Instead, it’s a lady my grandma’s age, her eyes twinkling with undisguised amusement. She extends a hand, her grip surprisingly firm. Her bracelets jangle like a medieval court jester’s bells—a sound that seems to underline the absurdity of my situation.
“I suppose hydrangeas are in this season,” I quip, as she helps me to my feet.
“Oh, darling,” she chuckles, her voice a melody of past laughter and wisdom, “you’re just ahead of the trend. Next week, everyone will be wearing them.”
I smile, grateful for her good humor, as I dust myself off.
“Do you think they go well with embarrassment?” I ask, plucking a rebellious petal from my hair.
“Better than pearls with pajamas,” she says with a wink that suggests she’s no stranger to either.
The elderly woman pats my hand, her own crinkled with the maps of a life well-lived. “You remind me of myself when I was your age. Always rushing, always tumbling. Took me a few years to learn the art of walking without making the flora fear for their lives.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Any tips on mastering that art?”
“Darling, the key is confidence. Walk like you’ve got nowhere to go, and everything’s waiting for you,” she advises.
I thank her, promising to practice the art of nonchalant walking, to which she responds with a sage nod. “Don’t make the hydrangeas dread your approach. Reserve that for your exes.”
As she walks away, I realize that her steps are measured and sure—a balletic grace that contradicts her years. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and try to emulate her poise, managing a whole three steps before nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.
Where’s that sloth treadmill when I need it? Well, before it tried to buck me off, anyway …
“Well,” I mutter to myself, “Rome wasn’t built in a day, and my poise won’t be either.”
Reinvigorated by the woman’s kind gesture and her light-hearted laugh, I continue on my path to the shake place.
It’s one of those trendy spots with smoothies named after Greek gods and goddesses—though whether or not any of the patrons knows that is beyond me.
As I get close, I can’t help but feel out of place among the sea of fitness enthusiasts entering the establishment. None of them look like they’ve tripped over air in their life.
“Suck it up, Carlie,” I mutter under my breath and reach for the door handle.
The bell jingles as I step insideOlympian Blends.
A gust of air conditioning hits me, chilling the sweat on my back and providing immediate relief from the heat that’s starting to build outside.
I scan the menu, pretending to contemplate the choices before settling onHera’s Harvest—a mix of kale, spinach, green apple, and a hint of lemon—all with added protein powder proclaimed to be the best in the area.
If it’s good enough for the queen of the gods, I guess it’s good enough for me.
While waiting for my shake, I finally give in and check my phone.
There are two messages from Lily, both checking in to see how it’s going. I quickly type out a response assuring her I’m alive and haven’t yet succumbed to the perils of gym life.
But as I hit send, a message from an unknown number catches my eye.
I open it, half-expecting it to be a spam message promising a fortune left by a distant relative who was an eccentric millionaire with an affection for adopting random people as kin.
But no, it’s not a promise of unclaimed riches.
Hey Carlie, it’s Adam from St. Mary’s. Got your number from your intake form. Hope that’s cool. Just wanted to check in and make sure you’re doing okay after this morning’s ... adventures. Also, you left your water bottle. They’re highly coveted around here. Wouldn’t want you to miss out. ;-)
My heart does a peculiar flip.
Adam.
Texted me.