Page 35 of Script Swap
“I like the new haircut,” Chester said.
I grunted and threw the medicine ball at his face.
“Spikier,” he said.
“I’m going to murder you.”
“Let’s do the tire next.”
The tire.Oh my God, the tire.
It’s a huge tire.What else do I have to say except that Chester makes me push it around?
“I like the new kicks,” Chester said after the tire fell on me and almost crushed me to death.
I made a sound that was mostly about being crushed by the tire.
And later, when Chester allowed me—allowed me—to get a drink, he said, “That’s a cute outfit.Lululemon?”
I wiped water from my mouth.I stared at him.I breathed.
“You’re doing great,” Chester informed me.“Lunges.”
If you’ve never done lunges,don’t.Lunges are the worst.Lunges were invented by the devil—who, it turns out, is actually Chester.
As I did the lunges, I said a lot of words you’re not allowed to say in your high school PE class.I thought I was saying them quietly, but Chester—who was doing lunges with me and somehow wasn’t even breathing hard—finally said, “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay.I’m dying.”
Chester’s a wise man.He didn’t say anything to that.
Finally, mercifully, it was over.And here’s the thing about Chester: he really is a sweetheart, because at the end of every workout, he buys me a smoothie.I mean,Ishould be buyinghima smoothie.The logical part of me knows that.But somehow, by the end of every workout, it’s so gratifying that I let him.Like, Iearnedthat smoothie, even if Iamdisgusting and sweaty and sore.
So, we sat at the little smoothie bar near the front of the gym.It had big glass windows that looked out on another rainy day in Hastings Rock, and the ceiling was high, and all that open space made voices echo as people came and went.By that point, I didn’t care about people.All I cared about was my strawberry-banana-chia seed smoothie.(Chester was the one who picked the chia seeds, and I was too weak to fight him.)
One of the reasons I like Chester (aside from the fact that he doesn’t want to date me, which let me tell you, is a huge relief to both of us, plus the whole eye-candy thing) is that Chester doesn’t yammer.Chester doesn’t fill the silence.Chester doesn’t chatter.Chester is easy to be with, especially for someone with an endearing little case of social anxiety (like me).
Today, though, Chester was making a lot of unnecessary eye contact.
“What?”I finally said.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“What’s going on?”
“Oh my God.This town and the murders—”
“No, with you.”And then he beamed at me.“Have you guys set a date?”
The best I could come up with (and remember, I’m a writer) was “Huh?”
“You’re getting married, right?”Chester said slowly.“I mean, the new haircut, the new clothes, the new shoes, the new workout routine… Oh my God,you’re not getting married.Dash, I’m so sorry.”
To my own surprise, I laughed.“It’s okay.”
“You guys are so great together,” Chester said.“And when you started making all these changes, I assumed—God, I’m such an idiot.”
