Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  Subject: Status update RE: Blogger account

  May 5, 2016

  Hello, Ms. Steele.

  Your blog is off the Web. Took a little longer than I’d promised because communicating with the hacker is a technical nightmare, but it’s done. It and the URL are returned to your care (instructions for URL attached). Go in and immediately change your passwords or maybe consider deleting the whole thing. Don’t be surprised if cached pages haunt you for a little while—people do love their screenshots and saved pages. Check the Wayback Machine online for evidence of cached pages (https://archive.org/web/).

  Good luck, Danielle. No offense, but I hope we never have occasion to meet again.

  Agent F. P. Wilkins

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Marco jogs alongside me, gravel crackling under our shoes with each step. Forest Park is breathtakingly glorious today—the sun is out, warming the moist air, but it rained overnight, so the mosses and ferns and undergrowth have exploded in luminous greens not even an artist could duplicate.

  I update him about the audition last night for the new theater group I’m hoping to join (this one actually pays its actors), now that Stage III is solid Trevor territory—and then I spend an embarrassing amount of time recounting the funny things Aldous has done in the interim since Marco and I last saw one another, approximately seventeen hours ago.

  He’s very patient, smiling politely as I regale him with the latest misdeeds of my new feline adoptee—i.e., how she now perches on the refrigerator and launches herself at me if I even think about putting food into my mouth. “One excellent perk of this new living arrangement: Aldous does not like the fax machine. She attacks my mother’s pages as they’re birthed from the feeder. Very satisfying to watch.”

  “And not at all passive-aggressive,” he teases. He’s so handsome when he jogs and his hair bounces with each step.

  “She’s still haranguing me about joining her magic healing-wand business, ‘especially now that you’re unemployed, Danielle.’”

  “Think of the possibilities,” Marco says, splaying his fingers theatrically in front of him. I smack his arm midstep.

  “I let Aldous eat her most recent fax—another one reminding me of my terrible life choices and disappointing similarities to her ex-husband. And the blog. Of course.”

  “Blimey. The site’s been down for two weeks. Time to move on,” he says, stopping at a fork in the trail.

  “At least Trevor has stopped threatening to sue me every twelve seconds.”

  “He’s a wanker. Don’t lose any more sleep over him.” Marco points to the hardened dirt path that climbs at a steady grade. “Should we go up?” I’m already sweating, even just a few minutes into our warm-up. Probably from the twenty pounds of sandbags I have in my backpack.

  We run in single file, me behind Marco, which isn’t terrible because he’s obviously in better shape than I am, and this way I get a nice view of his Miraculously Beautiful buns. (Seriously, whoever invented these running tights, thank you!)

  By the time we get to the top, I’m not even self-conscious about the armpit sweat rings soaking through my jacket because I’m too busy gasping for air and sucking back my amino acid–infused water.

  “How do you do that?” I ask.

  “What?” he says, sipping from his own bottle.

  “Barely break a sweat. I’m dying over here.”

  “You’re not. And think how far you’ve come, darling.”

  I love it when he calls me darling.

  We continue along the path, not as steep as before but still at enough of a pitch that my thighs are on fire when we hit the two-mile mark. Again, we stop for water; I bend down to retie my stubborn laces.

  “So I had an idea,” he says, twisting the lid back onto his bottle.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “In light of your upcoming competition, perhaps we could do some sort of preliminary fund-raising event at the gym. For example, we could set up a fun obstacle course in the back parking lot and invite patrons to come try their luck. Charge them a few dollars, and that money would go into the Team Dani fund for you to donate to The Rock’s charity. It would be a great way to raise cash while also introducing the neighborhood to Hollywood Fitness and its offerings.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Completely serious,” he says.

  This is too much. No one—no guy—has ever done what Marco does for me. Is he just a remarkably nice human, or . . . dare I hope that it’s more than that?

  “Marco, this is—I gotta stop you right there. You cannot keep being so nice to me. It’s confusing.”

  He chuckles under his breath. “What possibly is there to be confused about?”

  A cloud passes in front of the sun, darkening our spot in the wooded trail, mirroring my sudden mood shift. “You hardly know me, and you keep going out of your way to help me—at the gym, with Howie, with dinner and the journal after the blog hacking, now this . . .”

  “It’s called friendship, Danielle. People express friendship through small kindnesses. You did it for Howie. You do it for your work friends and even your sisters and mother. Why is it confusing if it’s coming from me?”

  Because you feel like more than a friend. I want you to be more than just a friend.

  But my lips won’t let the words out.

  “Plus, I like you. You’re good people. You have nothing to fear from me. I have no ulterior motives . . .” He pauses here, and I’m wanting him to say that his ulterior motives involve late nights and tangled sheets—but he doesn’t.

  We stare at each other for a sec until the corner of his mouth slides into a grin and he breaks the connection. “Dani, if it makes you uncomfortable, we don’t have to do the course—”

  “It’s not that. It’s a great idea . . .”

  “After the accident with my mate, my friends showered me with kindness. No one left me alone for that first month after. They took turns sleeping at my house and bringing meals and driving me to the workplace investigator meetings and to the therapist the director insisted I go see. I was a mess—and they wanted me to know that they had my back, no matter what. The mistakes that caused David’s death were terrible—not a day goes by where I don’t wish I could go back to that morning—but my friends had my back. And I want you to know that you deserve the same. You don’t have to be on the defensive with me. I’m not your mother or Trevor or your sisters or your father. I’m your friend.” He steps closer and cups a warm hand around my upper arm. “Let me be your friend. Please.”

  I sniff and nod, soaking in the heat that radiates from his hand through the thin lining of my running jacket. When he drops his hand and steps back, I’m chilled by its absence. The cloud moves away from the sun, brightening the woods around us.

  “And maybe I’m not doing it for you. Maybe I just really like obstacle courses,” he teases, winking, and then bending over to stretch his hamstrings.

  I laugh and clear my throat. “Sounds like a lot of work, though. Do you think people would really come to it?”

  “Why not?” Marco turns and starts in the direction we’ve just jogged, his smile signaling me to come along.

  “I don’t even know what to say.”

  He stops again, faces me, and my heart races. For a fleeting second, I think I should just kiss him. Just throw myself at him and smooch those deliciously pink-red lips that are moist with water and sweat. He used the word friend, though. Is that all this is?

  Before Irrational Dani moves, however, Marco unzips his lightweight running jacket. When he splits the jacket halves like Superman revealing his red-and-yellow S, my laugh echoes through the forest.

  He’s wearing a black T-shirt—across its front, it bears a red-and-white screen-printed logo that reads TEAM DANI. He twists, showing me the T-shirt’s back: HARDEST WORKER IN THE ROOM.

  “Are you kidding me?” I’m cackling like a freak to hide the blush in my cheeks, because I was just considering smooching him against his will,
but mostly because I’m so stunned by his surprise that I’m afraid I’ll start crying. Again.

  “What is there to kid about? This competition is serious business. We must get you on that stage and in that movie so your every dream can come true. Right?”

  “I’m speechless.”

  “Say yes, Dani.”

  I can’t, though. My voice won’t work and I can’t stop grinning. So I nod vigorously and give him a thumbs-up.

  Miraculously Beautiful Marco flashes the smile that has a significant weakening effect on my knees, offers his fist for a bump, and zips up his coat.

  “I wish I had this on video. No one will believe I rendered you speechless,” he says, jogging off.

  I follow Marco into the gym, the warmth inside welcome as I’ve cooled off from our run. Seems the crafty crew of Hollywood Fitness—apparently under the direction of one Marco Turner—have designed this insane obstacle course to be built in a under a day in the parking lot.

  “How . . . ?”

  “Are you questioning my most excellent skills in the field of organizational science?” Marco asks, unrolling an actual blueprint atop the office desk.

  “I guess not?”

  He grabs a pencil from a repurposed coffee mug, and with the eraser end, he points out all the cool stuff we’re going to have at the “Team Dani’s Rockin’ Obstacle Smackdown.”

  “That name, though . . .”

  “It conveys the message. You’re welcome to come up with something better.”

  “No, no, by all means. Carry on.” I smile.

  “We weren’t sure if Rock the Tots was trademarked. Last thing we need is to get shut down because we’ve stepped on toes.”

  “Smackdown might be trademarked.”

  “Really?”

  “Probably not. The Rock invented it, though,” I say.

  “Like Shakespeare.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Shakespeare was credited with adding over nineteen hundred words to the English language.”

  “Which makes sense. The Rock is awesome like Shakespeare,” I say, smirking. “Don’t you need permits to do this sort of thing?”

  “Trish and I are looking into it. Primarily it will be making sure the insurance covers us. Don’t want anyone taking a tumble off a rope and then suing us because they’ve sprained a pinky.”

  “Yes, that would be a shame,” I say, looking over their awesome schematics.

  “We were thinking we could offer smoothies, vegan and turkey hot dogs, Esther’s famous cookies, protein bars—all sorts of tasty treats for the participants.”

  I giggle. “Say that again.”

  “Say what again?”

  “The part about the treats . . .”

  “All sorts of tasty treats?”

  I giggle louder. “Tasty treats. You’re so posh.”

  “You do know that if you misbehave, I will just add more push-ups to your regimen.” That smile, man.

  “I would gladly do those added push-ups—and you know how much I loathe push-ups—as long as you stood over me telling me more about these tasty treats.”

  Trish with Muscles pops her head in the door. “Hate to break up the fun, but your next client has arrived.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right out,” Marco says.

  “Right. I should go. You have victims besides just me.”

  “Yes, but few harass me the way you do,” he says, rolling up the blueprints. “You think this will work for our purposes?”

  “Marco, honestly, this is freaking amazing. I can’t believe you want to go to so much trouble.”

  “It’s not completely selfless, Dani. It’s a win for the gym too. We’ll do it in a month or so, when we’re sure the weather will cooperate, invite folks in the neighborhood to have a go, sign up some new gym members—we raise a few shillings, and it goes into the Team Dani fund to get you your walk-on role with Mr. Rock.”

  “You do know that I don’t win the competition by donating the most money, right?” No, I win the competition by beating athletes like Bionic Barbie.

  “Indeed. Which is why the whole Smackdown weekend, you will be here, running this course,” he gestures with the rolled course blueprint, “a hundred times if necessary, to get your arse in gear for what’s coming at you in August.”

  “I knew there had to be a catch.”

  “We’re benevolent, sure, but we’re all sadists and opportunists here, remember? You’ll have to work that much harder so when you win the competition, you can make us famous right alongside you.” He offers his hand for a high five, but I want to do so much more than that.

  For a beat, the twinkle in his eye suggests he might want more than that too.

  “All right, then, go get some protein in your body. Lots of hydration. You did well today. Every time we go, you improve,” he says.

  “Because I have the best trainer in the city threatening me with push-ups.”

  Marco follows me out of the office, his hand gentle on my elbow as he wishes me goodbye. Chills sizzle up my arm.

  “Dani, before you go . . .” Trish with Muscles summons me from behind the front counter. I hope she didn’t just see me giving Marco’s backside the googly eyes.

  She leans on elbows and lowers her voice. “Not sure if you were aware, but Marco’s birthday is this coming weekend.”

  “It is?”

  She nods. “We’re doing a thing for him over at the Moon and Sixpence on NE 42nd, around seven-ish on Friday? I’m sure he’d love it if you dropped by.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

  “You bet,” she says, reaching for the ringing phone. “See you tomorrow?”

  “With bells on my toes.”

  En route to my car, my brain sets to spinning. Marco’s birthday. Gonna need a present that says, Hey, I think you’re awesome and I’d like to see you naked but you keep using the word friend so the present has to be like Hey, cool, you’re a great friend and not Hey, let’s lick frosting off each other’s body parts.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  I’ve taken no fewer than a hundred mirror selfies to send to Jacqueline for fashion advice. I’d ask Georgie, but given that her wardrobe consists mostly of elastic waistbands and breast milk-stained hoodies these days (or collars, whips, and studded garter belts) . . .

  Frustrated by my nonstop texts, Jackie finally FaceTimes me. “I have three patients left to see before I can go home, Dani,” she says, sighing, and slurping what I’m sure is some magical youth elixir that only plastic surgeons have access to. (You should see Jackie’s pores. To die for.) “I’d go with the dark skinny jeans and boots and that cropped red cardigan with a tank underneath.”

  “Really? Isn’t that too casual?”

  “It’s a pub, right?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And it’s a birthday party?”

  “Do you think I should wear a dress, though?”

  “A dress says that you want to show him your boobs.” She tosses a handful of dried edamame into her mouth. “And I know you do because I saw what you called him on your blog—wait, did he read it?”

  “No. Marco is a gentleman. He respects me.” He said he wouldn’t read it, and I want to believe him. I guess I have no way of knowing if he did, unless he accidentally drops a tidbit from some entry. As it hasn’t happened yet, I’d like to believe that he’s a man of his word.

  She snorts. “Whatever, genius. You shouldn’t have beaten up that woman at work, and then she wouldn’t have hacked you.”

  “No, she shouldn’t be cyberstalking and ruining people’s lives.”

  “Hold your phone up to your butt,” she says. I do. “I love those jeans. Jake would love my butt in those jeans. Where’d you get ’em?”

  “Nordstrom Rack.” Which is a lie. I splurged. Bought them at the proper Nordstrom store, but I don’t want her to know that because then she will lecture me about Spending Money While Unemployed. It’s the new Steele family refrain when talking
to me. My savings depletion and credit card debt—for these jeans and the apology gifts and the gym fees I pay for the delicious company of one Marco Turner—is none of their beeswax.

  “Hey, how goes the job search? A friend of mine—a pediatrician—she needs an office manager.”

  “You mean, around kids and boogers and barf and screaming babies?”

  “Your compassion is limitless,” she says, talking with a mouthful. “It’s a job, babe. She read your blog, so she knows who she’d be dealing with.”

  Awesome. That’s terrific. But it’s a lead, and I’ve had exactly two interview requests from the forty-two résumés I’ve sent out. Unemployment is covering the rent and not much else, and my savings account is lasting only because I cashed in my 401(k)—please do not tell Jackie this part.

  “Send me her email.”

  “It’s worth a shot, Dani. Plus, you get free shit from the drug reps,” she says. “Okay, I really have to go. I hired a new nurse and the patients hate her and she’s laying on the buzzer like she’s having a seizure, and I have to get out of here on time because Jake and I are interviewing a decorator for the man cave he absolutely will not stop harping about. Seriously, Dani, wear the jeans. Your ass looks hot.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Collins Steele.”

  “You can trust my professional opinion. I know asses. I install them regularly. And yours is looking pret-ty fine.”

  “Squats, squats, and more squats.”

  “Gotta go erase twenty years off a dude’s face. Call me if you get laid.” She disconnects before I can be fake-horrified.

  “Real professional, doc,” I say under my breath to Aldous and the mirror as I pivot back and forth, examining my reflection from all angles. She’s right, though. Eight weeks into this gym training business, and my buns do have a certain lift that wasn’t present before. Still more work to be done, of course—six years of secretary spread and too many MotherCluckers’ meetings to undo—but I’ll take any compliments my sister is willing to dish out right now. At least she’s not yelling at me about the bloody blog. And a job lead isn’t too shabby, even if it means walking into a fog of germs every day.