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She nods, clearly lost in thought.
“A lot of people in the Olympics are physical geniuses. They really know how to use their bodies. Kinetic intelligence. Then there’s people who really know themselves well, wise men and women in touch with the universe. Intrapersonal intelligence.”
“I’m glad there’s so many types. I don't have to feel bad for being dumb.”
She gives me a sour look.
“I would never use the adjective dumb to describe you, Cole.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“Stubborn, overbearing, and trigger-happy, maybe, but never dumb.”
“Who’s trigger-happy? I haven’t shot anybody.”
Emory laughs, a sound like ambrosia to my ears.
“Yet,” I add.
She laughs even harder.
I swing by my apartment to pick up some things. It’s too dangerous for her to stay in the truck, but I wasn’t planning on company. My place isn’t trashed, but it’s not chick-friendly, either.
Fortunately, she seems willing to stay out on the balcony while I put together some clothes and toiletries. When I join her outside, she’s texting someone with a furious profusion of keystrokes.
“Must be important.”
“More like infuriating. There’s a bunch of Paps outside the studio, trying to get a shot of poor TJ from Boys R Us. Or more specifically, trying to get a shot of him falling off the wagon.”
We walk back to the truck. I toss my bag into the locker in the back and climb behind the wheel. She finishes her text and stowsthe phone in her Michael Kors leather purse. For a second, I take in how different we look. Emory the Barbie doll, Cole the tatted up military vet with more issues than Rolling Stone.
“What?” she asks, anxious under all my scrutiny.
“You say you study body language, and the way people move to learn things about them, right?”
“I do recall saying that.”
“Then what does your special choreographer sense tell you about me?”
She purses her lips, eyes narrow with intense thought.
“Hmm. Well, you have a grace that belies your bulk. You’ve obviously spent a lot of time on your feet, not to mention a lot of time carrying a weapon.”
“How can you tell the part about me being on my feet, and the weapons? I mean, you’re right, but how?”
Emory chuckles, turning slightly in her seat to face more fully toward me.
“In your case, you have exceptional balance and tend to keep your weight up on the balls of your feet. That indicates someone who has walked long distances, stood for long periods of time, or both.”
“And what about the weapon part?”
“When you walk, you tend to swing your arms out wide, as if avoiding contact with a munitions belt or holster.”
I give her an extra sharp look.
“You’re like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Oh please, not hardly. Bodies are my business. I’m supposed to know this stuff.”
