Christ,” Dwayne muttered.
“What did they say?” Rebecca asked.
“An acute case of angina, which can mimic the symptoms of a heart attack.” Michelle shook her head. “He’s had this pain before, just not as bad. I keep telling him he has to take better care of himself…” Her eyes welled up and Rebecca crossed the room, wrapped her arms around her best friend’s wife.
“He’s a stubborn bastard,” she said. “It’s going to take more than some heartburn on steroids to keep him down.”
They all laughed softly as they gathered around. Michelle looked at them. “They’re going to keep him overnight for observation, but he said to send you guys home.” She reached out and laid her hand on Dwayne’s cheek. “Come by the house tomorrow night and visit him.”
“You’re sure?” Dwayne asked.
Michelle nodded as he leaned in and kissed her temple. “I’m sure.” As Rebecca turned to gather her things, Michelle held fast. “Not you. He wants to talk to you.”
* * *
Spencer sat back in her chair and squeezed her eyes shut for a minute. They burned a little bit, given how long she’d been focusing through the freestanding magnifying glass. The day had been fairly gray, but now she realized it was evening. Her living room was dark, except for the light from her craft desk, and for a moment, she had a vision of those old black-and-white films where the bad guy was being interrogated and the entire room was void of anything but a simple table, a chair, and one swinging lightbulb.
The Shape of You Page 19