chapter thirteen
WHEN MEL INVITED me to her place for a “working lunch,” I eagerly accepted. Admittedly, I was exceedingly curious to see if her apartment was as glamorous as it looks on Instagram, sans filter. And just like her, it truly is.
The moment she opens the door, she shoves a sparkling tray full of various fancy, bite-size sandwiches in my face. An array of macaroons, scones, and mimosas awaits me in her gleaming, all-white kitchen. She claims she gets it from her mom, who is the “ultimate Stepford host extraordinaire.” Either way, I’m now appalled by my own hosting skills, which are limited to store-bought trays and chips, no bowl.
Mel lives in one of those modern buildings in the Theater District with floor-to-ceiling windows you can probably see directly into from a neighboring building. Even though it’s a deranged stalker’s dream, it’s perfect for her Instagram aesthetic. I beam and point when I spot the dusty-rose velvet chaise by the window where she takes a lot of her photos, as if I’m on a Sex and the City tour scoping out Carrie Bradshaw’s iconic front stoop for the first time.
Spending the afternoon with Mel is a much-needed distraction from thinking about Scott and how I’m supposed to meet him at the gym later today to mend fences. Yes, I want to ogle him without restraint. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m doing this for peace. For the sake of our families. End of story.
I’m about to ask Mel’s opinion on Instagram’s new algorithm and my nosedive of engagement in the past few weeks when a lanky, bare-chested dude lumbers into the kitchen. He wears nothing but boxers covered in cartoon hot dogs. His wild blond hair sticks straight up, as if he’s been through a wind tunnel.
“Hey, you.” He treats me to a flirtatious smile, chest puffed out. He’s boyishly cute, if I were a decade younger and still drinking Bud Light from a funnel.
Mel rolls her eyes, giving him a dead-eyed stare. “Julian, grow up.”
“Relax, Mel. I’m just being friendly.” He shoots her a defiant look and begins to rifle around in the fridge, but not before winking at me. He slightly resembles a photo I’ve seen online of Mel’s late adoptive father, with his baby-blue eyes and narrow face.
Mel casts him an indignant look over her shoulder. “This is my charm-void of a brother, Julian. Julian, this is my trainer and good friend, Crystal.” She pauses and leans in. “I wouldn’t live with a college student by choice. Trust. But my mom is making him stay with me while he tries to figure his life out in the city.”
“Sounds familiar.” I chuckle, glancing at Julian, who is impatiently tapping his foot, waiting for the toaster to finish cooking his bagel.
“At least Tara’s twenty-nine.” Mel’s lips turn to a slight frown. “I wish I had a sister.”
“Sisters are great. But only sometimes. When they’re not stealing your shit.” Tara has never stolen my clothes, given our size difference. But she’s always swiping my makeup and hair products. I refocus my attention on my laptop, while internally mourning the expensive salon-quality shampoo she polished off as of yesterday.
I’m working on catching up on the comments on my recent Size Positive post. Despite the trolls and hateful fatphobic comments that I can barely read before I start to shake, I’m pleased so many people are loving it. It makes all the negative comments worth it.
“Which preset looks better?” Mel asks, shoving her phone two inches from my face.
I lean back, squinting. There are two side-by-side shots of her wearing an adorable polka-dot dress. It’s the same photo, but one is filtered slightly darker.
“First, that dress looks fire on you. But I like the lighter one.”
“Same. My boobs look bigger in that one too.” She double-checks the photo. “I think I might start using the pink preset. I noticed I’ve been getting more Likes on them.”
I’m about to offer to send her some of my favorite presets when I receive a notification.
Ritchie_Scotty7 is now following you.
My stomach somersaults.
Before I can even contemplate following him back, I receive a notification that he’s liked my most recent post, a video of my ab workout from the day he stole my phone.
Within a minute, I’ve received over twenty notifications. All from him. This is a surefire sign all is not lost. That he doesn’t completely hate me.
Ritchie_Scotty7 has liked your post.
Ritchie_Scotty7 has liked your post.
Ritchie_Scotty7 has liked your post.
Ritchie_Scotty7 has liked your post.
Ritchie_Scotty7 has liked your post.
• • •
I NEARLY REGRET showing up at the gym when Scott emerges from the changing room sporting a smug-ass grin, as if he already knew I would come. I had half a mind not to show at all, but after those notifications, which were like little teasing reminders of his sexy existence, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I kept glancing at the time, willing myself to resist putting on my cutest, most flattering gym ensemble, stay at home, and ask Tara to help me craft a written apology instead. Unfortunately, my willpower is zilch.
My face flushes the moment we lock eyes. He looks like he’s just stepped off the cover of a Men’s Fitness magazine. In an effort to refrain from gawking at his square-jawed beauty, I catch my orangutan hair in the mirror as I stretch my calves in the Gym Bro Zone. I have deep regrets about not using hairspray today.
“Well, well, well. Look who actually showed up,” he leers, his humongous bottle of water dangling from his index finger.
“You liked every one of my pictures,” I say, deflecting.
“Sorry, I blacked out. One minute, I was looking at your profile, checking out your ab video. And the next, I was liking your selfies from 2014.”
“You’re insane.” I secretly admire his honesty, while pretending I haven’t googled his high school athletic accomplishments.
“Are you going to follow me back?” he asks. “It would be a step toward forgiveness.”
I shrug. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But if I were to follow you back, it would be purely for your dog.”
He beams like a proud parent.
“Are you a Harry Potter fan?” I ask.
He stands over me. Even from an upward angle, the man is so hideously attractive, I’m convinced sorcery is at play. “Hell no. But it was already his name when I adopted him from the shelter. Didn’t have the heart to change it. Figured it would confuse the poor guy.”
My heart flutters involuntarily at the thought of him saving helpless dogs in shelters. I imagine them moments from being euthanized before he busts in and whisks them away to a sprawling farm . . . His expectant stare brings me out of my reverie. I give my head a literal shake, turning away from his mesmerizing gaze.
“So, are we just gonna stand here or are we working out?” I try to lower my voice to a serious tone. It fails miserably. I sound like a child trying to impersonate their stern father.
He snorts, pulling a small slip of paper out of his pocket, scribbled with what appears to be a workout routine. I’m pretty sure I see the word Revenge at the top of the page, ominously underlined multiple times. “Oh, we’re working out.”
He’s not bluffing.
He puts me through a killer CrossFit circuit involving a malicious number of rounds on the assault bike, burpees, barbell front squats, and box jumps. Again with the hostile acts of aggression, probably to tire me out so he can launch some sort of surprise attack. It doesn’t help that he’s racing me, ensuring he’s faster than me through every circuit. When I complete my burpees before he does, he looks certifiably devastated.
We’re quiet throughout in between panting and gasping for air. I blame my excessive sweating on the little smiles he’s giving me. Working out with someone who could pass as a movie star is more challenging than expected.
It’s strange to be instructed by him. I’m so used to being the one telling others what to do. Now I know how it feels to be bossed around while on the cusp of fainting, or hurling, I’m not sure which.
“I’m done with this. I think I’m gonna puke,” he pants, bent over, palms resting on his knees.
“Hey, this is all your own doing. Your sick little revenge fantasy.” I lean my elbow on the squat rack. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.”
“Things guys like to hear after a date.” He gives me a mischievous grin and quickly backtracks when he sees my jaw drop. He holds his hands in front of him. “I’m just kidding. Please don’t kill me.”
I reach out, giving him a lackluster punch in the chest. “You’re a pig. And this is not a date.”
He shrugs, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the fabric of his shirt.
We sit face-to-face on the floor. Legs stretched out in front of me, I press the bases of my shoes against his to deepen my stretch. His feet are nearly double the size of mine. Holy shit.
A series of images of a gigantic penis of the same length flash through my mind at warp speed. My throat instantly dries like the Sahara when I recall him hard against me during our changing room make-out, lending serious credence to this size association. I think I’m going to require intensive therapy to get these images out of my head. I try to swallow, but I end up coughing. “What size are your feet?”
A devious smile forms on his face. “Why do you want to know?”
I give him a dramatic eye roll as I cough again. “You’re the worst.”
“You walked right into that one.” He hands his water bottle to me. “I’m sorry, though. Really. I’ve developed a crude sense of humor after a decade of working in a firehouse.”
I gratefully take a sip, gaze wandering to the gym bros crowding the squat rack to cheer their buddy on. “So, have you forgiven me yet?”
He appraises me, tilting his head side to side, contemplating. “Nah, not yet. You got through those burpees too easily.”
I roll my eyes. “Would me begging for mercy and puking on your shoes be satisfactory?”
He doesn’t respond. He’s too busy looking out the window. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”