Page 25 of Beach Bodies

Chapter Ten

The late night run-a-thon must have really done something, because on Friday at breakfast, though my muscles have become throbbing, mean little pain-pretzels, I am mentally back where I need to be: coffee in hand, mind wide open, taking stock in the dining hall as the sun rises over the water. My hair tie was still buried under the covers along with my roommate when I let myself out of the room at 7a.m., but I’ve replaced it with another. It doesn’t fit quite the same, but we are bending, we are flexing, we are fine.

The smells of breakfast float through the air– frying eggs and hot veggie hash and, best of all, coffee. My stomach rumbles. The special is sprouted wheat English muffins with avocado butter, which I’d love to see Daniel’s reaction to– is he intoanythinghealthy? (and why do I hope the answer is no?)– but Daniel isn’t here.

Personally, I have designs on the omelette station– wild mushrooms, a sprinkle of chives, a dollop of goat’s cheese. Heaven. I check my watch and make a deal with my stomach:five more minutes of brain-time to absorb whatever I can, and then it’s food time.

From my spot nursing a mug of black coffee in the alcove, I note Craig and Brian holding hands at Shayna’s table and looking angelically happy as they listen to Shayna, whose face is moving expressively. Did Craig apologize to Brian? Probably not. The Craigs of the world don’t think they need to. The Brians of the world never insist that they do.

I note the reality TV star, Ana Durango-Carter, sulking alone with her phone, with only a teensy beige smoothie to comfort her. Skylar and her mom are serving themselves oatmeal, seemingly chipper. As I watch, Skylar’s mom gives her daughter a tender look and tucks a tendril of her hair behind her ear. So there is some love there… though that doesn’t excuse the dysfunction.

There’s Serena at a corner table with sunglasses on, taking teensy sips of a dark green smoothie. When my eyes land on her, I feel perfectly calm, and this is good. No visions of drowning her in her own pukey toilet this morning.

My plan for today is simple: find a way to get into one of Shayna’s yoga classes. I want to see if she feels like the woman I knew from the show. The problem is, she’s so popular that all her classes are booked for the next two weeks.

I should also sign up for one of Pat Burton’s seminars and try to see if this guy is a harmless (if narcissistic) hippie, or something less savoury. I didn’t see him on the schedule for today, but there’s a ‘fireside chat’ tomorrow I could squeeze in…

I continue my slow perusal of the room.

Kyle, shaking his legs out by the juice bar as one of the juicemixologists feeds kale into the machine. The juice mixologist is cute, and I can tell by the angle of Kyle’s body that he has noticed. I wonder what Kyle will ask her, since obviously she’s here for business, not pleasure.

Chad-the-Handsy, slouched in line behind Kyle (will he make a grab?).

Gloria, in earnest conversation with Pat Burton.

The acoustics of this room make it impossible for me to overhear anything unless I’m next to someone, but I make no move towards any of the people I’m evaluating. Right now I’m just reading the vibes.

Picking my target, as you can see, isn’t exactly scientific. Yes, there’s a roster that I study. Yes, I try to make observations. Yes, I try to be analytical in my final choice, and methodical once the target is determined. But there are a lot of guests, and a lot of staff, and studying them all to determine the perfect ranking would be an impossibility.

So much depends on chance– where I am at what time. Who else happens to be around. The odd conversation I happen to overhear, like Craig’s nasty little attitude last night. Or Serena’s drunken co-branding rant… Neither of which I would have been privy to if my roommate hadn’t eaten bad airport shrimp.

So if Serena or Craig ends up being my final target, in a way, it wasn’t my uber-scientific analysis. It was the shrimp.

That’s not to say they won’t deserve it, and as long as I’m sure they do, I don’t need a perfect method. I don’t need to suss out the ethics of chance, or ruminate over whether something deeper like fate or destiny might be at work. In the end, I can’t worry about what I can’t know. Besides,there’s no perfect in this world. Only our best, and I’m doing mine.

There’s movement to my left. Daniel?Quick, think of something witty to say. About sprouted wheat.How do you flirt about wheat?I turn my head, smiling.

Oh. It’s Vic.

‘Hi,’ I say, noting his odd expression. Uh-oh. This is not Chipper Morning Vic.

‘Lily. We need to talk.’

‘Something wrong?’ I say lightly, as my heart pitter patters like a nervous bird.

It’s Serena, I just know it. She wants me gone after I saw her drunk and basically shouted at her. She ratted me out for breaking branding guidelines and now Vic has to do her dirty work.

‘I hate to interrupt your coffee moment, but– let’s talk in my office.’

Well, fuck. I’m about to get fired.

I take my coffee with me as I follow him. My brain whirls around various strategies like a washing machine on spin cycle. Should I appeal to my tenure? Her drunkenness? His mercy? We pass reception, into the hush of the administrative office area.

Damn it, Lily!I shouldn’t have yelled at Serena. Or slammed my hand on the counter.See what your short fuse just did?

We’ve reached his office. He closes the door. The air freshener I normally enjoy is way too strong this morning. My nose tickles like someone is physically plunging the smell up into my sinuses.

‘Sit, please.’ He looks genuinely distressed, so I sit, even though I’d prefer to stand.

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