My Remedy (Open Door Love Story Book 3) (16 page)

I look at myself in the mirror above the sink. “You’ve done this before and you can do it again.”

“Stalker,” Hayley says from right outside the bathroom door, “quit talking to yourself and get your butt out here. Less talking, more squatting!”

Less worrying, more doing.

––––––––

R
yan’s fingertips smack mine while we’re doing some warm-up jumping jacks.

“Stop trying to touch me, Stalker,” he says, sticking his tongue out at me and moving over half a foot.

“Uh huh,” I say. “You know I can’t resist a guy in American flag meggings. Woo, buddy.”

“It’s the big star right on my junk, isn’t it?” he says, grinning and wiggling his eyebrows, all while still doing jumping jacks.

This of course automatically makes me look at his junk, even though I need to stay as far away from peni in general for at least another six months. “You’re right, the
star
is big.”

“Happy 4
^th
of July, everyone,” Hayley says, standing in front of the W.O.D. board. “Before we get to the awesome barbeque that my parents have been slaving over since yesterday afternoon, we’re going to pay tribute to seven fallen CIA officers with Hero W.O.D.’The Seven.’” She moves to the side and gestures at the board.

7 Rounds For Time:

7 Handstand push-ups

7 Thrusters (135/95) (115/75) (95/65) (75/55)

7 Knees to elbows

7 Deadlifts (245/175) (225/155) (205/135) (185/115)

7 Burpees

7 Kettlebell swings (70/44) (53/35) (44/26) (35/18)

7 Pull-ups

“That’s a lotta seven’s,” I whisper to Ryan. “Hero W.O.D.’s are intense.”

Ryan nods. “You haven’t done one before?”

I shake my head. “I was taking a break from CrossFit when everyone did “Murph” on Memorial Day.”

Hayley pulls a piece of paper from the waistband of her red cropped leggings – she’s got on blue and white knee socks that say
Made in the
on one leg and
USA
on the other – and starts reading to us about The Seven.

“A suicide bomber killed seven CIA officers and one Jordanian officer at a remote base in southeastern Afghanistan on December 30, 2009 after posing as a potential informant reporting on Al Qaeda. Seven new stars will be etched onto the memorial wall at the CIA where every star represents grieving friends, family, and colleagues dedicated to fight against the enemy, forever in their name.

Killed in the attack were CIA officers Jennifer Lynne Matthews, 45; Scott Michael Roberson, 39; Harold E. Brown Jr., 37; Darren LaBonte, 35; Elizabeth Hanson, 30; and security contractors Jeremy Jason Wise, 35, and Dane Clark Paresi, 46.”

She folds the paper up and tucks it back into her pants. “When you all feel like giving up, I want you to remember the men and women of The Seven who gave their lives for our country and our freedom and work even harder to honor them – even if you’re modifying some of the movements, you can still give all you’ve got.” She smiles. “And then we eat!”

We all go about getting our equipment set up – I need an Abmat for underneath my head during the handstand push-ups, a barbell with 135 pounds. on it for my deadlifts, and a 1 pood (35 lb.) kettlebell.

Hayley comes up to me as I’m securing my handstand spot against the wall. “Pull-ups with no band today, okay? It’s only seven at a time, just take it slow.”

“I’ll try,” I say.

She winks at me. “I know you can do it. You clear on everything else?”

I nod. “I got it.”

The timer on the wall begins its countdown to start. My hands are sweaty, I suddenly have to pee, my stomach is a gurgling mess, and I’m ready to
work.

“Three. Two. One. Let’s go!”

~

“C
’mon girl, you got this,” Ryan shouts from his comfortable position lying spread eagle in the middle of the box floor.

I’m on my very last round of pull-ups and the time cap is approaching. Six more pull-ups to go, and my fucking arms have just quit working except for to shake uncontrollably. I want to dig down deep and finish this W.O.D. I want to honor The Seven.

I stick my hands in the chalk bucket and coat my palms, clap them together to get rid of the excess, and then wipe them on the butt of my pants. Standing underneath the pull-up bar, I stare up at it. The distance between that bar and me is not that far. If I kip like Duncan taught me to, I can get at least three pull-ups in a row. I think. I hope.

“The bar’s not comin’ to you, Stalker. Jump up and grab the damn thing!” Ryan yells as he begins crawling toward me.

He’s right. I’m stalling. Less worrying and more doing.

I spring upward and wrap my fingers around the pull-up bar.

“Move with your shoulders,” Ryan says, telling me the same thing Duncan did.

My body gets going, gaining momentum, and I pull myself up, clearing the bar with my chin. I drop down and kip again, and go right back up again. I manage to get five pull-ups before my hands slip from the bar.

“Count to three and do your final two,” Ryan says. He’s up on his knees now, off to the side of my pull-up station. Other people in the gym who have finished start yelling encouragement at me.

“You can do it!”

“Two more!”

“It’s almost over!”

“Barbeque awaits!”

“Ten seconds left!”

I jump up, totally kip like I’m having a seizure, barely get my chin above the bar and let go. But I’ve only got one more left and six seconds on the clock, so I jump up and through some sheer force of will, some out-of-body experience, I manage to drag my rag doll body upward one last time.

I drop to the floor and immediately collapse, just before the timer buzzes.

Ryan walks on his knees over to me and picks up my limp arm, slapping my hand in a weak ass high five. “Nice work, Izzy.”

“Thank you, Cock Star.”

He smirks and his dimples pop out. “Like any man would find that nickname offensive. You may call me Cock Star for all of the days.”

I sit up and start to stand, but then realize my sweaty butt print is so epic it looks like I peed all over the floor, so I act like I’m not really ready to get up and do this awkward sort of half sit, half hover on my side ass.

Ryan stands and reaches out a hand to me. “I promise not to look at your sweaty butt print. Let’s go put some meat in our faceholes.”

I let him help me up. True to his word, he keeps his eyes on mine and doesn’t look behind me. We stand there for a moment, our fingers entwined, before I wiggle my hand out of his grip.

“So, are Hayley’s parent’s good cooks?” I ask, as we head toward the parking lot where the food is all set up, “or are we all hungry enough to eat whatever slop is put in front of us?”

“Both,” Ryan says. “Hey, make me a plate, will ya? I’m going to grab my cooler from the car.”

“Uh, sure, yeah.” I get in line and look around at the other CrossFitters sitting in lawn chairs and on the curb, eating. Several of them are discreetly sipping off beers they’ve pulled from small, soft six-pack coolers. So, people are drinking socially ... it’s the 4
^th
of July after all, and it doesn’t seem like anyone has brought enough beer to get hammered.

I take a deep breath and concentrate on putting food on our plates. There is pulled pork, brisket, and grilled sausages. Lots of grilled veggies, watermelon, a berry fruit salad, and a large aluminum tray of plain white rice. There’s enough good food here that I only miss potato salad a little bit. I take some of everything and get the same for Ryan.

He cracks open a Beaverton Blonde and swaps it out for his plate of food in my hand.

“Before you open another, you should just drink this one,” I say, sitting down on the curb next to him and handing him the beer.

“Oh, okay,” he says. “Do you not like this kind?”

I shake my head, laughing. “I do, but I’m actually not twenty-one yet and I’m in recovery.”

“Recovery for what?” he asks, furrowing his brows.

“Alcohol.”

“Fuck,” he drawls and starts pouring the beer out in the storm drain. “I’m sorry. How inconsiderate.”

“It’s okay,” I assure him. “I was a little surprised to see people drinking, but I’m not going to fall off the wagon or anything. I realize other people can drink and not keep going until they black out.”

Ryan zips up his cooler and sets it away from us. “Still, I don’t need to rub it in your face.” He smiles and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “Especially since I’m trying to date you.”

I knew this was coming. We’ve been flirting since the first day I walked into CrossFit Raleigh Hills and I’ve been enjoying it. He’s funny, and cute in a hipster-y sort of way, more Cera’s type than mine, with his tattoos and plugs in his earlobes, and he’s one of the scrubs wearers, which leads me to believe he’s kind and compassionate. I’ve been trying not to
like him
, like him, because I’m not sure I want to let Duncan go yet. I mean, I haven’t talked to him in months – for all I know he’s moved on and is dating someone with fewer issues that mirror his. But we need an ending, whether it’s happy or not.

“So, I tell you I want to date you,” Ryan says, forking pulled pork into his mouth. “And you react by staring off into space, which makes me think you’re trying to figure out the nicest way to reject me.”

I shake my head no. “I’m trying to decide if I’m ready. My heart is in recovery too.”

Ryan nods. “You like me, though, don’t you?” He gives me a grin that goes all the way to his eyes and makes his dimples pop.

“Yes, Ryan, I like you,” I say, my voice low. “But I thought I loved the last guy and he loved me and everything got fucked up anyway.”

His smile fades.

I look away from him. “You barely know me,” I say, and then commence to stuff my mouth full of grilled zucchini.

“True,” he says, stabbing an asparagus spear off of my plate. “But I have good instincts.”

“I’ve done a lot of bad things and put my family through hell.” I meet his gaze, testing him with my words.

“Are you on a better path now?” he asks.

“I think so, but that’s why I don’t know if I’m ready for you yet. I don’t know if I’m ready for anyone.”

Ryan nods matter-of-factly and sets his empty plate on the blacktop. “Take your time. I’m not looking for anything serious.” He steals another asparagus spear. “I’ll be around if you need someone to cure what ails you.”

“Are you offering to be my rebound?” I ask

He cocks his head to the side. “I’m telling you I think you’re funny and pretty and I’d like to hang out with you someplace besides the gym. However you want to take that is up to you.”

“Okay.”

Ryan reaches for my last asparagus spear and I stab it with my fork before he can get to it.

––––––––

I
get the dogs settled for the night and then head inside to watch the fireworks in Washington D.C. on TV. When Aunt Nina asked if I’d mind manning the kennel while she and Uncle Stan attended the first 4
^th
of July party they’d been able to go to in years, I of course couldn’t say no. I was worried about an entire kennel full of dogs freaking out over all the noise, but she assured me that our few neighbors always took their festivities elsewhere and it looked like it was going to rain. So far, Aunt Nina is half right. It’s all quiet and dry at the Sundall house.

I’m not super hungry due to eating four hundred pounds of meat earlier in the day, but I can always find room for sugary carbs. I grab a bag of chocolate chip cookies and a cup of iced tea and get my own self settled in for the night.

When I’m all snuggled down into the couch and have my snacks within reach, I flip on the TV and channel surf until I find the president bobbing his head and clapping along to an Aretha Franklin medley.

“This is your life now, Izzy,” I say aloud. “You’ve gone from twenty to forty-seven in two months.”

But, really, it’s not so bad. I have TV and music and snacks and a comfy couch. A boy and adult beverages would change the situation, but not necessarily improve upon it.

The fireworks are just beginning when the doorbell rings. I extricate myself from the couch and hurry to the front door, listening to hear if the dogs are going nuts barking and I was being oblivious. It’s still quiet.

I peek out the front curtain to make sure I even want to open the door.

Duncan is standing on the outside with a six pack of fancy root beer tucked underneath his left arm. He looks toward the window and I quickly drop the curtain.

I press my forehead against the front door and take a deep breath. “Hi,” I call, loud enough for him to hear me on the other side.

“Hey, Izzy,” Duncan says, the sound of his voice waking up my tear ducts. “I ... it’s too loud at my apartment ... all the fireworks ... and I thought it would be quieter here – that I would be calmer here. And I’ve been thinking about you – wanting to see you – but if you don’t want me here, I understand completely and I’ll go.”

I crack the door and peer out at him. His posture says he’ll leave if he has to, but his eyes are pleading with me to let him in. “I see you’ve brought fancy pop.”

He nods, grinning. “I knew better than to show up without sugar.”

I step back and open the door. “Come on in. I was just watching the fireworks on TV, but we can change the channel. I think there’s a Switched at Birth marathon on ABC Family.”

“Sweet,” Duncan says, coming into the house. “I love that show.”

We stop at the kitchen to get a bottle opener and then walk down the hallway to the den. I quickly change the channel, thankful I didn’t have the volume up too loud, and we both sit on the couch.

“I guess it never occurred to me that the 4
^th
would be a hard day for you,” I say, popping the top off of a root beer and handing it to him.

“Thanks,” he says, taking it from me. “Actually, the whole week before and after sucks pretty hard too. I have my share of sleepless nights.”

An image of Duncan lying naked on his bed appears in my head. “Alone?” I blurt out, the master of tact as always.

Duncan nods emphatically. “Yes! I’m absolutely not seeing anyone. I don’t want to. I’m still trying not to be a disaster.”