The clock on the nightstand read one forty-three. I stifled a yawn—not that he would notice. He was half asleep his damn self. But still, there's something about yawning during sex that's just plain rude.
I'm not bored if that's what you're thinking, I'm tired. Bone tired. The previous day had been a tempest of activity that left me on my feet for almost twelve hours straight. All I want right now is to close my eyes and think of REM sleep the way the good Lord intended.
But Evie Harper, you will say, you brought this on yourself. After all, no one told you to open a small business where the hours seem to never end. And no one told you to start a side business whose hours would compound to a combined fifteen-hour workday in contrast to the standard American eight.
Well, to that I say...you're right...
But overall, despite the bitching, I loved my jobs. Even when they left me bone tired and half out of my mind. I was fond of the boyfriend too even though he was a bit of a horndog sometimes. Besides that, he was also funny and kind and handsome and considerate and, and...and my God I'm tired. Maybe if I rest my eyes for a second...
"...Evie..."
Is he talking to me? Why?
When I was a teenage virgin, I thought all sex would be explosive and passionate soul shattering stuff like in the R-rated movies I sneak-watched on HBO or in the Harlequin Historicals I hid under my mattress. But no, Sex and the City and The Marquis of Sin never warned me about the half-assed habitual sex one has with your steady because you're both professionals who work long hours and you have to get it in when you can. And sometimes when you can is at two o'clock in the goddamn morning while you both desperately try to avoid a bombardment of each other's rank pre-morning breath while fighting off the delicious pull of sleep.
I guess that wouldn't have been as romantic, though.
"...Evie..."
But I have to say, kudos to me for making his experience enjoyable enough to be sleep talking my name even though all I did was open my legs when he tapped on my shoulder. I'd pat myself on the back if I wasn't laying on it. Hehe...
Wait a minute...Did I leave the toaster oven plugged in this morning? I hope that shit doesn't catch on fire...
My eyelids drooped from exhaustion. Lethargy descended on my mind like the sweetest of drugs. I closed my eyes...
"...Evie..."
My eyes fluttered open.
Damn it. I was almost asleep. Why does he keep calling my name? ...Okay I know why he keeps calling my name, but maybe he's not as asleep as I thought. Maybe I should wake myself up and engage? Maybe talk back a little?
All my womanly knowledge had not prepared me for the million layers of dirty talk men would subject me to in these most intimate of times. Alice was right, all men are nasty and this one was known to get chatty. I could play this game with him and sped up productivity if I played it right. Blah, blah, blah you're so big and strong, blah blah, best I ever had, blah, blah you make me feel so good, blah blah—end scene.
Intimacy was important for human bonding after all, and few experiences were so...magnanimous and...whatnot...ugh, pretend I thought something profound—I'm usually smarter, I swear, but my brain is in auto mode right now.
Hopefully whatever I say will push him over the edge so I can go the fuck to sleep.
He leaned in and pressed his lips against the base of my ear. I cleared my throat in preparation for the nasty little tete-a-tete we'd be in. God, if you're watching, you should look away now. Tell my mama I'm sorry she raised a potty mouth, but I must do my girlfriendly duty if I want to keep reaping the benefits of so many meals paid for.
Did that make me sound like a hooker? It was obviously a joke, but still—
"Evie..." he murmured. "I love you..."
Yo, what the fuck! That wasn't nasty at all! Who tells a person that for the first time like this? What do I say? What do I do? I'm panicking! Quick, say something. My lips parted, eager to reply but stalled; the CPU had crashed, and the reboot was taking far too much time. I took a deep breath and heard myself mutter, "...That's cool..."
But whhyyyy?
Did he catch that? Maybe he's so into it he didn't notice, and I can just coast through this bit of awkwardness like a champ. But, no, he's noticed. He didn't say anything—he's too polite, but something in the rhythm changed just so.
I almost missed it I was so deep in my own head, internally screaming about what a dumbass I am and wishing I could time travel back to before I was born to prevent the tragedy of Evie from ever existing. It wasn't long before he rolled off me and excused himself to the master bathroom.
Should I sit up and confront the issue head on? Have an adult conversation about expectations and goals and whatnot? That would be the adult thing to do, right? But it's so late and I'm so damn tired.
It was the cowardly part of me that won out in the end. I rolled over and pretended to sleep. After a time that could have been five minutes or all of eternity, I don't know, he walked out of the bathroom and climbed gently back into the bed.
I waited him out for another ten minutes, wondering if he'd tap me on the shoulder so we could talk it out, but he fell asleep almost instantly. I listened intently to the sound of his totally unbothered breathing, as I lay perfectly wide awake.
Well, I wouldn't be getting anymore sleep tonight.
***********
The next morning, which was only about three hours later, we stood downstairs in his kitchen, him drinking a cup of coffee and me sipping tentatively at a mug of tea. I watched him beneath lowered lashes as he pet his sweet floppy eared dog, Bertie—seemingly ignoring that anything was amiss.
Is he embarrassed? Remorseful? Did he forget? Did I dream it? Have I gone completely bonker-balls? Is it finally time to commit me to an institution?
I pulled a chair out from the small table propped against the wall and sat down so heavy you'd think my ass was made of lead. I took some thoughtful swigs of my tea; a nice succulent cinnamon plum that I'd left next to his coffee for mornings when I'd wake up in his bed.
When Bertie had all she could stand of Manny she trotted over, her little feet tappity-tapping on the linoleum, and lay her head across my lap. Was that empathy I saw shining in her big brown eyes? Could Bertie sense my inner turmoil the way dogs could sense it was time to beg just when you were about to take your first bite of sesame chicken? They were intuitive creatures, after all. Maybe this was her way of showing moral support. I could use some of that, so I stared down and willed her to somehow understand my pain—woman to woman.
Bertie's eyes followed intently as I took another sip of tea. She licked her little doggie lips and scooched closer.
Maybe she's just hungry.... though I don't know how to tell her there's no sesame chicken in this cup.
"You hungry, Bertie?" Manny asked her as she perked up at her name. "Come on. Let's go." He sat down his mug and turned to leave the kitchen.
Alright, I can't take it anymore. "So, about last night." I looked over at him and took a leisurely drink of tea to see if he would catch where I was going.
He stopped in his tracks and turned back. "Hmm?" As oblivious as a newborn.
"You know, what you said..." Another sip of tea. I don't know if I'm trying to do something with my hands or stall the inevitable but plus side, I'm gonna be adequately hydrated today. Silver linings.
"Uh..."
I put the mug down. "During sex."
"I say a lot of things during sex."
I managed a pleasant smile as if to say, 'this is not an interrogation'. "You do...but you also...told me...you love me?"
His brow furrowed in confusion. "Did I?"
"Yeah!"
"Huh. My bad."
Relief washed over me, though I'm not sure why. "Oh, okay. So, you were just talking. Just in the moment, right? I get that."
He shook his head. "I apologize for how I said it, but I do love you."
Well, this was unexpected. "You love me?"
"Is that hard to believe? You're very lovable."
"Oh...well, I—"
He held up a hand to stop me. "You don't have to force it. Wait 'til you're ready."
"I mean...it's a little awkward."
"I know, but there's no pressure. When you're ready, you're ready."
I smirked. "You're just so sure I'm gonna say it eventually, huh?"
"Of course. Look at this face. See how cute I am. Who couldn't love me?"
"You are pretty cute. A little big headed, though."
He chuckled as he left the kitchen, Bertie following behind oblivious to the love politics at play before her eyes. I stayed seated a bit longer, playing at a bit of laziness before I had to get up and grind.
I needed to shower, get dressed, and head to work. Simple enough. I downed the last of my tea, then stood and stretched away the last remnants of sleep before I headed up the stairs to the shower. All the while, in the back of my head, one thought prevailed above the others.
Love, huh?
**************
I hadn't stepped into a gym since I was a teenager but today seemed as good a day as any to pretend to care about fitness. The sun beamed bright up above in clear blue skies that were for once worthy of our slogan: The Sunshine State. A misnomer to anyone who ever actually lived here under the dictatorship that was hurricane season, but great for tourism dollars so there you go.
Lord knows the ominous Florida summers, with her biting wet heat and giant mutant roaches, were merely a couple months away—but for today I marveled at a nice toasty springtime heat that warmed the bones and a fast blowing breeze that was bad for the hair, but good for the soul.
The gym itself was wedged in a strip mall between a discount store and a barbershop. The fresh red and amber paint stood out against the rest of the building's cool tans. It was garish but distinctive and no doubt the bane of its neighbor's existence.
I tried to smooth down the rogue strands of my hair to no avail and linked my arm with Henry's. "Okay," I said as we strolled toward the door. "You and I are a married couple. We're looking to start a gym membership. Easy-peasy."
He smiled playfully. "Easy." My ride-along had roped himself into coming when he'd called to invite me for lunch. I'd told him I couldn't as I was busy going undercover and he'd decided lunch could wait as long as he got to play pretend for the afternoon.
I was glad for the company so long as he followed my lead. "You ready."
He gave a theatrical raise of his eyebrows. "I was born ready." Oh, boy. He stepped forward and held the door open with a wink. "Here you go, honey."
"Okay, stop that. Act natural."
"Fine." He walked into the threshold and let the door close in my face.
I pushed it open, utilizing all my inner strength not to scowl at him, and followed my oldest and bestest friends' snickers into the main lobby.
There were no chairs or benches in the lobby—just shining black floors, a wall painted amber and red, a couple of chair-less computer stations probably for registration purposes, and a walnut colored reception desk with the company logo big, bold, and amber: FLEX.
I re-grabbed Henry's arm as we ambled toward the desk and the woman behind it who was busy talking quietly into a phone. When she was done, she put down the receiver and looked between us with a small, complacent smile. "Can I help you," she said.
"Hi. My husband and I are interested in a gym membership.
She didn't even pretend to be perky. "Well," she said. "There's the basic membership and the gold membership. Basic is ten ninety-nine a month and includes access to the equipment but gold will get you that plus access to our spas and classes."
I looked up at Henry with stars in my eyes. "Oh, a spa could be good. Don't you think, babe?"
"I don't know. I thought we came for the exercise equipment. Your New Year's resolution, remember?"
My smile didn't falter. "What would I do if I didn't have you to remind me?"
"Get fatter."
I squeezed the hell out of his arm, but he just grinned at me. "Could we look around?"
"Sure."
The woman, named Laurie according to the tag, took a moment to finish what she'd been doing then led us on a psychedelic tour through the wonderful world of modern gym scams; whereby you sign a contract to pay for membership to a building most people only walk into twice a year. But don't mind the cynicism, I'm a business owner, I know.
I smiled through the presentation, asked the appropriate questions, took a pee break to dispel this morning's tea, and pretended like I had use for medicine balls and mechanical torture devices I suppose you step on and burn calories or whatever. All the while I searched the patrons for the man I'd been hired to track.
By the time we were nearing the end of the tour I'd spotted him. The only thing now was to get rid of Laurie. "So, what do you think?" She asked when we'd seen every room but the locker rooms.
"I think this place is great. I especially liked the spas."
"You and the spas," Henry rolled his eyes as theatrically as a Broadway star. "I'm not paying three hundred dollars a year for you to sit in a vibrating lazyboy. Come on, you promised me you'd get fit."
"Get fit?" I made a show of running my hands down my body. "I think I'm doing...okay."
"Not since the kids you aren't." His brows creased as he gave me a deep frown that frankly would be too overdramatic for an acting 101 class. "Look, I know I said until death do us part, but I didn't anticipate you'd let yourself go like this."
I frowned and raised my voice a bit. "And I didn't anticipate I'd married a loser who had to count every half-cent he ever earned!"
"At least I earn! All you do is gain...pounds!"
"My mother was so right about you. Anything to take the spotlight off your own inadequacy."
"And your mother was right about you! 'She'll never love you as much as her Debbie Cakes'."
"You're an asshole."
Henry pivoted suddenly to our host. "Laurie, would you mind if I took a moment to discuss with my wife."
"Of course." She was very pleased for the reprieve and all but ran back to the front desk.
When she was far enough away, I turned to him. "You called me fat."
"No, I didn't."
"You said I would get fatter. You can't get fatter unless you're already fat."
"Well you called me an inadequate cheapskate loser."
"You came in hot! I had to think on the spot. And what was that? I told you to pretend to be my husband."
"Some people have assholes for husbands. When I take a role, I commit!"
"Tone it down next time. That girl probably thinks we're a couple of lunatics."
"She probably sees this shit all the time. And I managed to get her to go away so you can look around." He smiled. "You're welcome."
I huffed a little sigh. "Thanks."
"Did you see him?"
"Maybe. I think he's in the weight room."
The two of us walked past treadmills, stationary bikes, and step machines until we reached the weight room. There was no need to go inside as the walls were paneled glass.
There he was. Gavin Jennings. In the weight room, staring intently into the floor to ceiling mirror as he lifted weights high over his head and back down to his shoulders. "That's him," I said. "Lifting one of those giant weight thingies."
"They're called barbells."
"How do you know?"
"I've been getting into weightlifting."
"Oh, dear."
He frowned for real this time. "You don't have to say it like that."
"I mean, do you, man."
"This is why I can't tell you anything. You're always ready with the jokes."
"I didn't even tell a joke."
"It's the way you say things sometimes."
"Where was the joke?"
"You said, 'oh, dear'."
I sighed. "Oh, Lord."
"See! There you go."
"Okay. I don't have time for this and neither do you. Lunch is over at two, remember?"
He checked the time on his phone. "Shit. Hurry up. I've got to get back to work."
I whipped out my cell and held it up but before I could snap the first picture Laurie powerwalked over with a wide-eyed grimace. "Uh, pictures aren't allowed."
"I'm not taking a picture," I said as I held the phone out in front of me. "I'm taking a selfie."
Through the screen, angled so Laurie couldn't see, I focused on Gavin Jennings and snapped a couple of quick shots of him lifting the barbell over his head and bending down to the floor to show off the flexibility of his back. Then I switched from photo to video.
I did some fake posing for Laurie's sake while I let the video record. "That one is going to be great for the fitness blog I'm starting."
"Sure." Laurie the dream crusher is not impressed with my blogging dreams.
"A blog is not a real job, dear." Henry said.
"Lots of people make money on the internet. Why not me?"
"Talent."
I dropped my arm and shoved the phone back in my purse. "Okay! First of all—"
"Laurie, I think my wife and I will take a pamphlet and discuss more at home if you don't mind."
We left Flex with a couple of pamphlets explaining their services and membership options that were destined for a recycle bin and hit a drive-thru on the way back to our respective places of employment. For him that was the news office to finish writing some article or other and for me that was Taste Teas, the café I've owned and operated for the last four-ish years.
We decided to get lunch at The Sheik, a Burenville institution that had served the same locally famous pita bread sandwiches and cherry limeade since nineteen seventy-two. As Henry drove us through the drive-thru I was busy on my phone sending the photos to my client, David Sanz, a worker's comp defense attorney.
I got the pictures, I typed. I'm sending them now.
It took me about seven minutes to email the baker's dozen of photos I'd taken in the gym. Together with the photo and video proof I'd taken over the past week, Mr. Sanz had an orgy of evidence that Gavin Jennings' alleged back injury was more than a little overstated.
Which made me feel like a bit of a snitch I must admit, but fraud was fraud. And besides that, this one fraud case had net me more money in a week than five cheating spouses could.
If I played my cards right Mr. Sanz might keep me in mind for all his future fraud identifying needs which meant more income for me. Not that I was struggling. Business was good but money was money.
Henry cocked his head my way. "What drink do you want?"
"Cherry limeade of course."
"Two cherry limeades."
Once I emailed Sanz the invoice and he payed I'd be two hundred and seventy dollars richer. And all for about six hours of combined labor.
I smiled to myself, dreaming of all the things I could buy with my two-seventy—minus tax of course. It was almost enough to take my mind off employee training and randomly strange declarations of love...
Well, almost.