Happy New You Read online

  Matty has other plans to bring out my adventurous side, though.

  No new lipstick. Instead, I’ll be axe throwing?

  I’m not sure I have axe throwing in me. Hell, I’m not even sure I can pick up an axe. Mateo has been working me hard, but my talents lie in throwing pithy retorts, not heavy wood-and-metal tools. If there is such a thing as past lives, I doubt I spent mine as a Viking or lumberjack.

  I glance down at my bare arms, just to check, and yep, still spindly. There is the slightest bit of muscle tone there, but I have a long way to go. One day, when I flex—if I keep up with the planks and shoulder presses and every other torturous exercise—I’ll have actual definition and strength. But today is not that day.

  Still, I see nothing wrong with dressing the part. Clearly, an axe thrower would wear jeans. Though my normal attire is either one extreme or the other—sleek pantsuits or slovenly sweatsuits—I have one pair of skinny jeans that actually fit. I might as well keep them in a box with the words “In case of emergency, break glass” printed on the front for as often as I wear them.

  Lumberjacks are known for their love of flannel, but aside from my comfiest pair of pajamas, there is nary a scrap of plaid or flannel to be found in my postage-stamp-size closet. I end up settling on a stretchy, long-sleeved T-shirt, which will make for easy movement when I’m attempting to raise a deadly weapon over my head.

  My mother would not approve of this—the outfit or the activity. Last year’s me wouldn’t either. But that’s the point of the resolutions. I’ve needed to take a flying leap outside of my comfort zone for far too long. Throwing axes with Matty definitely fits the bill.

  I pull my hair back into a low ponytail, swipe on my not-at-all-adventurous brown sugar lip gloss, and slip my feet into a pair of leather ankle boots. Then I pile on my winter layers—despite the fact it’s early March and people in other parts of the country are probably busting out their cute spring jackets—mummifying my neck and lower face in a thick, woolen scarf. I’ve lived in this city my entire life, but I’ll never get used to the long, brutal winters. It may be I’m just less tolerant of the wind-chapped cheeks and endless hours of darkness than when I was younger. Although, the humidity during New York summers is for the birds too...

  I snap myself out of my weather reverie, grab my keys, and, bypassing the notoriously unreliable elevator, trot down the three flights of stairs to the lobby. That’s another difference from my past month of training—I’ve traded in my tromping for trotting. Last week, one of my neighbors—Mrs. DeMata—stuck her head out to check for an intruder when she heard my jaunty steps on the stairs. I called out that I’d been working out lately, to which she just shook her head, muttered something about millennials, and slammed the door.

  Well, at least some things don’t change.

  In my Uber on the way to meet Mateo, I can’t help thinking of the ways he’s changed. We met freshman year of high school, when our English teacher asked him to share his notes from the week before. I’d missed the entire first week of school when my dad died suddenly from a heart attack, and I’d been lost in more ways than one. But there was Matty, with that kind, crooked smile he still has, looking like a lifeline. I’d been miserable—and rightly so—but his steady friendship helped lift some of the fog of grief.

  I admit I had a bit of a crush when we first met. Besides his smile, he looked nothing like he does now. He was shorter, and pudgier, but so very cute. A lot of girls liked him—I’d heard the talk—but he’d been oblivious. He friend-zoned the lot of us. I got over it pretty quickly because his friendship was a helluva lot more important than any silly crush could ever be.

  But now, besides the physical changes, Matty’s more confident than I’ve ever seen him. Even more confident than when he shot up ten inches junior year of high school. Even more confident than when he came home that first Thanksgiving break in college with a six pack. It’s like he’s found his place in life, and he’s completely sure he’s where he belongs.

  In law school, he lost a lot of the light behind his eyes. He’d been going through the motions, doing all the right things, but he wasn’t really there. It was obvious that his heart wasn’t in it.

  Of course, I didn’t see it at the time. I was just as single-minded then as I am now. After being apart for undergrad, I wanted my Matty by my side for those hellacious years of law school. We were a team. Matty and Al, Al and Matty. One day we’d be Ramirez, Gottlieb, and Associates. But my dream wasn’t his. I was following in my dad’s footsteps, while he wanted to blaze his own path.

  He tried to tell me, but I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe he was serious about wanting to become a trainer. I think I actually said, “You can’t be serious,” when he told me. I didn’t understand it; law had come so easily to him while I’d had to work my ass off for everything. I let my resentment drive a wedge between us when he officially withdrew from school, breaking up our team.

  After a month of working out together, we’re nowhere near Matty and Al territory, but as the car pulls up to my destination, and I see Mateo huddled in his winter coat, waiting for me, I wonder if we can get there. I step out of the car, and the moment our eyes meet, a smile lights up his entire face and I think maybe we can.

  “Hey, Matty!”

  He pulls me into a hug, and for a beat he buries his face in my hair, breathing me in. “Hey, Al. It’s good to see you somewhere other than the gym.”

  “I broke out my emergency jeans for you.”

  His eyes brush down the front of me. He can’t see much, since I’m buried under layer upon layer, but his gaze lingers on my legs.

  “I’m honored.” With his hand on my lower back, he guides me inside City Axes, which turns out to be in another warehouse only a few blocks from the parkour place. This place is busier than I had expected. Groups of twenty- and thirty-somethings are sitting at tables drinking beers, or waiting their turns at long, batting-cage-style alleys, where people are wielding axes instead of bats.

  I unwind my scarf from my neck and slip off my jacket, which Mateo kindly offers to carry for me. I spot rows of axes lined up at each lane, and already, I’m less intimidated.

  “They’re smaller than I pictured them.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “This is a ‘That’s what she said’ moment if I’ve ever heard one.”

  I bump him with my elbow. “Head out of the gutter, Ramirez. The axes, I mean. I was picturing something more...aggressive. Those axes are almost dainty.”

  He smiles at me, not like I’m saying something silly, but like he’s really fucking happy to see me. My heart does that flippy thing again. “You don’t need strength for this. It’s all about position and momentum.”

  I watch a woman about my size lift an axe over her head and toss it like she’s throwing a tissue. She hits the wooden bullseye and her group cheers.

  I want to do that!

  We’ve stopped in front of a table of people. People I don’t recognize, but Mateo obviously does. He greets the tall guy standing closest to us with a very manly slap on the back, then turns to introduce me.

  “Allison, this is my friend and roommate, Seth Young. Seth, meet Allison Gottlieb.”

  I don’t know what I expected tonight to be like, but I guess in the back of my mind, I thought it was just going to be the two of us, sharing an adventure. And it kills me to admit that for a moment, I’d wondered if this was going to be a date.

  Which is silly.

  We’ve always been just friends. Of course, I used to be a serial monogamist, going from one boyfriend to the next, and by our junior year of high school, Mateo let someone out of the friend zone, into the girlfriend zone. So, technically, this is the first time we’ve both been single at the same time.

  I know this because I very casually worked that into conversation on training day three. And by casually, I mean extremely awkwardly.

  Trying to make the best of the current situation, I stick my hand out to shake Seth’s, but he wraps me
in a bear hug. It’s a lovely hug, but I wasn’t prepared for it, so I almost lose my footing. Seth holds me up though, letting me go only when I’m steady again.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  He winks. “You too, doll. I’d get into personal training too if all my clients looked like you.”

  I blush. There’s no stopping it. Seth is really good-looking and let’s face it, I’m pretty starved for flattery these days. “Well, we’re old friends, so I’m not really a client.”

  Mateo laughs. “That’s right. I’ve yet to receive a single payment.”

  Seth rests one of his oversized hands on my shoulder. “Believe me, Mateo here has told me all about you.”

  He has? Why? Oh my God, is this...a set up? My stomach twists with a confusing mix of disappointment and intrigue. Apparently Matty doesn’t want to date me—probably because I’ve never been his type—but does he think this guy would be a good match for me?

  “Only the good stuff, I hope,” I say, and Seth waggles his eyebrows in response.

  As much as I’d hoped I could practice my flirting with Matty, Seth will have to do. And I’ve done much worse in the past.

  I start to tuck my hair behind my ear, but then I remember it’s in a ponytail. So much for flipping my hair around to flirt.

  Close to my ear, Mateo says in a low voice, “There’s only good stuff, Al.”

  I turn to him, and since he’s bent down, our faces are close enough I can see the faint ring of lighter brown around his irises. All of a sudden, I’m just a little bit nervous, so I deflect. “Oh, I’m sure you could think of one or two bad things.”

  He gives me a small smile, then introduces me to the others at the table. They’re mostly Seth’s friends from work—some have the night off, others are headed to wait tables after this. There are six of us total, three men and three women. I can’t quite decipher if any of them are couples or if everyone’s just friends. I study the two other women—both blond and adorable—and wonder if either of them is with Mateo.

  Not that it’s any of my business.

  I’m here for adventure and possibly for some harmless flirting. Seth looks like a promising specimen, and when I glance around, I see several cute lumberjack types working. It should be bizarre to be in the city and see guys with big bushy beards, suspenders, and flannel, but this is Brooklyn, birthplace of the hipster. For several years, a beard and suspenders were almost required for a man under thirty to live here.

  One of the lumberjacks—a baby-faced guy named Clem (probably the name given to him when he converted to hipsterism) with a chest-length black beard—comes over to take our group to the lanes.

  On the way, we pass a handsome ginger lumberjack who, if I’m not mistaken, is checking me out, so I toss a flirty wink in his direction. The problem is, I’ve never been able to wink without the entire side of my face contracting also. Why I thought I should unleash my wink tonight is beyond me. And from the mildly horrified look on ginger beard’s face, it’s beyond him too.

  “Divide yourselves up into three teams of two, and then we’ll go over safety rules and do a few practice rounds,” Clem instructs.

  “Thank you, Clem.” I use my sultry voice, testing the flirting waters.

  “You okay? Getting sick?” asks Mateo.

  I glare at him. “No. Why do you ask?”

  Guess my sultry voice needs work. I’m so out of practice. I haven’t even bothered dating for the past year or so. All work and no play has made Al a very dull girl.

  The first couple pairs off immediately, and the other blonde—I’m pretty sure this one’s name is Hillary—hangs on Mateo’s arm.

  “Be my partner,” she coos.

  I wonder if she’s his type. She certainly looks the part with her gym-fit body and classic all-American girl-next-door prettiness. And she definitely seems to think she’s his type from the way she’s basically petting him from shoulder to elbow.

  Mateo appears to be unsure, glancing back and forth between us, but then Seth hooks a finger in my belt loop, pulling me closer. “Guess that leaves you and me, kid.”

  I hold up a finger. “I have to warn you, I’m ultra-competitive. If I don’t win because of you, I’m kicking you in the shin.” I say it like a joke, but it’s not really. I hate losing. I won’t even try something if I don’t think I have a shot at being number one, which is probably why I’m thirty and the most adventurous thing I could think of to put on my resolutions list was trying a new lipstick. It could also explain why I’m training for almost an entire year to win a work competition— although having a built-in excuse to spend time with Matty is turning into a benefit, too.

  “Same, doll.” He taps his biceps. “These guns will bring home the trophy for you.”

  Mateo scoffs. “Please never say that again.”

  Seth shoves his shoulder playfully. “I’ll say what I want, fucker.”

  Clem claps his hands, drawing our attention. “All right, now that we’ve got teams worked out, let’s go over the proper stance and safety rules.”

  We all pick up an axe—it’s so much lighter than I expected—and he goes over the rules. He’s all business, not even one quip about losing toes or chopping off limbs. You’d think a guy named Clem who throws axes for a living in the middle of a big city, rather than...I don’t know, Maine, would have more of a sense of humor.

  I understand his directions perfectly, but I decide to take one more shot at getting my flirt on with him. He strikes me as safer to flirt with than Seth. Chances are I’ll never see him again, and it’s not like I would actually date him.

  My mother would probably disown me if I came home with someone who wore flannel instead of Tom Ford to work. I didn’t grow up rich, but my mom knows her labels.

  I sneak a glance at Mateo in his fitted jeans and snug, gray Henley. My mom always loved him. He’s probably the only person she’d make an exception to her suit rule for.

  Then I remind myself tonight is about fun and flirting, not ridiculous, impossible fantasies about my friend Matty.

  9

  Mateo

  March

  This is all Seth’s idea.

  It’s funny, because most of the shenanigans I’ve been a part of over the last few years started out the same way. Seth gets a wild hair, and the next thing I know, I’m jumping out of an airplane or swinging from a trapeze on Chelsea Piers.

  Tonight it’s axe throwing. I’ve never been, but it sounded like my jam, and I had to invite Allison to come along. We’ve been working out, seeing each other several times per week for a month, but we haven’t really talked. Mostly it’s me trying to be encouraging while she mutters frankly shocking insults and throws death glares in my direction. I thought if we saw each other when I wasn’t “torturing” her, as she calls it, she might actually remember what we used to have.

  Instead, I’ve spent the night watching her doing what I assume is flirting...with every man except me. She’s flipped her ponytail violently at Seth. She winked at a lumberjack with an orange beard—although her wink resembled a facial tic. I’d find all of this adorable—it’s so Al—if it’d been directed at me. Instead, I’m finding it disconcerting, and honestly, I’m getting kinda pissed.

  Not that I have any right to be. I have no claim on her. We’re working our way back to the friendship we once had, and I can’t complain about that.

  Once Allison Gottlieb decided she was my friend when we were fourteen, she took her job seriously. There was a kid, a fucking bully named Joel, who hassled me every single day. Called me fat, called me every racist name he could think of, shot spitballs at me when the teachers weren’t looking. I wouldn’t let Al tell anyone. What kind of man would I be if I let a girl stick up for me?

  Al didn’t tell. She had other plans. See, Joel was class president, and had been every year since middle school, before Al moved to the district. He took it very seriously and no one had ever run against him. So, at the beginning of our sophomore year, she launched the b
iggest campaign our high school had ever seen. She talked to every kid in our class, getting to know them by name and plastered her posters on every surface. And wouldn’t you know it, she trounced Joel in the election. Beat him by a landslide and knocked him down a few pegs in the social hierarchy.

  Oh, he still tried to fuck with me, but I had the confidence of knowing I had the class president in my corner, and eventually he left me alone for good.

  Allison calls Clem over to check her stance. I get more irritated by the second as he touches her, helping her into the proper position. She raises the axe over her head, and for a second, I fantasize that she drops it right on the douchebag’s foot. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, he runs his hands up her arms, adjusting her position, while standing much too close to her.

  Clem talks quietly in her ear, telling her how to throw the axe, and then, just as I’m about to grab his ridiculous beard and pull him away from her, she lets go.

  All of our eyes follow the path of the axe as it flips through the air to its destination. The trajectory is perfect. It hits the bullseye, wedging into the wood deeply, like it’s happy to be home.

  Allison lets out an excited shriek. “Holy shit, did you see that?” She throws her arms in the air and jumps up and down. Clem isn’t looking at the target. He’s watching the way her tits bounce beneath her tight, pale pink shirt. I’m mesmerized by the exact same thing.

  She takes my breath away. Always has. Even that first day in English class, with her sad eyes and wild hair, I couldn’t stop looking at her. Of course, when I found out why she’d missed the first week of school, I felt like a real dick for having those kinds of thoughts about her. Not like she would have gone for my chubby ass back then anyway.