The Fastest Way to Fall(3)
I nodded and leaned forward, resting my arms on the conference table. “And I love seeing women who are big and happy with their bodies. I love reading stories about people deciding to make a change and losing a bunch of weight. Both can be inspirational, but neither is my story. Fat people can be interested in exercise and fitness without it meaning they don’t like themselves. I think I could tell that story, and I think it would land with our audience. Imagine a series focused on a fitness and nutrition experience where the goal isn’t thinness or weight at all.”
Maricela glanced at her notes, finger hovering between her chin and collarbone.
Claire joined me again, our impromptu tag-team approach seeming to work. “The project would be about relationship with one’s body. And, if the apps are focused only on looks or only on weight loss or fall short on their promises, we’ll point it out, so readers know. I think it’s a win-win.”
Maricela glanced down at her tablet, and after a few taps and swipes, she smiled. “Okay, put together a plan. Let’s try it.”
As we moved on with the agenda, Claire eyed me coolly, clearly conflicted about the idea of sharing the spotlight but also aware this could be the way one of us found ourselves on the writing staff. We’d been in competition since we started, both eager to do well and stand out, and both ready to move up at Best Life.
She was a talented writer, and when she spoke about her body, she sounded genuine. I swallowed, realizing the extent to which I’d have to step it up and make myself vulnerable. Despite my impassioned plea and how much I loved the dance class with Helen and the other women, exercising wasn’t my passion. I assumed I’d have to eat better and hit the gym for a few months to do this project, but I wasn’t wanting or expecting something paradigm altering to happen. Still, if I got it right, it would be big for my career, and I could fake passion long enough to make the project work. Nothing was going to get in the way of success with this assignment and earning that spot as a feature writer. In that spirit, I flashed a wide grin at Claire.
Game on.
2
I SCROLLED THROUGH my weather app to get a sense of the week ahead. The ten-day forecast called for rain, sleet, and bitter cold, not that I’d be anywhere besides my apartment, the gym, or the office for the foreseeable future. Work out. Meetings. Paperwork. Sleep. Repeat.
Mason, our vice president of communications at FitMi, waved his arm toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gloomy expanse of Chicago. “Like a fucking monsoon out there, am I right?” He took a quick gulp from a disposable coffee cup without looking away from his phone.
“Yeah.” I grabbed my water bottle. Mason had delivered on everything he’d promised when negotiating his ridiculously high salary the year before, but I still couldn’t stand the guy. Taking a swig, I glanced at my watch and fell into one of the conference room chairs, ready to get started with another meeting. At least this meeting was small. Recently, the list of people I could tolerate had grown very short.
My assistant stepped into the room, the subtle scents of cocoa butter and cherries tickling my nose. “Cord will be here in five.”
Mason cocked his head and flashed a toothy smile. “Hi, Pearl. It’s nice to see you today.”
I wasn’t sure why, but Pearl didn’t like him. I’d asked her multiple times if he’d done something to her, if he’d been harassing or bothering her, and she’d always said no. Still . . . Douche.
She raised an eyebrow but otherwise ignored Mason and handed me a manila folder. “You have that conference call at ten. Here’s the prep you wanted, and I left the résumés on your desk for the operations position. You need anything else?”
I thumbed through the meticulously organized research on new FitMi users. Our growth was unreal. We were having a hard time recruiting enough qualified coaches to keep up with demand. While I loved the success of our app, I’d never wanted a desk job. I missed working with clients in the park or teaching self-defense classes.
My roommate, my girlfriend, and I came up with the idea for the app in college. Back then, I was studying exercise science, Cord was earning a degree in computer programming, and Kelsey was in management. We’d spent months searching the crowded market to see where we could fit. Even finding a name not already in use was a challenge, and it took us years of hustling to make the company a reality. I’d taught exercise classes and worked as a personal trainer, Cord had made his way up the corporate food chain in IT departments, and Kelsey had powered through her MBA. Nights and weekends meant work sessions in our cramped apartment. Those days felt like a long time ago.
“Nothing else. Thanks,” I said to Pearl.
Mason kept on smiling. “I’m good, too.”
Pearl shot him a withering stare. She was taller than him and slender with dark, smooth skin and hair in box braids. I was certain she could knock him out if it came to it.
Mason’s voice grated on me from across the room. “You know, Pearl, I’m not a bad guy. You don’t always have to shoot imaginary daggers at me.”
“I’d use real ones, but your suit’s so pretty, I’d hate to get it bloody.” Pearl turned on her heel and called over her shoulder, “I’m not rescheduling that call again, Wes, so be on time.”
“I don’t think she realizes I’m a VP,” Mason muttered once Pearl was out of earshot.