Monday I’m still a mess, and I have to drag myself to work. The weather is gray and cold, a wind of knives whistling down the streets and avenues I have to cross to get to the gym. By the time I’m behind the desk with the computer on and checking memberships and schedules, the place starts to fill.
I’m helping a newbie fill out his registration form, when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Someone has just walked in, I know it without turning around, my peripheral vision catching a glimpse of a tall guy with long, dark hair.
No frigging way.
By the time I’ve actually spun around in my swiveling chair to see, he’s gone in the direction of the men’s changing rooms.
Shit.
“Like this?” the guy asks, showing me what he wrote in the “other” field, and I shake my head to clear it.
“That’s right.” I slip off my chair, stalk around the desk and start toward the men’s changing rooms.
Then stop and blink, because, come on, what am I going to do? Walk into a room of half-naked men to check if I’m hallucinating or not?
Maybe I’m still drunk from last night. And hey, Shane’s not the only guy in town with long hair, right?
Right.
Still, as I reassure a nervous girl with a twitch in her eye that nobody can make her use the elliptical machine if she doesn’t really want, I can’t help looking up from time to time, checking for the guy.
“Nobody can force you to use it,” I explain again, and the words catch in my throat and bounce around inside my head like echoes from last night. No idea what her issue with the machine is, but does it mat
ter? “Nobody can force you to do anything. I promise.”
The girl sits down to fill out the registration form, and I really need some caffeine to tone down the pounding in my head. Going out on Sunday night, before work? Not my brightest of ideas—and instead of taking my mind off things, like I thought it would, it only made the chaos in my mind worse.
There’s a coffee machine next to the women’s changing room, and making sure nobody is in desperate need of my help right now, I head that way, taking out my cell to check for any messages.
Two missed calls from a number I don’t know. Pressing redial, I fish some coins from my jeans pocket and put them into the machine, then press the button for a cappuccino. Coffee machine cappuccino is as far from a cappuccino as the earth from the sun, but hey.
Caffeine is caffeine. I’d shoot it up my arm if I could.
“Hello?” a woman says after a few rings, and I frown, because it’s a familiar one.
“This is Cassie. Cassie Reyes. You called me?”
“Hi, Cassie. This is Dakota, Zane’s girlfriend. Got your number from Ev.”
“Um.” The coffee is pouring into the plastic cup, and I watch without really seeing, not sure what to say next. “Hi.”
Nervous laughter is bubbling up my throat, and I struggle to keep it down. Is this—her wanting to talk to me—good or bad? I have no clue, and it’s twisting up my already upset stomach.
“I don’t know if you heard,” she says, “but Zane and I are getting hitched this week. It’ll be a small ceremony and a party with family and friends.”
“I heard. I wish you all the best.” I really mean it. “You two look cute together.”
She laughs, a resonating, sweet sound. “Thank you!”
“It’s the truth.” My non-cappuccino is ready, so I extract the plastic cup from the holder and straighten. “So…”
“So I would like to invite you to our wedding,” she says breathlessly. “This Saturday. It’s a bit out of town, but not too far. We’d love to have you.”
I open my mouth, close it. “You’re inviting me. To your wedding.” I’m hearing things. I really must be drunk still.
“Yes, I am.”
“Why would you?” The words are out of my mouth before I know it, and now it’s too late to take them back. Damn, where’s that “undo” button in real life?