chapter fourteen
I BLINK. “WHY? AND where?”
“Dunno.” Scott shrugs and stands. “But it’s a beautiful day out there and I don’t think we should waste it inside. I say we go for ice cream. On you, of course. Since you’re still groveling for my forgiveness and all.”
“Don’t you CrossFitters exclusively eat paleo?” I’m in shock, while trying to maintain the illusion that I’m a serene being. If buying Scott ice cream can earn his complete and total forgiveness, I’ll buy him all the flavors on the menu.
“Not me.” He shakes his head, giving me a curious once-over. “Do you not eat ice cream?”
“I’m lactose intolerant.”
He clutches his chest, as if I’ve told him I only have a month to live. “Wow. What did you do to deserve that?”
“I don’t know. But it seriously sucks.”
“Good thing I know a good place with sorbet. It’s down the street.”
I cast one last hesitant gaze to the door so as not to appear too eager.
Turns out, the quaint ice cream shop down the street is one of those places with a million flavors and toppings, as well as those artisanal chocolates. After agonizing over my decision for far too long, I settle on a tropical swirl sorbet, and Scott orders the same.
“Is this together or separate?” the monotone teenager wearing a T-shirt that reads Dab King drones from behind the counter.
“Together.” It feels weird saying it. It crosses my mind that the teenager probably thinks we’re a couple. I relish that thought for a few seconds too long before reality hits me in the face again. I’m not thinking about him in this way. We’re purely platonic gym nemeses turned acquaintances. Obviously.
“You know you could have ordered an actual ice cream, right?” I say as the teenager passes our sorbet dishes over the counter.
“I feel bad eating it in front of you. Wouldn’t want you to get secondhand cramps, or whatever happens to your stomach.” He tosses me a wink as I decline to take the receipt. Only he can make an indigestion joke remotely charming.
“That’s true. You don’t want to see me cranky.”
“Is that not your natural state?” he deadpans.
I bump him with my shoulder on the way out of the shop. I walk ahead a few paces, forcing my mouth into a neutral position. I’m smiling like a child at Disneyland and I refuse to let him see it. I’m enjoying non-hate-filled banter with him far more than he needs to know.
We make our way to the waterfront. The sun casts a glittery layer on the surface of the water. There’s a sunset cruise boat docked ahead, just waiting to be boarded by tourists.
“Isn’t Albus lonely during the day when you’re at work and at the gym?” I ask, scooting over as a man walking a tiny terrier in pink boots scurries past us on the sidewalk. I wonder if Scott has boots for Albus Doodledore.
“Nah. My roommate, Trevor, and I work opposite shifts a lot. He’s at the same station as me, so he’s typically at the apartment when I’m not. He takes him for walks and stuff.”
“Sounds like a good friend.”
“When he’s not busting my balls over the Blackhawks, he’s a decent guy.”
I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of him licking sorbet off his spoon. “I don’t know if this acquaintanceship is going to work out. I just don’t trust Blackhawks fans.”
He points his spoon at me. “Hey, who says we’re acquaintances again? How do you know I’ve forgiven you?”
My stomach clenches. “Have you not forgiven me?”
“I have. I don’t really hold grudges.” He treats me to a comforting smile.
I snort.
“What? Do you hold a mean grudge?”
“No.”
He eyes me leerily. “I have a feeling you hold on to things.”
“Nah. But my sister does. She found out a couple weeks ago her asshole ex was still using her Netflix. So instead of changing her password like a normal person, she messed with his account algorithm by watching the first three minutes of over twenty rom-coms. Then, she waited for him to be on the second-to-last episode of Stranger Things before switching his account’s maturity settings to G-rated.”
He tosses his head back in hearty laughter. “That is pure gold.”
“Oh yeah. He was pissed. That’s what I’d call a serious grudge.” I pause, smiling at the memory. “Are you a Stranger Things fan?”
“Nope. I don’t really watch movies or TV at all, actually.”
I stop dead, slow-blinking. “At all?”
“Not really. I watch TV sometimes. Preferably twenty-minute shows.”
“But why not longer shows? Or movies? What do you have against them?”
He gives me a shy smile. “I fall asleep. Every time.”
As we resume walking, I picture him cuddled up on a couch watching a movie. His chest looks very inviting . . . “Maybe you just haven’t watched a good movie,” I say, snapping out of it.
“Nah. I just get comfortable and end up dozing off if I’m not moving. A girl once broke up with me because I fell asleep at the movie theater on a date.”
I let the sorbet melt on my tongue, savoring the taste almost as much as I’m savoring the sight of his adorable smile. “I can see why she had absolutely no choice but to dump you.”
“Hey, I took her to see some chick flick. Why should it matter whether I watched it or not? As long as she liked it.”
“It’s part of the moviegoing experience, Scotty. Otherwise, she might as well have gone to the movies alone and not had to share her snacks with you.”
“Maybe you’ll just have to force me to watch one,” he says with a sparkling grin.
I squint at him. “Do acquaintances watch movies together?”
“I don’t see why not.”
I throw my empty sorbet dish into a nearby trash can. Of course, he has to try to shoot his into the trash like he’s LeBron James.
“So you do the fitness and personal training thing full time?” he asks as we continue walking.
“Yup. I’ve been doing it since college.”
“It’s crazy how many followers you have. I’m really impressed.”
“Thanks.” I don’t love talking about my Instagram success, because I feel like a fraud. When people ask how I gained my following and how they can make money from Instagram as well, I never know how to properly respond. I don’t know what prompted my following, aside from a dash of luck, research, and hard work. It sounds lame to say “Just be yourself,” but it’s truly what worked for me.
“What made you want to start your account?” he asks.
“I was into sports growing up. Then I got really into the gym in college as a way to de-stress. Obviously, the gym life isn’t for everyone, but it was really therapeutic for me. When I realized how toxic the fitness industry can be, especially online, I wanted to set a positive example for other women.” I pause for a moment as we dodge a group of cyclists breezing by us. “Like . . . for me, my body type will never be skinny, so losing weight was never the goal. I just love lifting and pushing myself. And I wanted to help other women like me who don’t always feel so confident, or who don’t know where to start with the gym. Getting paid to promote brands I love isn’t too shabby either.”
I watch him, fully expecting him to launch into a well-meaning rant about how I’m not “big,” or worse, offer unsolicited advice on weight loss, like so many others I’ve had the pleasure of interacting with.
But he doesn’t. So I continue. “Society tells us women aren’t fit unless we’re a size two with washboard abs.”
He arches a brow. “They obviously haven’t seen you kill it in the gym. You’re an animal.”
I blush. “Thanks. I mean . . . I just think being healthy isn’t just about your size or your weight, but your mindset and your mental health too.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I completely agree.”
“Says Mr. Abs of Steel.”
Scott playfully bumps my shoulder with his. “I wasn’t always into the gym.”
“Oh, come on. You’ve had abs since at least July of 2016.” Upon realization of my inadvertent admission, I sneak a sideways glance at him.
His lips twist into a funny smile. “That’s very specific. How do you know that?”
My cheeks burn. I’m mortified, until I remember he liked all my photos since 2014. “Your Instagram,” I admit with faux confidence.
“So you did creep on me.”
I shrug. “I had to make sure you weren’t a serial murderer. I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of picky about new acquaintances.”
“I am honored to have made the cut.” He pauses, his face growing serious. “Actually, though, I used to be super lanky and awkward as a kid. I wasn’t even into sports or anything until I got to high school.”
“Really?” I ask, unable to picture him without muscles.
“Yeah. We kind of struggled for a few years back when we lived in Illinois. Cheap fast food and no money for organized sports. Kids were assholes.”
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to conjure the image of Scott as an outcast. I think back to my prepubescent self in middle school. There was a year my friends decided I wasn’t “cool enough” anymore. I’d stand alone at recess, circling the perimeter of the fence, head down, too shy to approach other kids. “Never would have guessed school was hard for you.”
His eyes gloss over slightly and he grits his teeth, as if he was going to elaborate but thought better of it. “Anyway, by the time I got to high school, we were doing better financially. My dad got a really good job here in Boston, and my mom was happy since it was close to both grandparents. So we moved and I got to start over here. Filled out with puberty, I guess. Then joined sports.”
“And then you suddenly became hot overnight?”
He smiles, keeping his eyes ahead. “Nah. I was still socially awkward as hell in high school. Could barely talk to girls, let alone have a girlfriend.”
I can’t help but absorb his earnest smile like a sponge. On the surface, Scott has all the confidence in the world. But in reality, it’s an illusion. He’s just like the rest of us mere mortals, stressing over stupid things we’ve accidentally said out loud. It makes me feel even worse about prejudging him. It isn’t his fault he’s a gorgeous specimen.
“I don’t find you awkward at all. The opposite, really. Unless I’m just equally awkward.”
“I didn’t say I’m still awkward,” he says, flashing his bewitching smile.
“Always so cocky.”
“Well, now that you know my darkest secrets, what do you do other than go to the gym?”
“Not a whole lot, to be honest.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to take back that statement completely. Do I really want to tell him I’m practically a recluse? It’s always been drilled into my head that being a wallflower is somehow lesser. That being outgoing like Dad is more desirable. But after Scott’s raw honesty, it feels wrong to be anything but truthful.
“You’re a homebody?”
“Oh yeah. I have Lululemon leggings specifically designated for home and for going out.”
“That is . . . a very expensive habit,” he teases.
“What can I say, I’m an introvert.”
He eyes me with curiosity. “So just how introverted are you?”
“I’ll put it this way: If I have plans for more than two consecutive nights, I’ll probably stress about it all week. Oh, and if someone cancels plans, it feels like I won the lottery.”
He smiles. “Now I know how to get you to like me. I’ll just make plans with you and then cancel them.” Strangely, the idea of Scott canceling plans on me doesn’t sound nearly as appealing as I wish it did.
Talking to Scott is easy. More than easy. I feel light and joyful. We have a similar sarcastic, dirty-minded sense of humor. I don’t feel the necessity to pre-plan what I’m going to say next. It just flows out. And if it’s awkward, he doesn’t seem to notice, or at least, he doesn’t make it obvious.
By the time we loop around the pier, I’ve already made a list of ultra-long movies he needs to watch, in their entirety, obviously. Scott seems happy to accept the challenge. He is also keen to ask me random questions, like who my favorite singer is (Lizzo), or where I want to go on vacation (New Zealand). I’ve also learned more about him.
His favorite color is blue. He doesn’t like cats, or pineapples on pizza. He had a pet turtle named Bob as a child. He also has two older sisters (one in the UK and the other in Arizona), who he claims tortured him growing up (he has a scar on his left knee to prove it). Since his dad passed away, he’s the only guy among his mom and his sisters.
By the time he gets around to telling me about his unhealthy obsession with Bill Nye the Science Guy, we finally reach the Excalibur Fitness parking lot.
He lets out a long sigh. “Wish I could keep telling you embarrassing facts about my life, but I should get back to Albus. I’d ask you to come back and hang out, but it’s probably too soon for him to meet you.”
“Are you always this picky about Albus meeting your acquaintances?”
“Of course. I can’t just bring random people into his life. He’s still impressionable at his age.”
“By the way, this wasn’t a date in any way, shape, or form,” I remind him. “It’s simply an apology sorbet outing between two former strangers, turned nemeses, turned acquaintances whose grandparents are getting married. A truce.”
“Are you confirming we’re not mortal enemies anymore?”
I nod.
He gives me a satisfied grin and pulls me into a casual yet warm hug.
7:35 A.M.—INSTAGRAM POST: “SIZE POSITIVE CAMPAIGN—FOR THOSE ON THE FENCE ABOUT FITNESS” BY CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL:
I haven’t always been a boss bitch in the gym. Truth. Just ask my 15-year-old self. I’d just gotten dumped by my very first boyfriend—some gangly kid named Bobby with a 2.0 GPA who was best known for eating an entire brick of marble cheese on a dare. I was quite literally sobbing on the treadmill over him after school and actually slipped on my own tears and flew off the back (skinned my chin and both knees). I think I was unconscious for a couple seconds, because I woke up to the most popular guy in school (think Peter Kavinsky on steroids) holding my hand and rubbing my back. LOL.
Then there was also the first time I attempted a pull-up without testing my grip strength. I fell ass-first onto the hard floor. And then that time I attempted a push-up after doing a chest superset. I full-out face-planted.
Why am I sharing my embarrassing gym stories? It’s for everyone who is nervous about getting into fitness. It literally can’t get worse than the above stories. Seriously. And even if you do embarrass the crap out of yourself, just remember, every gym regular has a story, no matter how pro and “fit” they may seem. They’ve all been there. Trust.
If you’re on the fence about incorporating fitness into your life (whether at the gym or at home), or simply getting back on the fitness train after taking a break, just try it out again. I’m not saying everyone needs to exercise to be happy. I’m not saying you need to get in the gym and lift weights. Fitness has brought me and many others a lot of joy. But it’s not for everyone, and that’s okay. I’m simply advocating for you to make the time to do something for you. Even just go for a walk around the block and clear your mind. Or curl up with a comfort book. I guarantee you won’t regret it!
Remember: The worst part about working out is putting on your sports bra.
Comment by _averyking: It can be frustrating getting back into fitness, but it’s so worth it.
Comment by greenjay4: not surprised your teenage boyfriend dumped you.
Comment by KathyHilliker: LOL these stories killed me. Thanks for putting a smile on my face!!