March 20, 2013 – Word prompts: Petition, ambition, repetition

. . .

This time, I'm the one who's out of breath when I answer the phone, and I swipe at the sweat on my forehead with the shoulder of my t-shirt sleeve. "Are we still on for this weekend?" I ask after hello, draping the white gym towel over my shoulder and stepping away from the free weights. Emmett's watching his form in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and he's already done so many repetitions that I've done a full circuit before he's moved on to the next exercise.

"Sure. How do you feel about Thai food?"

"I've never had it."

"Seriously? Okay. Then we're definitely doing Thai. You don't have any gastrointestinal issues that I'm unaware of, do you?"

I laugh, and she does as well, and it feels better than I could have imagined, to laugh with her again. "No."

"Okay." A pause, then, "Did I catch you at a bad time?"

"No. Why?"

"You were breathless."

"Oh. I'm at the gym."

"Oh." Another pause. "Still doing free weights?"

And I remember the sorry excuse for a weight room off the back of the Forks High School gymnasium, and a girl in sneakers and a sweater sitting backward on an empty weight bench, watching with an unreadable expression as I pushed dumbbells toward the ceiling in preparation for baseball season, ambition my own personal steroid. "Yep," I reply, retrieving my water bottle from a bench near the water fountains, recalling that same girl in a loose gray Forks High gym shirt and sweatpants, shying away from the action, back pressed to the cinderblock gymnasium wall. "You still avoiding anything remotely resembling exercise?"

A short chuckle. "Nah. I do yoga now." I'm treated to visions of her pretzeling her body into ridiculous postures, and the sip of water catches in my throat. As I cough, I hear her protesting. "Come on, I know I was uncoordinated but there's no need to guffaw at me."

When I can speak again, I shake my head. "I don't think I've ever heard anyone use the word 'guffaw' in conversation before." I think that was pretty good, considering I'm still being assaulted by images of Bella doing downward dog.

And the realization strikes yet again: for all I've missed the girl she was, I'm equally intrigued by the woman she is. And for the first time, I consider the fact that, even if we had no shared history, even if she were just a girl I met in a Seattle bar, I'd still want her. It's a realization I don't quite know what to do with.

. . .

"Hey! You! Baseball player!" I turn, and for a split second, my heart catches in my throat. Brown hair with highlights that glow amber in the sunlight. Brown eyes like deep pools of chocolate I could swim in. A faint constellation of freckles across the bridge of the nose. A full bottom lip.

But then the differences catch up with the similarities and bring me back to reality: a UIC cross-country tank top that shows a hint of cleavage; cut-off shorts that show toned, athletic legs; fingernails painted the color of lemons. "Edward, right?" The girl grins, and despite its differences, the similarities ignite a familiar warmth low in my chest. I wish I could remember the last time Bella had smiled at me like that: full-wattage, uninhibited, open.

"Yeah. Sorry, I don't…"

"Kelly. I run cross-country." She gestures toward the tank top before holding a clipboard out toward me. "I'm collecting signatures."

I glance down at the list before me. "For what?"

"We're petitioning the university for a more prevalent police presence on campus."

"Why?"

"Did you know there have been eleven sexual assaults against female students since the beginning of the semester? And that's just the ones that were reported. We're hoping that the petition will draw the administration's focus to the need for tighter security measures and more options for female students who are out and about on campus alone at night."

I shrug and reach for her pen. "Okay." Another grin, and I feel a flicker of satisfaction as I scrawl my name before handing it back.

"Thanks," Kelly says, accepting the clipboard and hugging it to her chest. "Hey, how come I never see you at the baseball team's parties?"

I shake my head, the true answer buried beneath a mountain of regret in my chest. "I'm not much of a party guy." An abbreviated truth.

"Yeah, it's not really my scene, either. My roommate always goes; I sort of tag along just to meet people, but they're not really much good for that."

"Yeah, not really." I watch as she hugs the clipboard to her chest. "Well, see ya."

A flash of disappointment in the brown eyes makes them even more familiar, and the words rise in my mind unbidden as I turn away: that I'm doing her a favor. That disappointment, as it turns out, is what I do best.

. . .