by Eliza Gordon
“If she smiles any harder, she might freeze like that,” Minotaur says to Marco over my head.
Marco nudges his shoulder against mine, and I giggle like a drunken schoolgirl.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” I say. Minotaur’s right: I think my face might be frozen like this forever, even as the muscles in my legs and arms threaten to revolt.
Totally worth it.
Just as The Rock is finishing the story about how, as a troubled teenager in Hawaii, he used to walk five miles to the gym every single day, and on the way, he’d always steal a Snickers bar for energy from the same convenience store because he had zero money, how he would eat the candy bar and it would give him terrible zits but he would go to the gym and work as hard as he could, that it was those really tough days that helped him learn to work as hard as he does now—the nasally event organizer from earlier returns to the stage, waving a clipboard above her head before she hands it to DJ.
Again, thunderous acclamation.
As everyone quiets down, I grab Marco’s hand and wrap both mine around it. “Sorry, I’m sweaty. I cannot handle this.”
He laughs, switches his hands, and wraps his left arm around my shoulders. “No matter what, you did amazing today.” I melt into him. I can’t help it.
“Drumroll, pleeeeeeeeeease!” The Rock yells, and a fake snare buzzes out of the speakers, fading out as he holds the clipboard in front of him.
He calls out the winners from the juvenile division. The crowd erupts after each winner’s name.
Then the men from my age division. Same crowd reaction.
Marco squeezes my shoulder; friends and family sitting behind and around us pat my back and limbs and the top of my head.
“The winners from the women’s age nineteen to fifty-four division . . .” The Rock reads one name. Applause and cheers.
Then the second name.
I wish they’d stop screaming so loud. What if he calls my name and we don’t hear it because everyone is being so damn noisy?
The third name.
I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow.
Then the fourth name.
And it isn’t mine.
SIXTY-ONE
We’re standing in our big group alongside the parking lot, the course and event activities behind us. I’ve got my shoes off—the thick green grass just feels too good under my aching feet. The Rock is gone from the stage, disappeared to wherever demigods retire when they’re done building mountains and throwing thunderbolts. Competitors and spectators wander about eating, drinking, dancing to the live music played by a cover band rocking out on another smaller stage. People shop at small booths set up by event sponsors; Georgie’s kids have had their faces painted and played all the carnival games. Dante and Mary May are smeared and sticky with the remnants of an enormous pink plume of cotton candy—I raise an eyebrow at Georgie, shocked she would let them have what is basically kiddie cocaine. “What the hell . . . it’s for a good cause,” she says, her smile telling me that she’s forgiven me for telling the world she’s a sex goddess.
“Dani, you did so great today, even if you didn’t win.” / “You’re still a winner to us!” / “Next week, I’m bringing the best brownies you’ve ever had. Every champion gets a cheat meal now and again.” / “The Rock doesn’t know what he’s missing out on, kid.” / “Just think how far ahead you are for next time!” / “The sun’ll come out . . . tomorrow! Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrowwwwww, there’ll be sun . . .” / “Mommy isn’t going to believe you did sports on purpose. So glad I took video!” / “Auntie Dani, even though you lost, I really like your cow pants.”
Everyone is so kind.
But my heart is still broken.
Most of our crew, my two sisters and wilting offspring/fiancé included, wave and fade off to the smoking-hot asphalt of the parking lot to return to their lives. I, however, flop down on the grass, pouring the last of my now-warm amino-acid water down my throat.
“Come. Let’s find food,” Marco says. I can’t look up at him. I don’t want to cry. Again. “Danielle Steele with an e, I am your trainer, and I demand you get to your stinky feet so we can stuff protein into your body and replenish your muscles.”
He nudges me with the toe of his shoe and offers a hand. I take it, and he yanks me up. “I think I saw a booth selling kale smoothies,” he teases.
We wander through to see what’s on offer in terms of sustenance. Marco—or rather, our noses—finds a Greek stand selling chicken gyros. He orders two, plus some sparkling water and cucumber salad, and we find a shaded spot under a tree.
I’m starving, but I’m also really goddamn sad. Every bite feels like failure. (Okay, that’s a little melodramatic. Every bite is ridiculously tasty—I must know what magic they used on this chicken!) All this work, my hero so close and yet so far—like, literally feet away but surrounded by security. Who am I, though, but one among a bazillion crazed fans?
I don’t know what I was thinking. Me with zero athletic prowess, dreaming I could beat all these other people who’ve probably been working on their jumping and running and swimming skills for their entire lives like goddamn Eastern Bloc Olympians.
And yeah . . . fucking Bionic Barbie. She was one of the four female winners.
Salt in the wound? Like that heavy, gritty salt we throw on icy pavement in winter.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“The self-flagellation.”
“No one’s flagellating.”
“Really?” Marco passes me a napkin and points to the corner of my mouth.
“A little flagellation never hurt anyone.”
“Pretty sure that’s the opposite of what flagellation is meant to accomplish. At least, in the religious sense. I suppose if you’re flagellating for another purpose . . .”
“I should’ve asked Georgie to bring me her whip.”
“Do I want to know what that means?” he asks, lifting a brow.
“Right. I forgot. You’re one of three people in North America who didn’t read my blog.” I swallow a long gulp from the sweating sparkling water, wishing I could shrink and swim in its icy goodness. “My sister Georgette? With the three kids named after artists from the anti-Industrial Revolution Arts and Crafts movement? Yeah, she’s a sex-toy maven. She has a whip and studded choke collar and a long chain leash. I found her stuff while babysitting, photographed it as evidence as per the Strategy of Sisterhood, and it was in my digital diary that the whole world saw.”
“That little tiny strawberry-blond creature who was here cheering you on earlier is a dominatrix?”
“Apparently so.”
“I don’t think I will ever understand sisters.”
“Me either.”
“It was nice that they came out to support you, though. Jacqueline is very chatty.”
“Did she tell you she’s a plastic surgeon?”
“She did mention that once or twice, yes.”
“Oh god, she didn’t offer you a discount on Botox, did she?”
Marco points to his forehead. “Only here. Though I did hear a fair amount about Dr. Jake’s new man cave.” He winks and finishes his gyro, his napkin scraping against his dark stubble. “Still hungry? I can fetch you another.”
“Nah . . . Do they have ice cream?”
He laughs. “You’ve got room for ice cream after those decadent cupcakes?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
We sit for a while longer, leaned back on our hands under the blissful shade of a generous maple tree, watching the crowd ebb and flow, catching a few passing conversations from other attendees who are still riding the high of seeing The Rock in person.
Marco sits forward. “Oh, before I forget . . .” He reaches for the zippered pocket of his long-discarded Hollywood Fitness windbreaker, now doubling as a picnic blanket under his tight buns. He pulls out an envelope and passes it over. The return address—it’s from the Rock the Tots campaign.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
I do. Inside is a letter, thanking Hollywood Fitness and Danielle E. Steele for the “incredibly generous donation” of $7,850 for the Rock the Tots fund-raising event.
“We raised that much?”
“Close. The gym threw in a little extra. Keep looking,” he says, pointing at the envelope.
Inside is a second folded paper. I pull it out, unfold, and two tickets drop into my lap. This letter reads:
Hello, Marco and Danielle!
We are so excited to extend our invitation for the VIP Thank-You Dinner for ROCK THE TOTS, Sunday, August 7, from seven o’clock in the evening, at the five-star Nines Hotel on SW Morrison, downtown Portland. Come spend an evening with everyone’s favorite superstar, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, our host for a celebratory gala after an incredible fund-raising event. Mr. Johnson will be available for a meet-and-greet with our top donors, which includes you, so bring your best smiles and get ready to Rock! Formal attire requested.
See you there!
Sunday, August 7, 7:00 p.m. That’s, like, tomorrow.
“Wait.”
Marco’s smile is blinding.
“Does this mean . . .” I pick up the tickets. ADMIT ONE, ROCK THE TOTS VIP GUEST. “Are we . . . are we going to this?”
Marco stands and brushes the crumbs off his pants. “Unless you’re otherwise engaged.”
I spring to my feet, not even caring that my muscles protest heavily against such sudden, ill-thought motion, and throw myself at Marco, bouncing and jumping and kissing his cheeks, even if it’s inappropriate, because I’m going to meet The Rock!
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god!” Bouncing, jumping, more hugging, jumping in circles, some hooting, a little hollering, lots of people staring and smiling even though they have no idea why the crazy chick in the bull-print spandex is freaking the hell out.
I hug Marco so hard, he squeaks like a dog toy. I hold the letter in front of me again. “Are you totally serious? This isn’t a prank, right? Because I will end you if this is a prank.”
“I believe you would indeed end me if I were to prank you over so grave a matter.” He shakes his head, his grin ripe with mischief. “My lady, unless you have a ball gown in your closet . . .”
I freeze. “Shit. You’re right. We have to go.” I scoop up my stuff from our informal picnic, throw my gym bag over my shoulder, and check my phone for the time. “It’s so late—I gotta go! The stores are only open until nine on Saturdays.”
“Stop at your house first.”
“Why? Does Aldous have a gown I can borrow?”
“Just go home. Get a shower. We still have twenty-seven hours to come up with something.”
“What does that even mean? Wait—do you have a tux?”
He nods.
“Marco, how long have you known about this? You shoulda told me so I’d have time to get a dress!”
“You need to stop fretting.”
That’s it. I can’t. I don’t even care if my breath smells like Greek food mixed with chocolate cupcakes.
I throw myself at him again, and this time I kiss him. On the lips.
And he kisses me back.
We kiss, and we kiss, and I moan against his mouth because I have never, ever been this drunk on a man. Marco’s hand is in my hair, and mine are in his, and his other arm and hand are pulling me against him, and I only stop because I feel him slow down and smile against my mouth.
“Woman, it took you long enough,” he says.
I could fly right now. I could fly to the moon and back.
“We should probably behave ourselves. Family environment,” he teases, kissing the corner of my mouth. He then lets me go, but not really, because he’s holding my hand as he grabs his gym bag from the ground with his free hand.
We start toward the parking lot, fingers intertwined. “How long have you been waiting for me to kiss you?” I ask.
“Since the night we found Howie.”
“But . . . why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you make a move? Why did you wait for me?”
“Because. It wasn’t my place—first, I’m your trainer, so that could be seen as inappropriate; second, I didn’t want to step into whatever was going on with Trevor. I wanted it to be on your terms. Believe me—this has been brutal.”
“Really? Because I love hearing that. I love hearing that so much, I want you to say it again.”
We stop next to Flex Kavana, his face so close, his lips brushing against mine as he speaks. “It’s been bruuuuuutal waiting for you,” he says, smiling. He takes my keys and opens the trunk to throw my bag in for me. He then walks back to me, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me again.
When we come up for air—which feels impossible because I only want to breathe him—he smiles and tucks a few errant hairs behind my ear. “We can talk after we find you something to wear. You have a date with destiny tomorrow, remember?”
“I can’t believe this is happening. All of this . . .”
“You made it happen, darling.”
“You made it happen.”
“I’ll only take a little credit.”
“I’m actually going to meet The Rock. What am I going to say? What kind of dress should I look for? Something sexy?”
“Yes, please.” Marco smiles.
“But I don’t want him to think I’m hitting on him. Although if I get something too conservative, he’ll think I’m an old lady or that I’m uptight, and then maybe he won’t tell me a joke ’cause he’ll be afraid to offend me. Oh man, I have to remember to shut my mouth before it starts rambling about some random trivia that I’ve been carrying around since I was twelve. Oh, I should bring the trading card Handstand Man gave me! Do you think Dwayne would sign it?”
“Go home. More fluids,” he instructs. “Ibuprofen if you need it. High protein for dinner. And get your beauty sleep.”
“Marcellus, I have to find a dress.”
“You will,” he says. “You did terrifically today, Dani. I am unbearably proud of you.” He wraps his arms around me, squeezes, and then kisses me again. It has quickly become my most favorite thing ever, the bristle of his five-o’clock shadow against my face, his full lips against mine, how he holds my head like I’m made of glass, but tempered glass—he’s gentle, but there’s power behind his grip.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come home with me?” I whisper against his mouth.
“Good things come to those who wait.” And then he backs away, our fingers stretched between us until they untangle, mischief written all over his face.
If Flex Kavana weren’t holding me up, I’d be a puddle on the smoking asphalt.
I don’t technically break any laws on the drive home—except for that silly speed limit thing, and really, isn’t that more of a guideline?
Car parked, I fly upstairs, fumble with my keys, and curse at my stupid sticky front door that scrapes the floor as I shove it open.
“Surpriiiiiiise!”
I about pee down my leg. My living room has humans in it: Jackie, Georgie and Mary May, Esther the Limping Lady, Trish with Muscles, Charlene, Shelly, Lydia, and Viv, who has Aldous resting atop her swelling tummy. Along the back of the couch and on a metal garment rack positioned in front of the bookcases—dresses. A whole bunch of dresses.
“How the hell . . . Did you know? Did you all know?” The collective laugh and squeals tell me everything I need to know. “How did you guys pull this off? And where are all these dresses from?”
“Marco got ahold of us ten days ago, and we went to work.”
I cannot believe this. I cannot believe everything this man has done for me.
Woman, it took you long enough.
My knees wobble with the very recent memory of his lips against mine, and I brace myself on the surface of the sofa table in front of me.
Georgie hoists Mary May, her face now cleaned of pink sugar, onto her hip. I don’t see my nephews here—I’m
guessing this is a Girls’ Only event.
“But . . . how?”
“We’re very crafty people when we put our minds together, Danielle,” Jackie says. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Let’s just play dress-up!” Jackie spins around, nearly whipping me with her chestnut ponytail. “Who’s in charge of champagne?”
“Me!” Lydia glides into the kitchen. I almost warn her to duck, but she can’t be that tall.
“Before I do anything, I MUST take a shower,” I say.
“Yes. Please do. We can smell you from over here,” Shelly teases.
Before I disappear into my room to cleanse myself of athletic stench, I remember to grab my journal, the one Marco gave me to write my letters to Dwayne Johnson, from the box of Howie’s books on the kitchen table. I’d hidden it among the spines, but I don’t want to take any chances. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson, leaving my personal missives out in the open. Then again, when I left here at the crack of dawn this morning, I had no way of knowing that when I returned home, my cozy apartment would’ve been transformed into the formal-wear department of Nordstrom.
I flip on the shower, hot as I can stand it despite the roasting temperatures still lingering outdoors. The first rinse of my hair darkens the shower bottom, more dirt than water. I wash quickly so I can lean against the tiled wall and let the hot water knead my muscles, unable and unwilling to wash the rapturous smile from my face as I replay the events of this day—in particular, the last hour. His hands on my face, my hair, my body, him telling me he’s so proud of me, telling me he’s been waiting for me to make the first move, him admitting that all these weeks, he’s had feelings for me too . . .
Knock-knock. The bathroom door opens.
“Dani, you have a strapless bra, yeah? Do you have any Spanx?” Georgie says.
Still smiling, I turn off the faucet, wrap in a towel, and step out. “I do, but I’ve reshaped my bod so the stuff I have doesn’t fit like it should.”
“Yeah, your ass is smaller than mine now. I sort of hate you for that.”
“But you’ve had three kids. You get a pass. Plus,” I spin her around and examine her backside, “you still have a nice butt.”