Page 19 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
Heather’s staring at me in open disbelief, while Mark’s wide, dark eyes travel from me to the backyard, where Grant and Diego are working out on the concrete slab by the rig. Today’s workout is another partner effort, alternating jumping over the plyo box with performing a burpee, leaving only a split second between each other’s turn over the box. The spectacle is riveting, a ballet of coordination and timing with potential disaster written all over it.
Grant lets out a loud grunt when he hits the bottom of his next burpee, and Mark gasps, turning back to face the table we’re seated around on the patio. He and Heather have been blowing up my phone since last night, when they arrived home to find their couch empty of the friend they’d last heard was half-blind andunhoused, with zero sign of me ever having entered their apartment in the first place. I texted to assure them that I was fine and promised to explain everything over coffee this morning. Was it impolite of me to send a photo of myself seated for dinner at the Ping-Pong table with my new roommates before turning off my phone? Perhaps. Especially since I was the only one wearing a shirt, though Diego was in an apron. A practical consideration; he’d helped cook.
A barrage of texts expressing various degrees of thirst and dismay had been waiting when I turned the phone back on to send them my new address. And if their desperation made them all the more willing to pick up some of my stuff from Cole’s, so be it. It was on their way!
Heather finally blinks. “The only part of this that tracks is that you cleaned a bathroom. The rest…” She gestures toward the guys, then back at the house, then to me, and my apparent newfound enthusiasm for hoodies; I haven’t changed into the clothes they brought over yet. “No. None of this makes sense.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mark says, his attention drifting back to the spectacle of vitality. “If anyone is going to be seduced by a man cleaning a toilet, it’s going be Ellie.”
Heather frowns at me. “You got kicked out of abar. You. You, who are…” She searches the air for a sufficient word, then points to me.“You.”
I raise my chin primly. “Iwas being anuisance.”
“What does that mean? Who even are you right now?” she demands.
“And you’re living with these glorious creatures,” Mark adds, voice trailing in admiration as he observes the sweaty duo. Grantand Diego have switched from box jumps to the less flashy but still remarkable kettlebell snatches. I’m not sure how much the green ones weigh—fifty-plus pounds?—but with the guys’ finely honed form, they practically float up and overhead.
“Plus one more,” I remind him. “Alistair’s inside. He’s a model.”
“Oh, so, not like thosefuglies,” Heather deadpans.
“And they’re going help me learn how to do all that,” I add, pointing to the rig.
Heather looks at me as though I’ve started speaking in tongues. I take no offense; nothing in our shared history would lead her to believe that I’d ever engage in the kind of activity that would produce the amount of grunting we’re hearing now.
“Working at the gym gets me a complimentary membership, which I’m expected to use.” Ian had explained that he requires everyone on staff to have a functional knowledge of what goes on at the gym. We’re going to have a goal-setting session for “focus and intention.” So hot.
I waggle my brows. “I did a pull-up yesterday. Kind of. Or a chin-up? Whichever one has you hold the bar like this.” I raise my hands, palms facing me, trying to remember what Grant called it. He’d been the one coaching me on the rig after dinner.
“With those claws?” Mark reaches for the hand nearest him, pulling it toward him to inspect the stiletto tips. He gets me.
“All intact! And I’msorefrom it.” I cross my arms over my chest, feeling the achy muscles on the outside of my rib cage, below my shoulders—traps, maybe? “For the first time I can remember, I’m sore because of choices I made, not because of my fucked-up body, and it’s…” Empowering? Addictive? Filling a void I hadn’t known was there? “It’s a nice change. That’s how I’m approaching the nextsix months. A change. A break from Regular Me and more whoever I was Friday night. Let loose. Try new things.” I gesture to the workout area again. “Engage in feats of strength!”
Mark nods, then grimaces. “Do they know about your eye?”
The reference conjures an echo of the disappointment I felt when I woke up this morning to no improvement in my right eye. “No.And they’re not going to.” I say firmly. “I don’t need their sympathy or for them to start calling me ‘brave’ for rolling with my body’s most recent choice in punches.” I catch Heather’s frown and press on before she can speak up. “I feel good about this! I need something to focus on while I wait out this diagnosis window so I don’t end up obsessing. So I’m going to get strong. And I’m going to live among adoring himbos and teach them how to maintain a functional household. It’s perfect. I get to feel usefulandappreciated.”
This makes them both laugh. My incompatibility with altruism is what made my solitary year in education so painful. Call me petty, but this gal needs positive feedback—not something with which high schoolers are particularly generous. And when a day’s “success” was so often limited to a freshman writing out the wordforinstead of the digit, any sense of my usefulness went out the window.
“I made an omelet earlier, and when Diego saw it, he begged me to teach him how to make one, and I did! And he did an excellent job.” Mostly. It was more overdone thanIlike, but it was a solid go for a first time, and he beamed with pride at the outcome. It was more fulfilling than anything I did in the classroom.
“And your himbo king at the gym?” Mark leads.
I tamp back a scowl on Ian’s behalf. He’s no himbo. Sure, he’s beefy, and has displayed the requisite amount of kindness one finds in such a creature, but I’ve seen no sign of the endearingdimness that would change his classification fromhunktohimbo. Not like my roommates, who, between the battery licking and bacon burning, have proven consummate examples of the breed.
“He doesn’t need to know, either. We’re keeping things strictly professional. Friday was a one-off. He’s still eye candy,” I concede. “But I’m not looking for a relationship, and casual sex isn’t exactly in my repertoire, not when I have to consult a calendar first. The plan is to sock away my hourly wages so I can have everything lined up for when it’s time for real life again. If six months pass without incident, then great! I’ll have an apartment deposit and first and last and will take everyone out for a nice dinner to celebrate. But if there’s going to be a mountain of medical bills in my future, I want to get a head start.”
“You’re planning six months out. What happens if you have another nerve attack before then?” Heather asks, finally getting to what I suspect I sidelined earlier. In any other scenario, it’s exactly what I’d be asking.
“I can’t control whether or not that happens,” I say, painfully aware of how tightly the words come out of me. “That’s why I’m trying to get a handle on everything I do have control over while I can. Everything I’m talking about has an asterisk denotingwhile I can. I’m going to save moneywhile I can. I’m going to get strongwhile I can. I’m going to be useful and functional and independent—”
The finalwhile I cangets stuck in a knot of emotion. Mark gives my hand a squeeze. I squeeze back in thanks.
“I’m going to take this time forme,” I say. Articulating it gives me some of the same kick I felt at the gym yesterday. The lump in my throat dissolves, and I sit up straighter.
Heather shrugs. “You playing house mom to these guys ispretty inspired. It’s just a departure for you.”
“In quality of life, maybe,” Mark says. “Like you said, I think this setup is perfect. Presuming you get them to a certain standard soon. Because I don’t see you sticking it out if they don’t start living like humans in the next few days.”
