Page 26 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I just nod. I am a prying asshole. And I have no idea what to do. My go-to is to offer a hug, but my hands are covered in ground pork. My backup is to provide food, and we’re already doing that. Way to go, Ellie.
“The anniversary was Friday, actually,” he continues, his smile looking a little more heartfelt. “It’s why we had friends over. We always do something to make the day less sad.”
“It’s why Ian was hammered, too,” Alistair adds, which is also heartbreaking.
I feel less guilty about steering the conversation as I sidestep my faux pas with a change in topic. “How did the three of you end up living together? Was it the gym, or—”
Grant laughs. “Oh, man, me and Alistair gowayback. We’ve been friends since first grade.”
“Ourmomswere tight,” Alistair contributes, his emphasis onmomsturning the word into a direct reference to my misstep. Beautiful, beautiful butthead.
“And freshman year, we were roommates!” Diego says. “We moved in here last fall.”
Ah! Another in. “And Ian was here then?”
“Yeah! While he fixed up the apartment at the gym. That setup is so sweet. You should check it out. Oh, dude!” Grant pivots to Diego, pointing at him with his knife. “He got a great deal on a sound bar for up there.”
Good Lord. Maintaining a direct conversational flow with these guys is like trying to reroute a river bare-handed.
“Didn’t he already have something like that?” Alistair asks, not looking up from his ginger. “Those speakers he had when we were in high school, when your dad was overseas?”
“Just your dad?” I ask, confused.
“Dad’s an engineer,” Grant explains. “And he got a job with an oil company in Saudi, when I was, like… fourteen? So, I moved in with Ian. ’Cause out there, all the international employees and their families live on some compound. When kids reach high school age, the company pays for them to go to boarding school in Europe. And that would have been cool and all, but…” He shrugs, losing some levity. “It was good to be here.”
I nod. Based on the timeline Grant’s provided, that move would have been within a year or so of his mother’s passing. It would have been a huge change for anyone, but so soon after losing his mom? And to then get shipped off to a boarding school on yet another continent? Ian taking him in was more than “good”; it was a mercy.
The thought makes my heart feel mushy.
“How was it living with your brother in high school?” I ask, imagining Ian at a parent-teacher conference. If I’d been facedwith him at a meet-and-greet the year I’d taught, I don’t know what I’d have done with myself.
Oh. My. God.The year I taught I had one class of seniors. They’re the same age as these guys now. I’m living with youths who could have been my students. Thehorror.
I scrub the realization from my mind. “I’d imagine it was pretty rowdy, given there was a midtwenties dude providing the only oversight?”
“Uh,no,” Grant says flatly. “He was such a dick! Everyone figured I’d have this sweet party life because of him, but he was the worst! He never bought us beer. And since he was always prepping for comps, I ended up eating whatever weird, super healthy shit he had around. Even though that was mostly stuff from sponsors.” He nods at Diego. “The ones hounding you lookwaybetter.”
“What’s this now?” I ask Diego, giving in to the swirling stream of consciousness.
Diego reverts to his toe-grinding-in-the-dirt humility. “A meal box company has offered me a sponsorship. They’d send me food. I’d cook it, post about it.” He places his knife on the table and pulls his phone from his pocket, then begins to thumb the screen. “But they want me to film the cooking part and post the videos online.” He shrugs. “I’d just make them look bad.”
Diego shows me the phone, and I lean in to read the screen. It’s the social account of Built Box, a meal box brand aimed at athletes. I swipe through their offerings with a meat-free knuckle. It looks like a good balance of stuff, tailored to whether a customer is in a heavy training cycle—whatever that means, though, basedon what I’m seeing, it requires a staggering amount of food—or cutting—which is trimming down? Recipes are included, pretty basic, but still requiring a general knowledge of how to cook.
I tap on the subscription link. “Good Lord! This issteep. What were they offering you?”
“Oh, like, a few months of boxes? More, if it was successful. I do have many followers.”
I flick to Diego’s profile. I have to do a double take. “You have over a hundred thousand followers, Diego.”
He beams. “Cool, right?”
“How?”I don’t mean to sound as baffled as I am, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“It began with my fitness journey! Also, I dance a lot between sets when I lift,” he adds, with a smooth hip-shimmy. “I’ve been told that I am very charming.”
“Diego, that is an excellent word for you. Also, you’re sitting on a gold mine.”
Diego looks over one shoulder, as though for the aforementioned gold mine. “A what?”
