At eight-thirty on a bright Saturday morning, Jo showed up at Sharon’s new house in the country, hauling an arsenal of power tools and half of a Home Depot in a red Ford Bronco. It took Sharon some time to answer the door; when she did, her rumpled pajamas and disheveled hair declared she’d still been asleep. She generously decided to forego grumbling about the hour (which they had previously agreed to), and, instead, went for americanos while her friend and former roommate set about making her domestic dreams come true… at least, the ones she didn’t want to pay a handyman for.
It wasn’t until six-thirty that evening, when they were installing a deadbolt on the back door, that Sharon thought to ask anything about Jo’s life. Jo shrugged as she swapped a hole saw for a spade drill bit. “I’ve got another fight in the city in three weeks.” She returned to the door and drilled the deadbolt hole.
“I thought you got hurt,” Sharon commented as she flicked sawdust off her jeans.
“Yeah, jacked up a tendon really good, but my, uh, my physical therapist has been kind of amazing. Never healed from a soft tissue injury so fast before,” Jo said as she traced a boxcutter around the faceplate for the mortise. “I like seeing him. Thought I might ask him out after my last session next week,” she mumbled reluctantly over the tapping of her hammer on her chisel. “Hand me the thing and the screws?”
“Oh, really?” Sharon slapped the requested hardware into Jo’s outstretched palm. “What’s his name? Let’s see some pictures of this guy.”
“Rowan. I don’t have pictures of him,” Jo protested, but, by the time she’d screwed in the faceplate, she’d realized the internet could slake Sharon’s curiosity. She pulled out her phone and found his bio, photo included, on the PT clinic’s website.
“He’s objectively gorgeous,” Jo said defensively as she showed Sharon the screen.
“Well yeah, sure, wow, but you could beat him up six ways from Sunday.”
“I can beat most people up six ways from Sunday,” Jo pointed out as she pocketed her phone. “You’ve been to some of my fights; my record is eight and one.”
“What’s he like?” Sharon asked suspiciously, on-fleek eyebrows drawing together.
Before answering, Jo crouched down and drilled the doorframe’s deadbolt hole. “I don’t know. A low-key bookworm, I guess? He talks about what he’s reading, and work. He likes what he does. Pretty quiet. Y’know, nice.”
As she did on most days, Jo sported worn fourteen-eye Grinder combat boots on her feet, ripped black jeans, studded leather cuffs on her wrists, and hair buzzed off on both sides to leave a very punk neon green ponytail. The distressed t-shirt she wore clearly showed the MMA fighter had, without exaggeration, the well-muscled, boldly tattooed body of a war goddess. She was deftly wielding her hammer and chisel again to shape the hole she’d just drilled in the doorjamb.
Sharon did a double-take and nearly choked on her own laughter. “Oh, wow. He’s going to run screaming from you.”
Jo yanked the chisel out of the wood and glared over her shoulder at her former roommate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tossing her thick golden hair, Sharon suppressed her laughter- mostly. “He’s seen you in your street clothes, right? Actually had a conversation with you, the tats, the attitude? Even if he does date you, someone like that, you’re going to chew him up and spit him back out before he even knows you ate him for breakfast, that’s all.”
A hurt expression blooming on her face, Jo gave an exaggerated glance to her wristwatch and snarled, “Well, would you look at the time- it’s fuck you o’clock.” She shouldered past Sharon, flung her hammer and chisel into her toolbox, and began stomping around the room, gathering up her tools angrily. “Do your own damn home improvements, Sharon.”
Next week, Jo, who was capable of fearlessly stepping into a cage with an opponent, could not muster the nerve to even drop a hint during her final round of physical therapy. In fact, she ventured nothing riskier than mentioning she’d finished the book Rowan had recommended- the audiobook version. Fortunately, Rowan trailed after her to the reception desk, chatting about his favorite Terry Pratchett novels while Jo charged her copay and desperately tried to dredge up enough courage to ask him out. She didn’t immediately succeed. They wound up in an awkward silence, which they simultaneously broke, anxiously talking over each other.
“Can I buy you-“
“Would you maybe like to-“
“-a drink sometime?”
“-get coffee together?”
They shared a relieved chuckle, and Rowan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You were my last appointment today. I can finish up and see you outside in five minutes?”
Four minutes later, when Rowan emerged from the PT clinic, shrugging into his jacket, Jo immediately asked, “So, Kahlua or Bailey’s?”
“What? It’s three in the afternoon!” Rowan was flabbergasted, but laughing, and it occurred to Jo that he was accustomed to reading about adventures born of bad decisions, not engineering them for himself, as she was.
“Yup, which is why the booze has to go in the coffee,” she explained slowly. She nodded down the row of shops on the street. “I’ll hit the packie on the corner; you get the coffees. Meet you up right there, in the park across the street?”
“You’re such a terrible influence. Uh, okay. What do you want?”
Jo, who was already stalking off to the liquor store, pivoted on the ball of one foot and continued walking backwards without missing a beat. “Get me a medium, six and six. And make sure they leave us some room on the top!”
Ten minutes later, they had reconvened on a park bench, Rowan with two coffee cups and Jo with a small brown bag. Jo was no good at sitting still when stressed, and any help the Bailey’s might have been, in that respect, was canceled out by the caffeine and sugar she paired it with. She soon abandoned the coffee and the bench to clamber into the nearest tree, calling an invitation; after a moment’s self-conscious hesitation, Rowan climbed up, too. To Jo’s surprise, he turned out to be slightly better at it than she was. He claimed it was the product of growing up in the countryside where there was an abundance of trees, which offered good shelter to a child who wanted to be left alone to read. Coffee in the park was a patent success; daringly, she invited him to her upcoming fight and her traditional indulgence in pizza afterwards.
After her fight, Jo greeted her cheering squad from her gym and said goodbye to her coach in record time. The minute she had changed into her street clothes, she located Rowan with the help of a few texts, and led him out of the building to walk to what she knew was a top-notch pizza parlor a couple of blocks away. “I’ve never got a win by KO before!” Jo was practically vibrating with adrenaline and the giddy thrill of resounding victory. “Can’t believe–“ she bounced exultantly into the air, “can’t believe I managed to land that kick to the head! Did you see how she went down?”
“Uhm, thanks for keeping me in business, I guess.” Rowan thrust his hands into his pockets and laughed a little nervously.
Immediately, Jo sobered. “You didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Staring down at them, she scuffed her Grinders despondently on the sidewalk, then scuffed them against each other. “Screw Sharon, she was right,” Jo said reluctantly, slowing to a stop. “My old roommate told me I’d scare you off. You don’t have to go for pizza- it’s fine.”
Rowan halted as well and made a face. “You’re scary as hell. But I kind of like how it feels walking down the street next to you.”
After briefly considering this, Jo grinned and slipped an arm around his waist, pulling them side to side, and tugged him to resume walking in the direction of her highly anticipated celebratory pizza. “I can work with that.”
Surprise flashed across his face, but it quickly changed to an answering grin, and he extracted his arm from between them to wrap around her shoulders in return. “Yeah?”
Jo nodded happily and pulled him a little bit tighter. “Hell, yeah.”