Page 26 of Still The One

‘Huh,’ Matty says. ‘Well good for you. You still single?’

My heart nearly flatlines. Why is he asking that?

‘I got engaged?—’

‘You’re engaged?’ The words just tumble out of my mouth, surrounded by disbelief and jealousy.

‘Two years ago,’ she finishes her sentence. ‘It didn’t work out.’ She frowns, clasping her hands between her knees and fidgeting with a ring on her middle finger.

Matty and my eyes meet. I don’t know what he’s trying to say to me but I feel like it’s ‘Do not do this again, dumbass.’ Or maybe I’m seeing, ‘Shoot your shot, bud.’ Either way, he should know by now that I never listen. I’m alive and that feels lucky. I don’t want to press that.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say to her, sincerely being sorry that she was so obviously hurt, but not denying that knowing she’s single sparks something up in my chest. Something I don’t have the brain capacity to think through right now.

11

EVE CASSIDY

I don’t know how to describe that first conversation we had after Foster woke recently. I’ve been thinking about it ever since. He seemed stunned when he found out I was engaged, and then relieved when I admitted I wasn’t still. What was that about? If he had something to say, I’d have hoped he would have done it back when I needed to hear it. But he didn’t. He just disappeared. No phone calls. No texts. Not even a freaking note. Just the once-a-year comment that he does still exist via FB anniversary reminders, each one spearing through my heart like an hors d’oeuvre skewed by many toothpicks.

Wake up, Eve. You’re attempting your routine again, remember? This morning is elderly water aerobics day.

I snap to, forcing Foster out of my mind. Pop music of the sixties blasts through the room’s speakers.

‘Paul, you’ve got no rhythm,’ I kid, counting along to the beat of the song. ‘One, two, three, four, five,’ I count with him, a hand on his shoulder, leading him along, but I don’t think Paul’s seventy-something body will allow it.

I’m back on my schedule again. Sort of. I’ll spend the hours I’d usually work with Foster until he’s released from thehospital. Otherwise, I’ve got to get back on track before I lose my mind. Work would help take my mind off things, but when you love someone the way I loved Foster – blindly and with my entire soul – turning your back on them for a second time isn’t an option. I have regrets and I have a feeling he does too. No, I don’t believe in fate, but something is telling me to follow this through.

‘I got it!’ Paul waves me away like I’m an annoying fly.

What kind of nonsense will leave these folks’ lips today? I glance around at my three attendees. Usually there are six, but we lost Freddie a few months ago – he passed peacefully in his sleep while his wife slumbered next to him. Wanda, Freddie’s wife, moved into a home recently. I was sad to lose them because even though I no longer believe in love, those two kept a piece of my heart filled with hope. But back to my morning crew here. Jeraldine called in ‘tired’ last night after going through a bout of insomnia that had her ‘homicidal’. Pretty sure she was kidding when she said that, but I advised her to stay home and sleep in for my own safety.

My other attendees today are eighty-four-year-old Dolly and her little sister, Margaret – a young seventy-nine and one year. Her words. Paul is seventy-seven and has on a leopard print speedo and definitely can’t hide his wandering eye. Honestly, he’s really doing great in this class after his stroke.

‘That’s it, Dolly, let’s march it out for ten more seconds,’ I say, modeling the correct way to water march – knees high – hitting my palms that are sitting just on top of the water. Though they’re trying, no one’s knees are reaching the waterline in this group.

My group are sporting brightly colored swim caps and goggles, floaties and life jackets. They mimic my moves, swaying and stretching in almost unison.

‘Good.’ I come to a standstill, feet planted on the bottom of the pool in the shallow end. ‘Let’s go for a stroll,’ I say, nowjogging in place – still with the Strangeloves playing in the background.

The three of them each attempt to not let the ‘elderly float’ – as I call it – overtake them, forcing their feet to the bottom with enough force that the water sloshes around us.

‘You ladies know how to skip any more?’ Paul breaks the silence a minute into the jog, his voice loud enough it’s startling when it reverberates back to us in the otherwise empty pool area of the hospital gym. ‘It’s harder than you think,’ he continues. ‘My great-granddaughter challenged me on the TikTok.’

‘Lord, Mags, he’s got a TikTok,’ Dolly says, the two women laughing.

‘My failure to skip got thirty-seven thousand likes, girls.’

‘Impressive,’ I say to Paul, causing him to scrunch his face like my voice makes his skin crawl.

He’s not looking for my approval; it’s the women next to him he’s trying to impress – with skipping, at that. Unusual card to play but now when I leave here, I’m going to need to make sure I still know how to skip so I can pass this challenge when it’s my turn. I don’t think I’ve done it since I was in grade school.

The heavy door into the pool area opens, earning our attention, and I glance to see who’s invited themselves in.

‘Oh, my,’ Dolly says. ‘Who is this stud?’

‘Me?’ Paul says, pointing to himself. ‘My name is Paul Westwood.’

‘Not you,’ Margaret says, now pointing toward the edge of the pool where my eyes are also on the three men walking our way. ‘Him, in the middle.’

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