Page 93 of Love in Training
“Think of the cutthroat piece you could write about career baristas being a source of lost potential in the arts.”
My jaw drops and he laughs. “It’s almost five o’clock. Get out of here and go polish your CV.”
Naturally, I go straight to the gym.
Ithasbeen blissful, easing back into a weight routine, getting to focus on toning and strength training rather than just cardio this past week. I’ve spent upward of ninety minutes every night catching up on lower body, upper body, and core exercises that were beyond the hand weights and yoga mat I squeezed into my tiny living room. Over the weekend, I even joined a kickboxing class.
What hasn’t been blissful is going home to my quiet, empty apartment.
My phone rings as soon as I step out of the gym onto the sidewalk.
“Hi,” I say, holding the device up so I can see Lydia’s face.
“Ooh, I like your hair!” she says, peering at me. “Did you get it braided?”
“A couple days ago, yep.” I turn my head so she can see both sides. “Hadn’t been to the salon in months. Needed a change.”
“I love it.” Lydia smiles. “God, I need to get a trim before I go into labor. I have, like, twice as much hair than before I was pregnant.” She pushes her voluminous locks out of the way. “What are you up to? Anton said he saw you working out.”
“He did,” I say, playing along with her obvious surveillance. “He was doing hanging leg lifts, and I raised a threatening eyebrow at him from the bench press.”
She grumbles. “Iaskedhim to offer you a ride, but he insisted you’d say no. So, I thought we could just chat on your walk home.”
“His guess was correct,” I mutter, glancing up and down the sidewalk. “But just to set you at ease, there haven’t been any new threatening messages, and no unusual activity on my camera since the flowers.”
“Oh, I know. I’ve been checking it since you gave me the login,” she says. “I think I know Darius and Todd’s work schedules by heart. But doesn’t it make you nervousnotgetting any messages? That seems... I don’t know. Unlike him.”
The “him,” we’re assuming, is Erik Schneider, the co-developer of Unmatched, who I profiled in my latest flop. And her instincts are dead-on—I’m more terrifiednotreceiving garbage from him than when he was delivering regular notes. But there’s no reason she needs to know that at more than eight months pregnant.
I check over my shoulder and shrug. “Don’t worry, I’ll befine. I told you how seriously the police took my report. They’re out there right now hunting down the dead-bouquet stalker.”
She levels me with a stare.
“Wow, your fed-up mom face is legit,” I say.
Instantly, she pales, and I feel a little guilty pinging her anxiety about motherhood... but not too much.
“Fine. Subject change,” she says. “I loved your feature.”
“Thanks.” My tone softens. “This one seems like a home run.”
“Because you’re a star. And it’s important.” Her mouth presses into a sad smile. “Maybe since I knew him, it was obvious you were writing about Kyle. But when you described the isolation and despair he went through...” Her voice quavers. “Caprice, it was powerful.”
I look away from the camera, checking up and down the street and wiping my eye as I turn a corner. “It felt important to tell his story. Though I’m not sure he’d approve.”
“You know he would have,” she says quietly, pulling her hair over one shoulder. “Giving a voice to the voiceless? He would have been proud of you.”
My feet slap the sidewalk for five heartbeats before she takes another breath and speaks.
“Have you heard anything from?—”
“No.”
After the print issue dropped yesterday, I was worried Drew or his family would reach out to complain. Aside from using a pseudonym for Kyle, I didn’t conceal much about who he was. If they read the article, they would know it was about him and probably be upset. But I have a seven-thousand-dollar dress in my closet that I wore, intending to marry him. It felt like I had the right to honor his memory. Still, it’s probably best that they didn’t read it.
“Okay, I’m entering my building,” I say, flipping the camera around and turning in a slow circle for her inspection. “Nobody weird out here except the guys who are always vaping on the corner, and the lady walking by with the dyed pink poodle.”
“Oh! She’s a client!” Lydia waves and grins.
