The Fastest Way to Fall(24)
17
LIKED BY NOMORENOSEPICKERS AND 965 OTHERS
Can you believe it’s almost April? Springtime means warmer weather and ditching these coats. I can’t wait! I’m #TeamFitMi, but I want to post about hotness today. I remember the first time I described myself as hot. I was a sophomore in college, and I said it as a joke. None of my friends laughed like I assumed they would—they thought I was serious, and the conversation kept going. All these years later, I remember that “oh” feeling when they didn’t laugh. I realized the joke wasn’t funny, that it wasn’t a joke at all. I was allowed to call and believe myself hot. I think a lot of us are waiting for permission for that moment, for someone else to validate it. I’m not waiting anymore, but how about you? Reply with “I’m hot,” and see how it feels! #TeamBritta #BodyFTW
* * *
“LOOK AT YOU!” RJ looked me up and down as we waited for our table. “Do you know how good you look in those jeans?”
“Actually, I do.” I struck a pose for my friend. Before arriving, I’d sent Wes a picture of my pedometer total with eight exclamation points, my brightly painted nails next to the red numbers.
He replied right away—Wes always replied. As expected, he asked me how I felt. I loved it when he asked that.
Next to us, Kat ended the heated conversation she’d been having with her husband. “Sorry about that. What did I miss?” Kat’s natural hair was pulled back, an explosion of curls sitting atop her head. She was schooling her expression, though it wasn’t like we didn’t know her husband was kind of a jackass and had probably just said something to upset her.
“Just that Britta is hot AF,” RJ said, waving as Del walked through the door.
Kat smiled, a real smile this time. “Britta has always been hot AF.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” I said, leaning in for a hug and seeing Del rush in the door.
Five years into his PhD in sociology, Del already looked the part of scatterbrained professor. Though always handsome, he was perpetually exhausted, and there was only ever a fifty percent chance his socks would match. “I’m starving. I didn’t have time to eat lunch today.”
I swatted at him. “Do better.” Being around Del was like having a little brother. A grown-ass little brother who couldn’t seem to stick with a research topic and was on his way to being a lifelong student.
He gave me a side hug as the hostess led us to our table. “I’ll try.”
Kat set her menu aside. Really, we always ordered the same thing, so looking was a bit farcical. “So, how is the research going, Del?”
“Ugh,” he groaned. “I spent all day debating whether to stick with my current topic or change to something I’m more interested in. My adviser might kill me if I switch again.”
“We’ll kill you if you switch again,” RJ said over the menu.
Del groaned and ran his palm over his face. “Can we talk about something else? Britta, how’s your work thing going?”
“Good so far.” I told them about the funny piece I’d written on learning the unspoken rules of the locker room, complete with a retelling about the woman who liked to air-dry following her shower. Claire had written about the impostor syndrome of being around lots of fit people. I’d been surprised and a little encouraged that even Claire felt that way sometimes. The previous week, I’d posted about the emotional release of seeing the numbers on the treadmill decrease at the end of a sprint. We were falling into a rhythm of give-and-take that worked. In the third week, we’d both written about our coaches. Mine read like an ode, and I wanted to share it with Wes but couldn’t.
Maricela was pleased with both Claire’s and my work, but there was only one position available on the writing staff, and so far, Claire’s posts generated more traffic than mine. I tried to push down the insecurities that surfaced every time I saw Claire outshining me. Still, Maricela had tasked me with working on the cover shoot, and that was something.
“I never thought I’d enjoy all of this salad and sweating, but it’s kind of fun. Wes gives me homework, and you know I love smashing a checklist, so it’s working.”
Del spoke from behind his menu, adjusting the arms of his glasses. “That’s your coach?”
“Yeah, he’s great. Supportive.”
Kat raised her brows. “Is he cute?”
I pictured him tall and tan or dark-skinned and broad. Sometimes I imagined he wore glasses and polo shirts, and other times I envisioned him with gelled hair and sunglasses. I caught myself studying men while on the ‘L,’ wondering if the guy reading the Tribune or wearing the red sweatshirt was him. Please don’t let him be the greasy guy in the FBI: Firm Breast Inspector T-shirt.
“I have no idea what he looks like.” I checked the screen of my phone absently, like his photo might magically appear. “Not that it matters.”
Del still didn’t look up, but chimed in. “Just make sure you don’t end up with some kind of crush on him like that hipster guy.”
I harrumphed. “I don’t have a crush on Ben. He’s a friend, and we’re actually having dinner later this week.”