Bridal Boot Camp

I was still wondering after I’d showered and changed. I’d lingered in the laundry room, washing towels, until I was sure he was gone before I bounced into reception, where Jenna was manning the desk.

“Sheriff’s deputy, huh?” She grinned at me.

Word travels like wildfire around a gym. It’s even worse in a gym on a small island.

“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “He’s got a partner.”

“Partner partner?” she asked. “Or life partner?”

“I don’t know. Possibly both. Her name is Chrissie. They go almost everywhere together, and he’s real protective of her.”

She rotated the screen of the computer monitor she’d been gazing at toward me. “I googled him already. No partner listed on the sheriff’s website. I don’t see any Chrissies who work there, either. Or Christines, or whatever.”

“Dammit, Jen.” This is the problem with being best friends with your coworker, and co–business owner. “Just for once I’d like to have a crush on a guy without you cyber-stalking him.”

“In this day and age, you can’t be too careful,” Jenna said, turning the screen back toward herself. “Remember what happened with Pete.”

“As if I could forget.”

Pete had, of course, turned out to be a disaster. A church-going charter boat captain, Pete had looked like total rom-com material—Jenna had cyber-stalked him, too, and given him her seal of approval . . . which, coming from a happily married mother of two like Jenna actually meant something.

But things had turned sour when I’d begun to notice money missing out of the gym’s petty cash, then out of my personal accounts. A few months and many accusations later, Pete was gone from the island, along with most of my savings, my laptop, my grandmother’s pearl brooch, and an exotic dancer named Katarina.

That memory caused me to ask, “Does it say anything on there about an incident Ryan was involved in not too long ago?”

“What kind?” Jenna squinted as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“I don’t know. But he said that’s why he’s here. The sheriff is making him take yoga as part of his disciplinary action.”

Jenna let out a bark of laughter. “God, I’d love it if someone forced me to do yoga as some sort of disciplinary action.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not a six foot four cop with anger issues.”

“Sheriff’s deputy.”

“Whatever. Find anything? He said it involved his partner, Chrissie.”

“It must not have been worthy of local press coverage,” Jenna said, still squinting at the screen, “because nothing’s coming up.”

“Are you sure? It sounded kind of serious. He pulled his Taser on a guy outside the Circle K—”

“No, nada. Aw, but here.” She swung the monitor toward me again. “Here’s an article about how he gives free ukulele lessons to kids at the Mermaid Café every Wednesday night—”

I stared. “Excuse me?”

“Ukulele lessons. See? Look at this photo of him with the little kids! Oh my God, it’s so cute I think I just grew a third ovary . . .”

I bent over the desk so I could see the photo more clearly. Jenna was right. The photo was in a section of The Little Bridge Island Gazette called Cheers and Jeers, and the caption read: “Cheers to Sheriff’s Deputy Ryan Martinez, who sacrifices two hours from his busy schedule every week to give free ukulele lessons to the island’s younger population at the Mermaid Café. Join him every Wednesday night from six to eight. Open to the public.”

In the photo, Ryan was sitting on a table at the café, wearing a Cuban guayabera wedding shirt and a faded pair of chinos while holding a ukulele that looked ridiculously small against his enormous frame. He was surrounded by kids, all looking up at him enthusiastically, each holding a ukulele of their own.

“Oh my God,” I said, backing away from the desk. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Stop it.” Jenna was still smiling. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Exactly. Too sweet. There must be something wrong with him.”

“There is something wrong with him. You just told me he got busted for having almost tased an innocent civilian.”

“Yeah, and now this?”

“What’s wrong with this?” Jenna shook her head at the computer screen. “You’ve let Pete get into your head. You think everyone who does anything nice must have a secret dark side.”

“Because everyone does.”

“You don’t. I don’t. Javier doesn’t.” Javier was Jenna’s husband of twelve years.

“Yeah, well, most men do.”

“No, they don’t, Rob. Only some of them, just like only some women do. Promise me you’ll give this guy a chance.”

“Give him a chance how? I already let him be in my class, with, I might add, the mayor’s wife, despite the fact that for all we know he could be a raving psycho.”

“Not that kind of chance. Go to ukulele night.”

“What?” My voice cracked. “No way.”

“It says it’s open to the public.”

“Yeah, it also says there’ll be children there. You know how I feel about children. They’re sticky-fingered germ factories. Except yours, of course.”

“Rob, I know you like to act tough, but I also know that deep down inside, you’re a big softie who cries at weddings and is obsessed with rom-coms.”

“Ugh,” I said, and swung away from the desk to head for the water cooler. “I do not cry at weddings. And I should never have told you that thing about rom-coms. Now I have to kill you. Anyway, I teach yoga on Wednesday nights. You know that.”

“I’ll teach the class for you.”

“Oh, just like that, huh?”

“Just like that. In fact, if you go, I’ll teach every Wednesday yoga class for you for a month . . . but give you the money.”

I stared at her. “No way.”

“Way.”

“Oh, come on, Jen. Even if I did go to his stupid ukulele thing and things worked out, what would be the point? You know we can’t date clients.”

“He’s hardly a client, Rob. He’s taken one class.”

“It’s still unethical.”

“How? It’s not like you’re his personal trainer.”

I leaned down to fill my water bottle from the cooler. “I don’t think you heard the part where I said no way. Besides, he made a point of not mentioning to me what it is he does Wednesday nights. Patrick thought he was in AA.”

“Probably because unlike most of the guys we get in here, he didn’t want to brag about himself, which is a refreshing change. Why can’t you just go? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Uh, I could fall in love with him and he could turn out to be a two-timing jerk who steals my stuff and breaks my heart?”

“Or he could turn out to be really sweet and you two could have a great time together.”

I switched off the water with a disgusted snort. “Please.”

“Good things do happen to people, Robbie.”

“In movies. Not to me.”

“Is this about your parents?”

I felt myself flush. And I do not flush. “Don’t drag them into this.”

“How can I not when I know they’re what this is about?”

“This is not about them.”

“Rob, you had parents who wouldn’t take care of themselves, which is how you ended up in a helping profession, then had a run of bad luck in the romance department—”

“You’re calling what Pete did to me bad luck?”

“Yes. But you, more than anyone, are due for a break, and maybe this guy is it. You’re never going to know if you don’t take a risk. That’s what all those women, and men, in that class you teach every year are doing—taking a risk on love. Why can’t you?”

I stared at her like she was crazy. “Are you talking about bridal boot camp?”

“Exactly. How come you’re so good at encouraging everyone else in the world to go for their goals except yourself?”

I stared at her some more, genuinely stunned. “Because . . . because . . .” I sputtered. “Because I know the truth—that there’s no such thing as happily ever after. That’s fiction. Look at my parents!”

“Look at me,” Jenna pointed out in a gentle voice. “And Javier.”

“Fine.” I folded my arms. “Except for you two.”

“And all those other couples who’ve been through your class.”

“Okay, right,” I admitted, reluctantly. “Maybe for them, too.”

“So why not,” she asked softly, “for you?”

I glared at her. “Because I’m just not that lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it. You have to try to succeed, as you well know, and you won’t even try. You know, I’ll bet if you did, by next summer, when you do bridal boot camp again, you’ll be in it. Not running it, but as a bride-to-be.”

“Oh my God,” I said, rolling my eyes to disguise how uncomfortable she was making me. “Now I’m gonna puke.”

“Just go to ukulele night. Promise me!”

“Fine,” I snapped. “You’ll really take all of my Wednesday yoga classes if I do it? For a month?”

“All of them.”

“It’s a deal.” I headed for the door. “Your funeral. Good night, Jen.”