This is the finale of the story.
I apologize, but this part is longer than the first three. I had originally intended to split the story into five parts, but I couldn't find a good point where the events had a natural divide and the last two sections would be roughly of equal length. Rather than pick an artificial split and leave everyone off-balance, I decided to post it as a single, long final part.
We pick up at the point where Mallory is just starting to accept that her head doesn't get the only vote in her relationships. And that, just maybe, she's been going about things all wrong ever since Michael. Though, being stubborn, her head doesn't go down without a fight.
--C
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At 6:53 a.m. on Monday, Jim's phone rang. "You better be on your way," greeted him when he answered. "Your house is fifteen minutes away and it's six fifty-three."
"I'm sitting in the gym parking lot having a last sip of coffee, and for the record, I live five minutes away. I moved."
"Oh."
He was loitering in the lobby when Mallory breezed in. He glanced at his watch. Six fifty-nine.
She caught the gesture. "One minute to spare."
His mischievous smile acknowledged that he was trying to catch her doing exactly what she forbade him.
"I'd looked up your address just in case I needed to roust you out of your lair," she said. "Imagine how awkward if I'd knocked!" Their smiles turned to chuckles.
Pulling out his phone, he tapped a few times and her phone buzzed. "My new address. Just in case you have to drag me out."
As they passed the desk, she pointed toward the men's locker room. "There's a scale in there, right?"
"Umm, yes."
"Tell me what it says. Shorts, T-shirt, and socks only."
He looked startled and then turned obediently. "Jim," she called after him. "The real number. Don't fudge it out of embarrassment." She saw the facial tic and realized how that had sounded. "That came out wrong. I just meant I won't judge the number."
He nodded, turned to go, then swung back again. "Meaning you won't judge today, just how much it changes by next time?"
She saw the crinkly lines of humor around his eyes and realized he was amused, both at accurately divining what she would do and at himself for being in this situation. It wasn't the first time she'd felt a little rush of pleasure at being around a man who could laugh at himself.
"Jim," she called again. He turned back a second time, cocking an eyebrow to say,
What now?
"Would you have fudged? No penalties for saying yes, I promise."
"Probably not." He grinned. "Maybe upward."
"Upward?"
"So you'd have been impressed next time."
She laughed. "Go! And the truth, mister!" She made sure not to betray even an iota of reaction when he told her the number.
By the time forty-five minutes were up, she was fairly sure Jim figured he'd either lost twenty of those pounds or was going to die. Maybe both.
Rather than his laid-back ambling from the treadmill to one machine and then another--the workout he'd described when she asked--she had him start with some brisk elliptical. Then ten reps with weights or on the straps, a one-minute break on the stationary bike, and back to the equipment. Repeat. "Soon we'll drop those sixty seconds of rest down."
She pretended not to hear the sotto voce, "Rest?"
As they were leaving, he said, "I just remembered that you said you ran in the mornings because there wasn't enough time at lunch." Jim looked apologetic. "Lunchtimes are iffy for me because it's often the only time customers have to call me."
"So I change my routine. No big deal."
It was a big deal; one she'd put off thinking about. Running was a morning activity because of time. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday were gym at noon, spin class Friday after work, and yoga on Saturday after her run. Wednesday and Sunday were rest days except for her miles.
Shorten the run?
That depressed her.
Run after work?
She preferred the peace of the morning hour rather than the frenzy of joggers the evening brought.
And Fridays ... crap! Add in a morning with Jim and that becomes three on Friday which doesn't--
Fuck! Helping him is a pain in the ass. Why am I going along with this?
It was the umpteenth time she'd asked herself that. But she'd gone down that rabbit hole over the weekend and knew the answer.
"Hmm." It was as if he was reading her mind. "You also said spin class on Fridays was a thing. Let's stop this. I'll figure something else out."
And let you go back to half-assing your way? No.
She declined to think about the fact that she went from being irked at him imposing on her life, to being irked at him not imposing.
"No, it's okay," she said. It wasn't but whatever.
"What time did you used to go running?"
"Seven, seven fifteen. If it was a nice day and I wanted to go a little farther, maybe six thirty. Don't worry about it, Jim."
"Hmm." He stopped walking, causing her to pause. "I'll get to the gym at six fifteen and do my warmup by myself. From six thirty to seven fifteen you can attempt to kill me which, I think, leaves you time to go running. Thursdays you can give me a list of what to do on Fridays, which means you can go to spin class without doubling up your day. You once mentioned you don't go to the gym on Wednesday, so you and I can skip that one and I'll go for a walk instead. We'll cut out Tuesday lunches if they put too much stress on your schedule that day. All of that subject to your approval."
His memory for her schedule surprised her. The businesslike demolition of her complications in under thirty seconds surprised her even further. A brief thought flickered through her mind.
This is what business-Jim is like: decisive and capable. I always liked that part of his stories.
After a second, her thoughts continued.
Decisive and yet ... instead of a decision, a proposal.
Her mind traveled back to a relationship or two who hadn't granted her the same kind of respect.
Yeah, they got turfed in a heartbeat
, she thought with a little unkind chuckle toward them.
I bet Jim's wife never had to deal with that. Well, not until she ...
She pulled her mind away from another unkind thought.
"Sounds good," she said to the man waiting for her response, "but I want you walking every day, not just Wednesdays. At least twenty minutes, preferably double that."
His face fell, but he nodded. "I can do that at lunch. I'll route customer calls to my cell."
Those customers are going to be wondering if you have asthma
, she thought, remembering his breathing on that walk to Conti's.
Whoa!
She bit down before her mouth could open.
You can be cranky that he isn't hungry for this. Cranky, not bitchy.
• • •
