Dylan grabbed her gym bag and jogged through the door, inspecting a chip in her nail polish as she stepped into the familiar smell of sweat and sanitizer. Waving hello to the tiny-T-shirt-loving man at the front desk, she streaked into the locker room and threw on a pair of running capris and a matching top. She took just enough time in the mirror to work her thick hair into a smooth high ponytail before blending a nearly imperceptible smudge of sepia foundation into the reddish-brown skin near the edge of her jaw and swiping away a stray spot of mascara. Giving herself a nod of approval, she bolted out of the locker room and took the stairs two at a time to find Nicolas mid–bicep extension. Her shoulders relaxed as she released the tension in her chest. There was a familiar comfort that accompanied seeing Nicolas, his blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, wearing the autopilot look he got when he was exercising. Or having sex.
Dylan felt instantly guilty. Thinking her boyfriend had an autopilot for sex didn’t sound great. And autopilot or not, Dylan was glad to have someone stable in her life. Someone who knew her well enough that she could vent about her forced family vacation, manipulative boss, and possible loss of employment without sounding whiny. Nicolas loved routines and a job well done even more than she did. After years of hit-and-miss parenting, meeting him had been a godsend. No matter how messy her family seemed, he was always consistent. Dylan knew what she was getting with him, and although robotic at times, Nicolas’s response to her was always reliable.
“Hey, sorry. Work was a bear,” Dylan said, bouncing to a stop in front of him and rocking back on her heels as he took out one earbud.
“No worries, I figured as much.”
“Today was possibly the worst day ever.”
“Listen, I already did the lat pull downs and the leg press. You can come back for those later.” Nicolas pushed the strands of sweaty hair out of his eyes, his ivory skin red from exertion.
“Right. Sure.” Dylan nodded, feeling her ponytail bounce against the back of her head. “So guess where they’re sending me? And let me eliminate the fun possibilities now. It isn’t Paris.”
Nicolas resumed his repetitions, answering her query with a grunt.
“Seattle. Two months. Technocore. Can you believe it?”
“Not great,” Nicolas grunted, his eyes sliding toward himself in the gym’s mirrored wall.
“Not great at all! I think Jared is trying to get me fired over the Davis Communications thing. It isn’t my fault he thought giving people company tchotchkes as they were being laid off was a good idea. Of course it backfired. No one feels better when handed a Rubik’s Cube and a pink slip.”
“If you ask me, Jared is the one who needs a fidget spinner and a pink slip,” Nicolas grunt-laughed, the joke encouraging Dylan.
“What was he thinking? Here. Now you have an activity to do while you wait in the unemployment line.” Dylan’s arms windmilled around the gym, getting more animated as she gathered steam. “You know what really bothers Jared?” Dylan propped a fist on her hip and pointed a finger at nothing. “That stupid article. As if anyone cares about press in Management Today. It’s a trade journal. It isn’t the Bible or anything.”
“Right.” Nicolas nodded, the sound of metal plates clicking on the machine.
“If they hadn’t called me the Davis Communications Savior, none of this would be happening. Severance packages for minimum wage employees isn’t rocket science. Besides, savior is a—”
“Hey, babe, can we talk about it at home? I’m in the zone right now.” Extending his designer earbud toward her, Nicolas explained, “It’s Skrillex,” before putting it back in his ear.
“Yeah, sure,” Dylan said, then nodded her agreement, realizing he couldn’t hear her answer.
Nicolas was right. She’d probably vented enough. After all, complaining wasn’t really productive. Ambling over to the ab-crunch machine, she selected her settings and gritted her teeth. Giving the padded seat a look of disdain, Dylan resigned herself to taking her frustration out on the gym equipment.
Dylan stood over the contents of her underwear drawer, trying to find the matching panties to her favorite bra as her throat burned. She wanted to cry, but Nicolas needed to make some calls, so she decided to pack while he shouted over SportsCenter at a first-year associate.
“Where the hell are they?” Dylan asked her dirty-laundry hamper, clutching the bra as disappointment set in. All her bras had matching panties. If Dylan was rushed to the emergency room, she didn’t want the paramedics wondering why she had leopard on top and pink lace on the bottom. She looked at her suitcase and back down at the bra. It wasn’t like she needed lingerie. After three years of living together, Nicolas was more likely to give his attention to email than her underwear.
Bringing her mind back to the task at hand, Dylan gave the bra a hard look. She should leave it behind or throw it out, but she really didn’t want to. Placing the bra with the other sets, she reasoned that she’d pick up replacement panties when she got to Seattle.
Putting a check mark next to suitcase on her list, she cringed. She had stalled all week, and now there was no way around it. She had packed, answered her email, confirmed her travel arrangements, and even tracked down the strongest antifrizz product the salon carried to accompany her industrial-grade flat iron. If the product didn’t work against the rain, nothing would. The
