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A text message notification shows on my lock screen, and a smile curves my lips when I see who it’s from.
Maybe: Thank you for the pep talk earlier. It made all the difference in my efforts not to come across as one of the characters from Girl, Interrupted.
I bite my lip to keep myself from laughing out loud while Earl reads from his list of figures. My phone is under the table, but a laugh during this meeting would undoubtedly give me away.
Me: So, it went well?
Maybe: I *think* it went well. God, I’m not sure. But you’ll have to help me overanalyze it later tonight when Bruce isn’t on a rampage about roses. “If I see one more wilted petal on these thorned beaches, I’m gonna shiitake mushroom all over that godspam pitiful excuse for a supplier!”
Me: LOL. Sounds like a plan. And sorry about Bruce…I’m praying for you.
Maybe: HA! Great. Hopefully God takes Billionaireman seriously as a character reference. This is supposed to be a freaking flower shop, but I’m in the weeds here.
She’s so funny, a smile slips past my defenses, and Lyle notices. His superbrow draws together again, but I shake my head subtly.
Not only is the catalyst for my happiness none of his business, I’m afraid I couldn’t explain it to him even if I wanted to.
I mean…what am I doing here?
Am I still just doing Evan a favor?
Am I looking out for a person I’m fond of?
Are Maybe and I friends?
I’m dangerously aware that there might be even more to it than friends, but I refuse to open that can of worms now by allowing the thought to fully form.
The guilt alone would take days to sort through.
All I know is that the promise of talking to her tonight makes me feel like a kid again—like the tree is decorated, the presents are wrapped, and later tonight, Santa’s going to give me the gift I’ve been waiting for all year.
Fucking hell. Life sure is starting to feel complicated.
Milo
“It that all you got?” I taunt my trainer, Claude, like some kind of workout masochist.
He swings at my head once, twice, three times, and I duck like I was born to fucking quack.
My feet move quickly to the right, and I bend my upper body to the left before swinging an unexpected right hook right into the fleshy part of Claude’s ear.
He smiles—because while I’m a masochist, he is an outright sadist—and lures me in for more.
I stutter-step forward, my eyes on his hands as he moves them expertly to block every punch I throw, and breathe through the aching stitch in my side.
No matter how many training sessions he puts me through, no matter how in shape I think I am, I still leave the gym feeling like someone just ran me over with a truck. Tonight will be no different.
I round out the dance between us with a spin and a double hit to his stomach, and he swings up and around to land one last strike to my shoulder just as the timer he set on his phone rings out with mercy on me.
I head for the side of the ring to grab my towel, and Claude follows.
“Nice workout, bro,” he says, his accent a heavy mix of old-school German and millennial-influenced American. “I’ll see you Wednesday.”
I mentally flip him the bird but outwardly nod toward him after I take a swig of water. “See ya, man. Thanks.”
I’m not thankful at all—at least not right now. I feel like a real prick for paying someone to torture me.
But two days from now, I’ll be craving more. It’s an endless cycle that keeps the three-time heavyweight boxing champion on my payroll.
Yep. Definitely a workout masochist.
Claude slides out of the boxing ring, out of the room, and toward the entrance to the gym, and I finally feel free to drop my tough guy act a little.
“Ow,” I whisper, rolling my shoulder around on itself.
With only the final remnants of adrenaline flowing through my veins and a real ache starting to set in, I grab the rest of my shit from one of the chairs in the far corner of the ring and make my way toward the locker room.
I push through the heavy wood door easily enough, but when its swing is almost complete, the weight of it disappears and my body jumps forward.
Right into an actual giant.
“Milo!” he shouts, his voice jovial and loud. While I startle at first, it doesn’t take me long to smile.
Thatcher Kelly is a larger-than-life kind of guy. Literally. He makes me look tiny in comparison, and I’m not even pulling an ego card when I say I’m not exactly a small guy—I’m six foot two inches of mostly muscle.
He looks like he ate me for breakfast. A Milo Protein Bar, if you will.
