My words spill out in a messy heap on these incredibly beautiful, Instagrammable steps. Emerson is clearly ready to bombard me with questions, but a pack of tourists—judging from the Nikons and I Love San Francisco sweatshirts—are fast closing in on us.
She tips her forehead to the top, and we trudge up the rest of the way, duck down the street, and stop in front of a pale-yellow house. “Start at the beginning,” my friend instructs.
I tell her everything, starting with the first one-on-one session and finishing with baking with Harlan and his daughter.
“Monkey bread and manicures!” She grabs the sides of her face. “That’s too cute. I die!”
“I know, right?” I clasp a hand to my heart. “His daughter is amazing. Such a strong, bright, fun girl. And she likes me too.”
“Obviously. You’re super likable. And clearly, he’s crazy for you if he’s introducing you to his kid. That’s a big step.”
It felt huge to me too. Meaningful, bringing Harlan and me even closer. “I really like him. Falling-hard like. Falling-in-love like.”
“Oh, babes,” she says softly, nodding sagely. “I can tell.”
I grab her hand, squeeze it. “What do I do?”
“I wish I could say oh my God, he’s amazing, but I don’t know a thing about him,” she says with a helpless shrug. “But I know you. If you’re going to do this, you’ll only feel right about it if you do what you said. Find the replacement for the classes, talk to Olive and Zachary, and just be open and honest. You’re not like your mother, but if you go into a relationship feeling like her, I worry you’ll beat yourself up. I’d hate for that to happen.”
My throat tightens with emotion. “You’re right. I checked out two classes today, and some others yesterday. And the receptionist at my main studio is amazing, helping me search for options, coming up with lists of who to check out in the Bay Area. And I’m determined to do this right,” I say, squaring my shoulders.
She drapes an arm around me. “Good. Then you will. Now, you want to check out this Banging Burger food truck?”
“Yes, but do the burgers make you want to bang? Or do they make you want to bang Nolan?”
Her eyes pop. “Hush. Do not mention him.”
I press my finger to my lips. “I won’t mention the total hottie who you work with. The guy with the piercing eyes and delish muscles and great smile. The one you were looking at like you wanted to lick sriracha off him. I know you love sriracha.”
She crinkles her nose. “Now who’s adorable and gross at the same time?”
I point two thumbs at myself. “This woman.”
“You know yourself so well.”
“Also, is it hard to resist him?” I tease.
She shoots me a don’t you dare go there look. “I’m supporting you in your resistance plans. You ought to do the same for me with Nolan. I bet you, too, are battling temptation every time you see Harlan.”
“Oh, I am. I definitely am.”
But I won’t let temptation win.
24
Harlan
Time takes on a glacial quality.
Every day is an X on the calendar. Every night, I wait for the dawn to come.
I see Katie at the stadium, and it’s wickedly thrilling having our little secret, more so than it was before. I take these little hits of Katie-time to pass the days.
When yoga class wraps up one Tuesday in November, Coach Greenhaven strides in, surveys the lot of us in triangle pose. “Excellent. We’ll have to rename you the Pretzels when we host New York this weekend.”
There’s a collective groan from the Renegades.
At the end of class, I leave as Katie straightens up. The coach stops me at the door. His gray eyes laser in on me, and he clears his throat. “Harlan.”
I straighten, reflexively. The coach has that effect. “Yes, sir?” I ask, hoping he hasn’t gotten wind of my plans with Katie. But then, how could he? No one knows. We don’t go out in public. We’re cautious.
Unless those rumors about phones listening in on your conversations are true. You never know with modern technology.
He claps my shoulder. “You’re looking good this season. I keep telling that to the GM,” he says.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, grateful as always for the compliment.
“GM agrees completely,” he says, and the message is loud and clear—we want you to stay.
“Thank you,” I say, relieved that’s the focus of our talk. Even though I don’t have anything more to tell him.
“Hope you will,” he adds.
“Thank you.” It’s all I can say, my head nodding like I’m a bobblehead of myself. And I’ve seen those bobbleheads in the team store. Not my best look.
Later that afternoon, she texts me. I’m in a Lyft heading to meet my agent, so I write back right away.
Katie: Is it hard for you when the coach says stuff like that?