If Aunt Kit had seen Willa entering a drinking and dining establishment in leggings and a sweatshirt with a handsome man, the old lady likely would have come down with a case of the vapors, collapsing on a velvet fainting couch strategically placed to catch her prodigious backside.
That Willa had dared to wear this sorry excuse for an outfit without putting on any makeup — that might’ve killed Aunt Kit, if she weren’t dead already.
Even before athleisure became acceptable, even preferable, attire — a good number of women in this bar were wearing it, even though they clearly had not come from a gym — Willa never worried about being seen in workout clothes. During pre-season’s three-a-days in college, the team routinely had to rush straight to the dining hall to make it in time for lunch, leaving no opportunity to change out of their gray (always gray, which showed every drop of sweat) practice shirts issued by the athletic department.
This approach to fashion had its upsides, in that the people who got accustomed to seeing her in Umbro shorts and a sweaty ponytail (with the hairline wisps held back by a headband fashioned from athletic pre-wrap) were pleasantly surprised and impressed when she actually washed and dried said hair, dabbed on some undereye concealer, and put on a clean tank top and a cute pair of jeans. Doll her up for a fraternity semi-formal and people would plotz.
These days, she avoided the oversized gray T-shirts and soccer shorts that telegraphed Mom Frump instead of Collegiate Athlete and stuck to trendy tanks, leggings, and sweatshirts in slimming, sweat-hiding black with the occasional pop of red, pink, neon green, white, or pale blue. Sometimes her clients would seem a little surprised when they saw her wearing makeup in a star-speckled romper at a local bar, but that was more the sort of bewilderment you felt when you saw your first-grade teacher, who you assumed lived inside the school, out in the wild.
Willa hoisted herself up on to one of the bar stools at the Randolph Room and noisily scooted it forward, silently cursing her shortness for making it impossible to do any of this gracefully. Her legs dangled. Jeremy, who was easily taller than six feet, slid on to the stool next to hers.
“Beers are on me,” he said, passing her the book-like menu of drinks. “Least I can do after you’ve blessed me with your superior coaching skills.”
“Do I detect sarcasm there?” Willa asked, flipping to the American IPAs.
“Absolutely not,” Jeremy said, signaling the bartender. “There are a lot of bad coaches out there.”
“I’m gonna need to hear some horror stories,” she said, then ordered a fruit-forward Rowdy and Proud from Three Taverns. He ordered a White Blackbird Belgian Saison from Wild Heaven.
“Well, there was the HIIT coach who clipped her fingernails while cueing us on squats,” he said as Willa grimaced. “And there was the running-group leader who called me a fat-ass.”
“You??” Willa asked, sounding a little too eager to dissuade him of that notion.
“Yeah, apparently I wasn’t fast enough on the fartlek runs — what a ridiculous word — and he screamed, ‘kick it up a notch, fat-ass!’”
“I can’t imagine that was a good motivator,” Willa said, sipping her beer.
“Then there was the Pilates instructor who locked me out when I was, literally, one minute late for class,” he said. “I’d gotten stuck in traffic. I wasn’t a new student, so I didn’t need a demo, and I easily could have jumped in without disrupting anyone. But she just stood at the locked door and shook her head and shrugged at me like she had no control over the situation. The class cost $35 and I was charged another $20 as a no-show.”
“That is absurd,” Willa said.
“I mean, $20 is not that big of a deal,” he said. “But it’s the principle of the thing. Y’know?”
“Oh, yes. I know. I have been known to get absolutely apoplectic over ‘the principle of the thing,’” she said.
“Great minds,” he said, clinking her glass. “So, what’s your story?”
Willa swallowed. “My story? Like, my life story?”
“I guess the abridged version?”
She instead gave him the quick highlights, no lowlights. “What about you?” she asked, grateful to shift attention away from herself.
“Army brat, played lacrosse at Duke but I’m not a douchebag,” he said. “Then Harvard Business School, then worked in finance and got married, started a family, got divorced. I’m now in consulting. And still not a douche. Though maybe my ex would say otherwise.”
“Yeah, I see no signs of douchiness. Not yet, anyway,” she said.
Willa looked him over as he continued talking and guessed he was about her age. She took in the fine lines around his eyes, the cleft in his chin, the impressive straightness of his teeth, the full head of hair with some gray at the temples. The gray-green eyes. The casual stubble she suddenly felt compelled to touch.
OK, time to go.
“Oh, man, I just realized that I promised I’d be home to help with dinner tonight,” Willa said, draining her glass. “Thanks for the beer.”
He reached out his hand and placed it on her forearm. It didn’t feel intrusive or insistent, just friendly and reassuring. She could feel the weightlifting callouses on his palm.
“Are you sure you have to go already?” Jeremy asked.
Yes, she thought. Definitely.
“Yeah,” Willa said, hopping off the stool and walking backwards toward the door. “But let’s do this again. Beer is on me next time.”
“Sounds good,” he called after her.
The White Blackbird is my favorite!