Page 3 of My Cosplay Escape
“Those pickles are spicy, huh?” Gwen scoots the bag toward me. “Have another.”
I all but sob around a mouthful of pickle. “I’m such a loser.”
“Honey, please. When I was twenty-two, I had a bad set of highlights, a perpetual hangover, and not much else.”
“How old are you?”
Gwen looks up pointedly.
“Sorry,” I say, and I catch my lip on my next bite of pickle. “You don’t have to answer. It’s just… you look my age.”
Gwen visibly brightens. “I’m twenty-eight, baby. What I meant was, are you going back to school anytime soon? Do you need to be up-front about needing to work around your classes?”
“Yeah… Um, Tony mentioned that classes wouldn’t be a problem so long as I could work weekends.” How much going back to school will cost, on top of my already-in-default student loans, is a problem. A big, nasty, messy problem.
“Okay.” Gwen thoughtfully munches a pickle. I hazard a glance up at her, and she is seriously stunning. Like, Greek goddess meets Disney princess meets prom queen. Gwen is exactly the type of girl I’d never have spoken to in high school because my fragile ego and bitchy streak couldn’t handle ever being compared to her. Goldfish, I’m glad I’m not back in high school. “We’ll make sure to get it in writing all the same.” Gwen’s emerald-encased phone buzzes. “We’ve got to move.”
I follow as Gwen marches down a block and stops traffic as she weaves down a side alley. She seems to glow, which is saying something, because the marine layer is still firmly in place this morning. I pull the strings of my hoodie and sigh. Some women just have it. I never quite puzzled out whatitwas until now. In Gwen’s case,itis a pair of ridiculously pretty blue eyes, an enviable hourglass frame, a confident smile, and piles of auburn hair that I bet outshine new pennies when the sun’s out. Next to her, I am a flat-chested, scrawny, dishwater blonde that could be mistaken for a twelve-year-old boy.
“Do you always wear sweatshirts?” Gwen asks.
“So long as June Gloom is a thing. Everyone expects San Diego to be paradise in the summer. No one remembers that it’s usually foggy, cloudy, and cold until the end of July.”
“Fair point.” Gwen stops short in front of a pair of glass doors. “Take it off.”
“What?” Oh. No. Did Gwen mistake my sad, pathetic desperation for a friend to be sad, pathetic desperation for… more than a friend? I mean, yeah, I was just staring at her and thinking about how gorgeous she is, but it was in an envious, mentor-me-and-my-sad-frizzy-hair-and-combination-skin way.
“You can’t interview in a sweaty hoodie.”
Before I can say anything, Gwen has my sweatshirt up and off and shoves me through the sliding glass doors of Fit Gym 24.
“Hey, Sarah,” Tony, the jacked dude behind the check-in desk, calls. He perks up, and a flash of a smile surfaces when Gwen walks in behind me.
Before he has a chance to launch into his membership pitch, Gwen leans against the desk and smiles. Sometime between the sweatshirt and now, she managed to pull out her ponytail, and her red hair hangs in long, loose tendrils around her shoulders. I blink, and for a minute, I imagine bright green tendrils wrapped through it, with tight stippling giving way to gorgeous color shadow. I give myself a little shake. Today is not going to be the day I crack.
“I’m Tony Morales, club manager.” He holds out his hand to Gwen, and now he can’t hide his smile. What is it about men and redheads?
“You’re hiring my friend and giving her a signing bonus,” Gwen says, flashing her very white teeth.
“Excuse me?” Tony and I both say. Well, actually, I say, “Dude, what the holy fudge?” Okay. Maybe I didn’t sayfudge, but I will next time. Too many of my mom’s church friends come to this gym. Like I said, PB is a small town.
Gwen doesn’t take her eyes from Tony. “Sarah, tell this man what you were telling me about your running and sprints.”
I mumble about my distance running, but honestly, I could have been shouting about my insomnia, swearing habits, or long-standing superhero fetishes. Wouldn’t matter. Tony is completely enraptured by Gwen.
If I’m being cruel, I’d say Tony is one of those guys who needs to lay off the supplements, because he is approaching an abnormal BMI, but really, he looks like a Captain Patriotic Man double. Maybe a little browner. Maybe a little stockier. But yeah, a dead ringer for Roy Stevenson after the testosterone injections.
I need to get a handle on my cruel streak.
“See?” Gwen says, pulling away from the counter. “She has the brains and a body that will get people into your club. Let’s talk scheduling. Let’s talk numbers. And make this fast. I need to get back to work.”
By the time Gwen finishes shaking Tony’s hand, I have a job and a small signing bonus with some clause in my contract that prioritizes scheduling around my classes when/if I ever go back to school, Gwen has a free three-month membership, and poor Tony has the most unbelievable, palpable case of instantaneous crush I’ve ever seen.
“We’ll put you on the front desk and Kids Club. Can you start this weekend?” I know he is talking to me, but he’s totally focused on Gwen, and his eyes are electric. They’d take up an entire panel in a comic book—a glossy, overly detailed, close-up splash page with Gwen reflected in his pupils. Maybe even with those visible shock lines radiating from him with vague/not-so-vague hearts floating in the periphery.
“How did you do that?” I murmur as Gwen and I head back to Brent and Jen’s tooth palace. They hate it when I call it that.
Gwen pushes open the building door. A gust of conditioned air catches her hair. My sweat-dried fringe remains plastered to my face.
