Page 24 of Moms of Mayhem
…ok. For the week? How long are we talking?
Beckett
Til I’m cleared to skate. Make it happen.
My phone vibrated with an incoming call, but I slid it back in my pocket. Of all the things I’d thrown at Gavin over our long careers together, this might have been the biggest wrench, but also the most important.
“Sound good?” Dr. Navarro said, tapping her clipboard on Mom’s blanket-covered feet.
Before I could think through the implications of what I said, the words were out of my mouth. “Sounds great.”
9
“Who was that guy?” Shannon asked as I ran through the studio doors, unzipping my coat and throwing it at her. She caught it, then hung it on one of the hooks along the wall for me. “And why is your coat all wet?”
“Tried to buy you coffee, and it backfired,” I said while hopping on one foot, unlacing my boots and sliding into my grip socks. This was the one class of the day I could actually teach Pilates and workout at the same time, and I didn’t want to miss it. “And no one. Can you figure out how to get a playpen by tomorrow night?”
Shannon looked down at my stomach, then up at my face, one black eyebrow lifted. “Something you forgot to share with the class? And that didn’t look likeno one.That looked like Beckett Conway, which that paired with the playpen ask is raising a lot of questions. You do know he’s trouble, with a capital T, right?”
“Well aware of exactly who Beckett is. And were you watching with your face pressed to the glass?”
She let out an indignant huff. “Of course, I was. Thistown is boring as hell, and you went from looking like you were picking his grave plot to debating kissing him in the blink of an eye. It happened so fast, my neck hurts from the whiplash.” She shook her head, her black hair cascading down over her pale face. “Shame, because I have just the spot to hide a body, but here you are talking about playpens instead.”
“Lots of things need to happen before I’d need a playpen, like break my year-long dry spell”—Shannon’s brows shot up and looked to the parking lot—“notwith Beckett. It’s for a friend.”
“You don’t have any friends.” The complete straight face she delivered the insult with made me chuckle, used to Shannon’s no-nonsense attitude after the last few months together.
“We’re friends.”
“We’re not friends.” Shannon propped her checkered Vans on the counter as she blew a bubble with the gum in her mouth. “I can’t be friends with someone who listens to country music unironically.”
I gasped, my hand over my heart. “How dare you talk about our lord and savior, Shania Twain, like that. I could fire you for this.”
“But you won’t. Because I’m your only friend.”
“But we’re not friends, remember?”
She pointed a long black nail at me. “Now you’re getting it.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I chuckled. “And I’m trying to change theno friendsthing. Hence, playpen.”
Her dark eyes studied me, then her long black nails tapped on the keyboard at the front desk. “Best I can do is Thursday delivery.”
I shook my head, grabbing the headset I wore to project my voice through the gym. “Needs to be tomorrow. Find one I can go pick up, even if I have to drive for it.”
She dropped her feet to the ground and pulled at the black plaid flannel over her Alice in Chains T-shirt. Every outfit she had was some version of this punk-goth vibe she committed hard to, and she had the slightly bored and disinterested vibe to go with it.
Most people knew her as the small-town rebel and the younger sibling of the two biggest troublemakers in town. Despite her brothers’ bad reputation and her slightly intimidatingget-fuckedattitude, I loved Shannon. She was the hardest worker I’d ever employed and motivated to get the hell out of Dodge. And despite what she said, wewerefriends, no matter what little we had in common.
“What are we using this for? And don’t think I’m not going to circle back to Conway.”
“I’ll explain when class is over. Just make it happen.” I adjusted the knobs on the speaker pack I clipped to my waistband, then tapped the counter. “Find me some 90s country, please.”
Shannon shook her head. “You do this to torture me, don’t you?”
“If we were friends, maybe I’d be nicer.” I waved over my shoulder and walked behind the partition wall separating the lobby from the studio beyond. The overhead lights were dim, bright enough to see where you were walking and cast in a purple hue from the LED strips above the mirrors.
Twelve Pilates reformer machines lined either wall of the long and narrow room with mats and other accessories to their side. Each reformer was long and low, a sleek stretch of metal and wood with a movable carriage atop. Springs andattached to the foot bar, and pullies above the shoulder block, forcing my students to use controlled motions to survive the ruthless machine.
