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ONE
One Week to Cuba
Lori
That guy is staring at me, I’m sure of it. He follows my movements as I squat, the heavy bar resting on my shoulders. We’re the only ones in this section of the gym, where the long barbells and squat racks are, and he’s directly behind me. I can see him in the mirrors that cover the walls, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s a creep.
Stop it!I want to yell, but my voice is caught in my throat.
His gaze roams freely over my legs and butt as I stand to set the bar back on the rack. His eyes meet mine in the mirror and hold them.
You’re being a perv!is what I want to shout. My best friend Faye would, if she were here, but she hates the gym. Faye wouldn’t stand rooted to the spot in horror, too timid to tell him off.
I take a sip of water, breaking eye contact first, and inwardly curse myself. Thankfully, he reracks his weights, and I exhale in relief. But as he passes me, his hand grazes my butt, so fast it’s like it barely happened. I jerk my head to glare at him, but he smirks at me and continues walking to the free weights. As he lifts a dumbbell with the same hand that touched me, the large lion tattoo on his bicep flexes, taunting me.
I should say something to him.I should say something, Ishould say something,just say something, Lori!
Clutching my metal water bottle so tightly my knuckles turn white, I march over to him, my pulse beating louder and louder in my ears with every step I take.
“Hey!” I exclaim in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.
“Quit staring at me!”
The guy faces me, his eyes dropping to check me out before a corner of his mouth lifts. “Not staring, just enjoying the view you’re so generously providing.”
My face burns and I sputter as I try to think of something to say. Faye would think of the comeback to end all comebacks, but I only stand there, my pulse racing with anger and embarrassment.
“If you’re gonna stand there, at least make yourself useful and hand me that fifty-pounder over there.” The guy gestures to the dumbbell rack, that smirk still in place. “Bend over while you do it though, you’re so good at that.”
My mouth opens and closes once before I spin on my heel and speed walk as far away from him as I can possibly get. His chuckle follows me like a taunt, burning in my brain even when I can’t hear him anymore.
Thisis why I never say anything. I’ve just made it ten times worse than if I’d ignored him. What if he thinks it’s okay to come up to me now that I spectacularly failed to stand up for myself? I wish I knew exactly what to say to put him in his place.
I scrub the spot he touched with my own hand as if that can erase the memory.
Still fuming at myself and the stupid lion tattoo guy, I refill my bottle, staring at the faded, cracked Grant’s Gym logo painted on the too-white wall above the water fountain. The light overhead is so bright, like a spotlight, and the air’s stuffy and rank, permeated with the smell of sweat. The second my bottle is filled, I dart all the way to the front of the gym near the large windows, and as far from Pervy Guy as possible. A few regulars wave as they see me, but I keep my head down until I reach the leg machines. I know it’s rude, but I’m afraid that if I talk, I might cry.
Taking a deep breath, I try to let go of what happened so I can focus on my workout. I adjust my headphones and change the playlist to a Spanish hits one before placing my water bottle on the floor. When I look up, I see Mr. Blue Eyes; his eyes are so bright they make the blue of my own seem dull in comparison.
My pulse speeds up, and I force myself to stop gawking at him as he talks to some guys by the benches.
I’ve never had the nerve to start a conversation with him.
Faye tells me I should, but I’m always lost for words when he’s in my vicinity. I don’t like staring at him because I don’t want to act like the creepy guys that stare at me, but he’s so . . . wow.
He’s not the model type of pretty like Faye’s brother, Adam.
Mr. Blue Eyes is a rugged, manly type of handsome. I like to imagine he uses his muscles for chopping wood, wrestling bears, leading his men into battle, or some other ridiculous romance novel stereotype.
I busy myself with adjusting the weights on the leg press, then peek over at the place I last saw him, in a totally nonstalkerish way. He’s not there, and my heart sinks. That sucks. Maybe today would’ve been the day I got up the nerve to speak to him.
I bend down to pick up my water bottle, and when I stand, I spot him. It’s like he’s moving in slow motion as he runs a hand through his thick black hair, pushing it off his forehead. He’s like a walking shampoo commercial.
As I’m reminding myself not to gawk, his head shifts, and we’re looking straight at each other, with eye contact and everything. There’s a burning heat in my stomach when he smiles.
Is he smiling atme? I peer behind me in case he’s looking at someone else, but no one’s there.
He’s smiling at me.
