Page 44 of Gym Bros
“So, the son’s off limits—gay or not?”
“Not for you,” I tell her. “Go for it.”
“You said lay off.”
“I just mean I told him you two were harmless, so don’t scare him. He’s not even old enough to be served here.”
That seems to knock some sense into her. “Damn. I hadn’t even thought about that. Why does that make him sound like a baby? Does he look like a baby?”
I shake my head. “No, they probably would serve him. He looks older. He’s chiseled all his baby fat away.”
“Oof. Tell me more, daddy.”
I laugh. “Let’s have brunch after yoga, okay? My treat.”
“Why does it sound like you’re trying to impress this boy?” Priya asks.
“It does not,” I say.
But I’m obviously trying to accomplish something with goat yoga and brunch. Talk about stepping outside my comfort zone. I want Samuel to lighten up, yeah, and if he’s new to town and his whole life here has been his training gym until he hurthimself, then I’m assuming he’s a little isolated. That was why I asked earlier this week when he was planning to get back to his gym.
He hasn’t been especially chatty with me, but my first impression of him was that he liked to talk until I made it clear I wasn’t a safe space, which I still regret because I’m totally safe. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I realized the Marcus factor was an issue week one. I deliberately tried to draw a professional line, and in the meantime, was totally unprofessional. I was treating him like a stereotype and not a person—which is exactly the way I hate being treated.
Those goats better fucking come through for me tomorrow.
Alamo Square Parkhas arguably the best view in San Francisco. The iconic row of colorful houses—the Painted Ladies—sits on one side, and breezes from the bay come in from the other. You can see the whole city from here on a clear day. It’s partly cloudy and chilly this morning, though. There are occasional peeks of sunshine, but I’m shivering in my hoodie while I wait for anyone I know to show up. The goats are braying from a pen nearby, and the smell of them keeps wafting my way. There seem to be a lot of them. A dozen at least.
The class is a fairly young crowd carrying yoga mats and sipping from Stanleys. Rachel and Pri will be here—they’ll just roll in at the last minute as usual. The person I’m really worried about showing is Samuel.
He never technically said he’d come, and I’msotempted to text him, but I refrain, not wanting to be overbearing. It’s fine either way. Even if goat yoga is a total fail, it’s bound to be memorable. And if not—mimosas.
And then he shows. I see the top of his head first as he comesover the hill where the yoga class is set up. Then the rest of him appears in all his massiveness. So damn tall. He’s wearing sunglasses and looking around, but then I guess he sees me because he changes course slightly and heads my direction.
He’s dressed in gray joggers and a long-sleeved black tech shirt that hugs his upper torso. He gives me one of those poker face up-nods I’ve had to get used to this week. “Hey,” he says when he’s close enough for me to hear.
“Hi.”
“You cold?”
“I mean—” I laugh. “A little.”
He glances down at me shivering, and I watch his fists clench. “I’d do some jumping jacks with you, but...”
“No, I’m fine. You look good. I mean—you’re walking great.” Jesus, Calyx. Learn to talk.
“Yeah. Ready to kick some shit,” he says.
I grimace. “Maybe stick with punching?”
“I’ll be fine. Are your friends coming?”
“They’ll be here,” I say, scanning for my party girls. “They never miss Saturday yoga.”
He looks over at the goats. “This is…interesting.”
“You ask, I deliver,” I say.
“Beauty may freak if she smells goat on me.”
