Page 25 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
It’s a touch more Regular Life Ellie and Her Desperate Need for Organization to Maintain an Illusion of Control than is in keeping with the spirit of the next few months, but Break from Reality Ellie wasn’t going to be completely free from that, anyway. Not when Standard Me can clearly be put to good use.
I expect Ian to express appreciation for my initiative, butinstead, his brow puckers. Confused, I glance at the gym floor, assuming that something there is what has him scowling.
“The pro shop is fine,” he says.
“It’s—what?”
“The pro shop does what I need it to. And this is a gym,” he continues, and faces me, his brows still low. “Stuff’s going to get dinged up, so the paint and all that doesn’t matter. And the lost and found doesn’t need to be anything but a box, anyway.”
“It doesn’tneedto,” I agree, politely. “But it would look nice—”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not! I just thought, you know, fresh perspective—”
“Leave it.”
Ian’s voice has an edge that surprises me. It surprises us both, if the silence that follows is any indication. I watch, stunned at the sudden severity of his expression as he works to smooth it into something closer to his usual, friendly one.
“I appreciate the list,” he says, but his tone makes clear into which sunless crevice I might shove said list. “Save that energy for your roommates.” He starts moving toward the gym floor. “I don’t need to be a project, too.”
I stare after him, the sting of reproach heating my cheeks.
So much for intrigue.
10
“Y’ALL READY?” I ASK,as my roommates survey the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. We’re starting simple: a monstrous batch of pork meatballs they will either inhale all at once or enjoy for the next few days as leftovers. I’m still trying to determine how to portion with this crew; the past two nights have looked like a plague of locusts passed over the Ping-Pong table.
Grant chirps out a cheerful “Nope!”
“But that’s the point, right?” says Diego, pulling his curls up into a small poof on top of his head. “So we will be in the future.”
“Exactly! And I appreciate everyone chipping in. There’s going to be a lot of ball rolling,” I warn. Then I wait out the giggles from the guys for having referred to balls and explain, “We will have over four pounds of this stuff, so I need all your hands.”
“All hands on balls!” Alistair singsongs, like he’s calling a boat crew above deck. He’s styled from today’s shoot, his hair sculpted in a high, shiny pompadour. He’s still in makeup, too, contoured to the ridge of the uncanny valley, though I suppose it photographs well.
Again, I wait out the laughter, and we get to work. Diego and Grant chop basil, mint, and parsley, while lemon zesting and ginger grating has been delegated to Alistair. I season the ground pork and incorporate what they chop, keeping a watchful eye on everyone’s digit-to-blade proximity. After a few reminders to keep their fingers tucked in, I’m fairly confident that encouraging conversation won’t result in accidental bloodshed, and I consider how to approach the subject of the massive chip on Ian’s shoulder.
The last hour of my shift was endured in chilly silence, and I was relieved to meet Seth, the friendly, ginger-bearded evening coach, who took over at the desk at four. I’ve replayed the conversation with Ian on a loop and can’t figure out where I went wrong. There’s a fine line between “helper” and “tedious know-it-all, against whom entire groups are united in their shared contempt,” and I’m no stranger to being on the wrong side. But this was touch-up paint!
I open with something light. “Is Ian particular about what he eats? He didn’t finish that Rice Krispies Treat today, and I don’t want to bring in snacks not everyone can enjoy.”
Grant pauses his chopping, staring off into the middle distance. Then he gets back to work. “Not really.”
“Did he not finish the treat, Ellie?” Diego asks, wide eyes on me… as he chops.
“Watch what you’re doing. And it’s no biggie. Just aiming to be accommodating.”
“Ah!” He beams, then looks down at his knife work. “So thoughtful.”
I shrug, registering a sting of guilt at his praise for my fabricatedconsideration, and get back to Grant. “You’d mentioned that your mom had made them?”
“Oh, yeah. Or shedid, but she died, like, seven years ago.”
My chest squeezes so tightly, I let out a squeak. I freeze, hand outstretched to take the zest Alistair has shaved, and stare at Grant, who continues to passively butcher the mint. “Grant! Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry!”
He shrugs, looking up to extend a shadow of a smile. It breaks my heart. “That’s nice of you. It wasrough. I was in middle school, and Ian was…” He frowns in recall. “Shit, he was already out of college and competing and stuff. She’d been sick before, like, when I was really little? But I don’t remember any of that.”
