Their Freefall At Last by Julie Olivia

26

Bennett

It’s been one month since Ruby and I got back from Florida. Almost four weeks of awkward Trivia Nights and tiptoeing around each other. Thirty-one days of surface-level texts. Lots of gym therapy.

Heavier weights aren’t making me feel stronger. Running faster on the treadmill isn’t making me feel lighter. Squatting lower isn’t making me feel more confident. Honestly, it’s probably just hurting my knees. But it’s better than my heart, I guess.

I re-rack the weight because that thought was far too dramatic, even for me.

I shake out my arms and sigh, falling down to the mat, leaning my head between my knees.

That whole confession thing was supposed to go differently. She was supposed to say, Yes, let’s do that crazy thing called love! and it should have turned into mind-blowing sex in her kitchen, living room, and maybe her bedroom if we made it that far. We were supposed to laugh and hold hands and all the super-cute stuff we always did but with the new veneer of having figured it out.

I scratch my head.

That’s the problem. I did figure it out. I figured it out at twelve years old. Ruby was destined to be my future wife. Sure, it was mixed with a cocktail of flighty hormones and weird boners, but I mostly knew what I wanted, and that hasn’t changed.

I want Ruby.

I bury my head in my hands. I wish it were Ruby’s hands running through my hair again. I wish it were us together and our only stress was how to tell all our friends we’d be upping our levels of affection to the point of making them feel awkward—not how to come to terms with the fact that my best friend and I no longer wanted the same things.

“You look sad,” a voice says from above.

I jerk my head up, and for a second, my heart leaps because I think Ruby is talking to me.

But, no, this woman is different. And the more I look, the more I notice just how different. Her hair—on the spectrum of orange and red, like Ruby’s—is a darker, more dramatic auburn. She’s curvier than Ruby, but only in the way lifting heavy weights does. Strong. She has one eyebrow raised in defiance—no, in disappointment. Like my crouched position is insulting to her.

She’s nothing like Ruby.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” she says. “You slammed that weight down. I heard it all the way across the gym.”

I look at the barbell with narrowed eyes. The snitch. Then, I swivel my eyes back to her.

Her arms are crossed under her breasts. A leg is stuck out. If I didn’t know better, I would think she manages this gym. Her attitude screams ownership.

But she’s right. It’s a jerk move to toss around weights.

“I’ll be careful next time.”

I expect her to walk away, but she doesn’t. Her green eyes—more intense than Ruby’s softer color—trail from my wild hair, tied in its bun, down to my sweat-soaked shirt. I’m a mess.

I don’t know what she’s waiting for. A better apology?

“Okay, well—”

“I need a spotter,” she interrupts. “Want to help a girl out?”

She holds out her hand, and I stare at it for probably too long because she shakes it in my face.

Who is this woman?

I finally take her hand, and she pulls me up with next to no effort at all.

Whoever she is, she’s strong.

I follow her wordlessly to the bench she’s already racked up. She lies down, and silently, I hover my hands under the weight. She brings the barbell down, then back up. Over. And over and over. Until I realize the barbell is loaded with heavy weights. Until I realize she’s doing a ton of reps. Until I notice just how low-cut her sports bra is.

I clear my throat and turn my attention back to her face, where she’s grinning back at me. Her teeth are impossibly white. There’s some sparkle in her eyes that screams mischief.

She looks like she’s going to re-rack, so I say what I’d say to anyone else I’m spotting, “Give me one more.”

With a single raised eyebrow, she does as she was told, lowering it back to her chest with a strained, “You always say that to women?”

My mouth opens and closes like a fish on land, breathing in the sudden words.

Is she flirting with me?

By the time she’s placed the barbell back on the rack with barely any help from me and thrown me a wink in the process, I decide that, yes, she probably is.

The woman twists on the bench. Her cheeks are red enough to match her hair. And there’s even a small dimple poking into them, like a little secret beneath her hard exterior.

“I like that look on you a bit better,” she says, out of breath. “Your smile.”

“I didn’t realize I was smiling,” I admit, but I guess I am after that wink of hers.

She lets out a laugh, and it’s nice. Purposeful. She doesn’t strike me as the type of woman who laughs when it’s inconvenient or unwarranted. The honesty of it has me joining in. It’s the first good laugh I’ve had in weeks.

I’ll take it.

She extends her hand. “I’m Jolene, by the way.”

“Bennett.”

Even her handshake has a grip to it, a sureness.

“Oh, I know who you are, Bennett.”

“You do?”

She barks out a laugh. “Bennett Shaw. Cedar Cliff High. Wrestling team. Streaked across the football field after the championship game.”

My face burns red. “Oh. You saw that, huh?”

“I was on the cheer squad that year. You were my first crush, you know.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Should be.”

And I think, for a split second, her eyes might flash down to my gym shorts and back up, one eyebrow raised.

I realize then that we’re still shaking our hands, so I let go, but not before she gives my palm an extra squeeze.

“So, you gonna ask me on a date or what, Bennett?”

I choke on my laugh. “What?”

“Fine,” she says, pulling a tank top strap up her arm that at some point fell. Her shoulders are littered with beautiful freckles. “I’ll do the honors then. Want to go out to dinner?”

“You’re asking me out?”

“Sounds like it, huh? Come on, big dog. I’m already off the clock and everything.”

And that’s when I notice her shirt with the logo of the Bear Arms on it.

“You manage this place?” I ask.

“I do, and I’ve been trying to talk to you for months,” she says.

I don’t know how I haven’t noticed her. Then again, I don’t notice anyone here. I’m here to work out, not pick up women. To clear my mind of my best friend, not make new ones.

“Wait, trying to talk to me?” I put my hands on my hips. “You don’t strike me as a woman who simply tries.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But you seemed sad today.”

“Vulnerable, you mean.”

She flashes another winning grin. “I call it perfect timing.”

“Funny.”

“I know, right?”

I shake my head in disbelief. I’ve never met someone like her before. She’s bold, almost too much, but I kind of like it. Maybe I need that kind of brashness right now. A distraction from other things in life—from my best friend and my broken heart.

Ruby.

I reach up to my hair, letting it fall before retying it tighter. She watches every movement, eyes clinging to my arms.

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” I say. “Because you seem nice.”

“I can be very nice.”

I struggle to get through another laugh. Christ, the confidence of this woman.

“All right, well, Very Nice Jolene, I’m kinda hung up on someone else right now. And I might be for a while. A very long while.”

“Is that why you’re sad?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “That’s why I’m sad. And I’m probably gonna be a real bummer to eat dinner with.”

Her eyebrows slam together, and she points to me, then herself.

“Oh, you thought I was wanting dinner to hang out with you?” she says. “No, it’s the free food I’m after.”

I squint, and she mirrors me.

“You’re pulling my leg?” I ask.

“I sure am.”

And then I do laugh, loud and so happy that even I can’t believe it.

“Listen,” she continues, “I’m happy to be a distraction, Bennett Shaw. You can be a total bummer around me all you like. We can even just talk for a while.”

I chew the inside of my cheek. “You’re persistent.”

“It’s one of my better traits.” She slaps her thighs. “But, I’m not the waiting kind. And I’m not a second-chances kinda girl either, so it’s now or never to get this ball rolling. Even if we do just talk for a bit.”

“Not the waiting kind.”

I feel the edge of my mouth tug into a smile. “You also seem to like ultimatums.”

Jolene rises to her feet, takes one step forward with the poise of a boxer entering the ring, and pokes me in the chest. “I know what I want.”

And for the first time in years, my stomach flips for someone who isn’t my best friend.

“So, dinner at seven?” she asks. “Pick me up at six thirty?”

“Okay,” I concede. “Just one date though.”

“You say that now. But I’m an excellent date.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

She pumps her eyebrows, juts her chin to the bench behind her, and says, “I spot you this time?”

So, she does. And then I return the favor after that. Except, this time, when I glance down her tight shirt, she gives me a very obvious, open-mouthed wink.