I used to be way more limber and energetic as a kid, but then I graduated college, got saddled with responsibilities, and dedicated my days to selling prime real estate in Portland. I always knew it was what I’d end up doing, and I was good at it. Occasionally, some places would practically sell themselves, but when it came to the more worrisome customers, other agents always dumped those on me because of my supposedly calm and soothing demeanor. That was me—dependable, trustworthy, and the ultimate closer. A consummate professional. Sounded so stuffy and boring.
But tonight I let loose, my exuberance likely surprising the instructor as he smiled in my direction, and the vibe was contagious. It felt so freeing, I probably grinned through the whole damned session. Plus, the combination of dancing and body-sculpting moves was great exercise.
My mom would be appalled that I could shake my ass that well, and Donald would only roll his eyes when I’d leave his place to get to this class, but I’d made it clear how important it was to me.
“You were a beast,” Gretchen said as we walked back to our apartment building, sweaty and flushed.
“Want me to make us smoothies?” I asked Gretchen when we got to our floor.
“Hell yes.” She followed me to my apartment. “Can you make the kind with the bananas and peanut butter?”
“Absolutely.”
She sat at the kitchen island and watched while I whipped up a thick concoction, adding plenty of ice and almond milk. Gretchen, who was a computer consultant, told me about her workweek, and I described a cool property I’d shown that afternoon.
“What’s with the box?” She motioned toward the living room. “Are you holding out on me? Is it a new kitchen appliance?”
I enjoyed cooking when I found the time and had Gretchen and Hope over for dinner on several occasions. We’d stuff ourselves with rich food and whatever dessert they’d insist on bringing, then take a bottle of wine out on the balcony, where we’d sometimes get tipsy and tell our life stories. Like their first time meeting after finding each other on a dating app. They were well suited, which seemed a miracle after hearing so many horror stories about hookups. I’d tried one of those sites before, but my bio likely turned most guys away. Especially the part where I was looking for a stable relationship and to be married someday. Most responses were something like, Show me your dick and I’ll show you mine, or, You looking for a top? Because no way would a twinky-looking guy want other things. Or my personal favorite: Why the hell would a twenty-four-year-old single guy want to settle down when you can have all the sex you want? As if I hadn’t had my fair share or couldn’t possibly know what I wanted at such an early age. I knew there were other men out there like me—my ex was one of them—but something always happened to sow doubt, and I certainly didn’t want to go the long haul with the wrong person.
Which reminded me—the box.
“It’s from Donald.” I walked toward it slowly, like it was a ticking time bomb. “He dropped it off with Eddie.”
She winced. “Guess that’s better than having him show up at your door.”
“Tell me about it.” It would’ve been awkward, since we’d broken up as he was getting on a plane, but at least it’d been mutual. We’d been growing apart for a while.
I opened the box flaps and saw a bunch of odds and ends I’d left at his place. A sweater, a pair of pricey sunglasses, and a book by Simone Biles, my most favorite gymnast ever in life. Not only had she won like thirtysomething medals, she was around my age, cool as hell, and had accomplished so much.
I had to admit I was a little nutso about the summer and winter Olympics, and when they were on, I planted my butt in front of the television for days, taking it all in. There was something admirable about athletes in their prime, training so hard for that one moment in the spotlight. When I was younger, I’d dreamed about being a gymnast. I’d even pretend a tree trunk knocked down by a storm in the park was my balance beam, and my parents eventually took pity on me, signing me up for classes. Only for a couple of years, though, until they decided to steer me toward more “traditional” sports, which I detested, like Little League. I’d cry in my room about it sometimes, but then they’d try to distract me with a new gaming system or ice cream sundaes, and I supposed it worked. I wouldn’t think about how much I’d enjoyed being all graceful and bendy until the Olympics rolled around again. Or about that other thing—or rather, person—something that stung too much to think about even twelve years later.
“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Gretchen said, paging through the Simone Biles book. “Can I borrow it for my trip?” She would be away for the next two weeks, which meant I’d have to do our exercise class without her.
“Of course.” I placed the empty box near the garbage for recycling.
Eyeing the book again, I was tempted to try a front walkover just to see if I had it in me. But with my luck, I’d break something and wind up in a cast.
3
Skylar
It had been a couple of days since the MomPocalypse. She’d stayed at my apartment, and we drank wine, talked, and watched movies.
Because of her I knew what I wanted—and didn’t—and I made sure the guys I was with knew the score. The last thing I was ever going to do was hurt someone the way I’d seen her hurt over and over.
She was back at her apartment now, with a commitment to no relationships. We’d made a pact together, actually, which wasn’t a first.
I always stuck.
She didn’t.
Though I didn’t include hookups in my part of the pact because I was able to have sex without my heart involved. My poor mom couldn’t.
So now I was sitting around my place, knowing I needed to get up and clean but not feeling it.
There was a pile of clothes next to me on the bed and another on the floor beside the nightstand, both clean. The left side of my room held the dirty-clothes pile. I was a bit of a tornado from what I’d been told, but I always knew where everything was, even if it looked a mess to everyone else. Plus, I had a bit of a clothes fetish but not enough space for it all.
What made my love of clothes grow even more over the years was my fondness of sewing. I had a table and machine set up in the living room, often making my own outfits for the Playground. It was my favorite hobby.
I plucked my phone from the nightstand and considered hopping on Grindr, then clicked on Instagram instead. A photo of Jesse and Dane popped up, Jesse looking all googly-eyed and in love. Jokingly, I put a vomit-face emoji in the comments. I was happy for him, I really was, just didn’t ever see myself wanting that. Who the hell wanted to risk their heart? I wasn’t sure anything gave me the hives more.
I clicked over to the people-I-might-know section. Three swipes of my finger later, I sat up. “Holy shit.” A familiar pair of hazel eyes stared back at me through black-framed glasses—or not, because it was a photo, but still. His brown hair was a little shorter than it had been when we were younger, now in a neat crew cut. He was still lean and wiry like me.
I couldn’t say why I was so surprised to see Clark on Instagram. Hell, the bigger surprise was that I hadn’t run across him over the last…what was it, twelve years? I couldn’t remember exactly when he left gymnastics, but he took lessons for about two years in middle school. Clark had been really good, but had only gotten started. Since I’d been in the sport from the age of five, they let me assist in other classes, and that was how I’d gotten to work with him. They had also offered a discount on my other classes, and since getting to do more gymnastics was all I cared about—win-win.