“How exactly does this help you with a food show?” I ask, gesturing to the gleaming steps.
“Because this new burger place is so off the beaten path, it’s at the top of the steps.”
I scan the environs. Houses tower up on either side of the staircase. “Um, this is residential. Are they even zoned for a restaurant here?”
Emerson tuts, patting my shoulder. “You’re so cute. I love your municipal concerns. This is a food truck we’re scoping out. It’s parked here today. Banging Burgers. It’s got all kinds of veggie burgers. I want to eyeball it before I come here officially, and the bonus of exercise ticked another box.”
Ah, that makes more sense. Emerson loves to prep so she’s not surprised when she shoots an episode. She’s the queen of doing her homework. I bet she was a straight-A student in school.
As my foot lands on a shimmering light blue tile, I decide now’s as good a time as any to dive into my dilemma. “So, I need your take on something. Remember that night at my house when I said I was ready to date Harlan again?”
She whips her gaze to me as we walk, those curious green eyes already sparkling with questions. “The date that never happened, right? You said he became a client when you started teaching the Renegades. I’ve seen the pics on the team’s Instagram.” The Renegades social media shared photos of me teaching the guys, which looked great shared on Sassy’s Insta feed. “Did that change?”
I answer her honestly. “Yes.”
She freezes mid-step. “Whoa.” She thaws, setting her foot down. “Are you seeing him?”
That’s a good question.
“Sort of?” I say, my voice pitching up.
“How is it a sort of?” Her voice hits the stratosphere.
“We’re not really seeing each other, but we made a plan to see each other.” Finally, I just rip off the Band-Aid. “Ah, hell. I like him so much, Emerson. And everything with him is so good. It’s driving me crazy, but in a good way. But you said you regretted missing signs with my ex, and I’d feel like the worst friend if I didn’t tell you about Harlan. And I know you’d want to know.”
My words spill out in a messy heap on these incredibly beautiful, Instagrammable steps. Emerson is clearly ready to bombard me with questions, but a pack of tourists—judging from the Nikons and I Love San Francisco sweatshirts—are fast closing in on us.
She tips her forehead to the top, and we trudge up the rest of the way, duck down the street, and stop in front of a pale-yellow house. “Start at the beginning,” my friend instructs.
I tell her everything, starting with the first one-on-one session and finishing with baking with Harlan and his daughter.
“Monkey bread and manicures!” She grabs the sides of her face. “That’s too cute. I die!”
“I know, right?” I clasp a hand to my heart. “His daughter is amazing. Such a strong, bright, fun girl. And she likes me too.”
“Obviously. You’re super likable. And clearly, he’s crazy for you if he’s introducing you to his kid. That’s a big step.”
It felt huge to me too. Meaningful, bringing Harlan and me even closer. “I really like him. Falling-hard like. Falling-in-love like.”
“Oh, babes,” she says softly, nodding sagely. “I can tell.”
I grab her hand, squeeze it. “What do I do?”
“I wish I could say oh my God, he’s amazing, but I don’t know a thing about him,” she says with a helpless shrug. “But I know you. If you’re going to do this, you’ll only feel right about it if you do what you said. Find the replacement for the classes, talk to Olive and Zachary, and just be open and honest. You’re not like your mother, but if you go into a relationship feeling like her, I worry you’ll beat yourself up. I’d hate for that to happen.”
My throat tightens with emotion. “You’re right. I checked out two classes today, and some others yesterday. And the receptionist at my main studio is amazing, helping me search for options, coming up with lists of who to check out in the Bay Area. And I’m determined to do this right,” I say, squaring my shoulders.
She drapes an arm around me. “Good. Then you will. Now, you want to check out this Banging Burger food truck?”
“Yes, but do the burgers make you want to bang? Or do they make you want to bang Nolan?”
Her eyes pop. “Hush. Do not mention him.”
I press my finger to my lips. “I won’t mention the total hottie who you work with. The guy with the piercing eyes and delish muscles and great smile. The one you were looking at like you wanted to lick sriracha off him. I know you love sriracha.”
She crinkles her nose. “Now who’s adorable and gross at the same time?”
I point two thumbs at myself. “This woman.”
“You know yourself so well.”
“Also, is it hard to resist him?” I tease.
She shoots me a don’t you dare go there look. “I’m supporting you in your resistance plans. You ought to do the same for me with Nolan. I bet you, too, are battling temptation every time you see Harlan.”
“Oh, I am. I definitely am.”
But I won’t let temptation win.
24
Harlan
Time takes on a glacial quality.
Every day is an X on the calendar. Every night, I wait for the dawn to come.
I see Katie at the stadium, and it’s wickedly thrilling having our little secret, more so than it was before. I take these little hits of Katie-time to pass the days.
When yoga class wraps up one Tuesday in November, Coach Greenhaven strides in, surveys the lot of us in triangle pose. “Excellent. We’ll have to rename you the Pretzels when we host New York this weekend.”
There’s a collective groan from the Renegades.
At the end of class, I leave as Katie straightens up. The coach stops me at the door. His gray eyes laser in on me, and he clears his throat. “Harlan.”
I straighten, reflexively. The coach has that effect. “Yes, sir?” I ask, hoping he hasn’t gotten wind of my plans with Katie. But then, how could he? No one knows. We don’t go out in public. We’re cautious.
Unless those rumors about phones listening in on your conversations are true. You never know with modern technology.
He claps my shoulder. “You’re looking good this season. I keep telling that to the GM,” he says.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, grateful as always for the compliment.
“GM agrees completely,” he says, and the message is loud and clear—we want you to stay.
“Thank you,” I say, relieved that’s the focus of our talk. Even though I don’t have anything more to tell him.
“Hope you will,” he adds.
“Thank you.” It’s all I can say, my head nodding like I’m a bobblehead of myself. And I’ve seen those bobbleheads in the team store. Not my best look.
Later that afternoon, she texts me. I’m in a Lyft heading to meet my agent, so I write back right away.
Katie: Is it hard for you when the coach says stuff like that?