But alas, this isn’t a party and I sure as hell didn’t invite him here. In fact, as he stands in front of me holding a cup of coffee and examining an ink stain on his mint-green scrubs waiting for me to acknowledge him, it’s quite clear he’s not here for the hot-spin class dubbed “Gaga Glow.”

“It’s been a while,” he says nonchalantly. “Since—”

“Since that time I saw you at Whole Foods,” I respond, keeping my voice factual.

“Really? That long? Wow. Come to think of it, you’re right. Good memory, Char.”

Brian and I don’t really keep in touch anymore. Like I said, the last time I saw him was more than four years ago in the hot bar buffet line at the Whole Foods on Sunset Boulevard. He was filling up a container with some barbecue chicken around lunchtime while I was packing a to-go pint of mac ’n’ cheese just opposite him. There was no avoiding him when our hands went for the same serving spoon, so we exchanged casual pleasantries and I made sure to hide in the bathroom for the next fifteen minutes just to make sure we wouldn’t have a second run-in at the express checkout line.

“So, how are you? What are you up to?” he continues with a jovial smile.

“I’m running stats at the moment,” I say, staying focused on my screen and avoiding contact with his bourbon-colored eyes. “For my job.”

“Where are you working these days?”

“The Influencer Firm.” I hope he can tell by my curt tone that I’m not interested in conversation right now.

“That’s cool. What do they do?”

Evidently not.

I surrender and shut my computer screen completely. There’s no way I can concentrate on anything other than taking off my spin cleats. I bend down to do so, but they don’t budge. Perhaps I should have afforded myself a quick Google search regarding how to eject these first, because I am seriously struggling and my feet are starting to get claustrophobic.

“Need a hand with those?”

Before I can answer, Brian sets his coffee on the bench next to me and kneels. He unclips the godforsaken spin cleats with the ease of a high school stud unhooking a bra.

“Thanks. Blood flow,” I say with relief as I rub and bend my toes through my socks.

“Try rolling your ankle from side to side and tapping your foot like you’re pumping a brake pedal.”

I shoot him a furrowed look.

“Sorry. Doctor speak. That said, your spin shoes are now off. Suffice to say you’re not going to do this class with me?”

“You’re here for Gaga Glow?” Never in a million years...

“That’s the name of the class?” He lets out a bit of a laugh. “God, no. I’m just kidding. I’m not quite sure I’m the demographic for a class called Gaga Glow.”

You’re not. The demo is metropolitan women ages eighteen to twenty-seven, I think to myself.

“But I am here because Debbie called me. She told me about Decker.”