chapter twenty-six
2:31 P.M.—INSTAGRAM POST: “SIZE POSITIVE CAMPAIGN—DEALING WITH THE HATERS” BY CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL:
You guys! The response to Size Positive has been insane!! I’m SO glad this campaign has resonated with so many of you who are finding joy in ditching the scales and becoming more and more in tune with your bodies. QUEENS.
Unfortunately, people are still dicks. There has been an increase in assholes in the comments, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Here are a couple tips on how to deal with the haters:
1) Ignore them—It’s easier said than done. Sometimes I respond when I really feel it’s necessary to set someone straight. But remember they’re just thirsting for attention. It’s best not to give them the satisfaction.
2) They have no bearing on your life—If you surround yourself with good people and a good support system, the comment of some idiot doesn’t matter in the long run.
3) They are the miserable ones—Darkness is attracted to light. People who are sad and toxic can’t handle when other people are happy and successful. Don’t let them drag you down.
Comment by MarleyYogaInstructor: You’re so right. Darkness is attracted to light like moths to flames. People will do anything to drag others down into their own unhappiness. They’re jealous.
Comment by Stannerjr: hahahahh ur pathetic.
• • •
THERE IS NO adequate word to describe the past few weeks with Scott. Fantastic, amazing, blissful, wonderful, remarkable. None of them properly encapsulate the kaleidoscope of feelings that reach in and take hold of my entire being when I’m with him.
The feeling is similar to that giddy, post-workout high, except it doesn’t dull the moment the running shoes come off and you resume normal life as a reclusive couch potato. The magic lingers, like simmering liquid.
It’s the evening before Grandma Flo and Martin’s wedding, the day we were supposed to wait for. And I’m so glad we didn’t. Since we found out Martin is cancer-free, Scott stays over every night he isn’t on night shift. Albus happily third-wheels. He enjoys running at full tilt on the carpet in my apartment. Apparently, he can’t run without slipping on the parquet floors at Scott’s place.
Scott also brings me boxes of clementines on the condition I peel them for him. He’s made a special Lizzo Spotify playlist for when I’m in his car. Most mornings, he brings me coffee from the little cafe around the corner from my apartment in return for healthy, meal-prepped lunches.
But despite practically worshipping Scott’s entire kindhearted and genetically gifted being, I’m still petty and competitive as hell. And so is he.
We’re doing a warm-up cardio circuit consisting of a minute and a half of exhausting high-knees. Like the egotistical alpha male he is, he doesn’t bother to hide that he’s trying to outdo me. Typical. We lock eyes in a challenge, both exerting well past the point of a relaxed warm-up.
Unfortunately for me, gravity is not on my side, despite my ultra-supportive sports bra. Unless I want my boobs to slap me in the chin, I can’t continue at this speed. “This is so unfair. My boobs are out of control. I’m gonna throw out my back,” I pant, coming to a full stop.
He leans against a nearby cable machine with a faux innocent expression. “Babe, this isn’t a competition.”
I level him with a knowing stare. “It is. You always make it one.”
“You do realize you’re the competitive one. I’m just here, going at a leisurely pace. Just enjoying the view.”
“What view?”
He shrugs, green eyes falling to my chest.
My mouth falls open. That bastard.
His grin is Disney villain–worthy. “The faster I went, the faster you’d go, and the higher they’d bounce . . .”
I pretend to punch him in the chest, flustered. “You’re diabolical.”
He grabs my wrist and pulls me flush to him, the heat of our bodies melding together. He gives me a chaste peck on the nose as he presses harder against me, sending a shiver to my lower belly. “I’d prefer genius.”
I bring my lips over his, letting my tongue explore him at a languid pace that is definitely not appropriate for a public gym. He lets out a heavy sigh as I pull away abruptly, just to torture him. “I need to film my workout. If you’ll excuse me.” I flash an evil wink over my shoulder before sauntering off.
When I begin to film my dumbbell arm tutorial, he keeps his distance, knowing not to interrupt me mid-filming for fear of my mighty wrath. Instead, he sends me a text.
SCOTT: Do you believe in love at first set? Or should I do another ten reps?
CRYSTAL: Wow.
SCOTT: New rule: you can’t wear those leggings in front of me anymore.
He’s now watching me from the other side of the gym as he hoists himself upward, dangling effortlessly from the pull-up bar. He proceeds to show off his superhuman strength, doing some fancy ab workout involving twisting his legs up in the air every which way in a controlled manner.
CRYSTAL: No can do. Not after you tricked me into giving you a show.
SCOTT: Sorry. No regrets.
CRYSTAL: And I’ve asked you nicely not to flex your muscles in front of me either, but you don’t listen. So the leggings are staying.
SCOTT: Tease.
CRYSTAL:
By the time I’m finally satisfied with each segment of the video, there’s a new text from Scott from a few minutes ago.
SCOTT: Need your help in the changing room.
I take stock of my surroundings. In the entire gym, there is only a woman on the elliptical watching something on her iPad, and a young couple taking turns on the window squat rack.
Excalibur Fitness gender-assigned changing rooms be damned.
I hold my breath as I creep into the men’s changing room, smiling to myself at the memory of the last time I was in here, under very different circumstances.
As I slink around the lockers, I spot Scott man-splaying on the bench. He’s shirtless, ripped abs prominent and glistening with a coat of dewy sweat. It’s a critical public safety hazard. No wonder shirts are required by the gym’s dress code.
He gives me an incendiary look, standing abruptly to pull me to the back of the changing room, near the showers. I’m about to ask what he’s doing, but he covers my mouth. He nods to the right, signaling there’s someone in one of the private changing room stalls.
When the stall door opens, Scott swiftly pushes me into the shower, pulling the curtain to conceal us. We’re still, barely breathing as we listen to the man’s gruff voice. It sounds like he’s on the phone. “Whatever it takes, Janice. I don’t care what it costs. Don’t forget I bought you a Beamer for your birthday,” he grumbles.
We shake in silent laughter. The man’s conversation fades as he moves toward the lockers in the front.
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
Scott responds by closing his lips over mine, greedily taking all my air. He pulls back and playfully tugs my ponytail. “What I wanted to do the day you followed me in here and accosted me,” he whispers before his lips blaze a hot trail down to my neck.
The thrill of being in here and the possibility of getting caught are a serious turn-on. I turn to liquid instantly, my entire body vibrating with anticipation, desperately craving what he has to offer.
His kisses are eager as our tongues collide. He bites my bottom lip, holding it for a second too long before I moan into the salty taste of his mouth. Usually, his kisses start off slow. In fact, Scott usually starts everything slow. The aching buildup is his specialty. But this is different. This is pure need.
He hooks his fingers under the fabric of my tank top, practically tearing it over my head. We make quick work ridding ourselves of the rest of our gym clothes and shoes. As soon as we do, he runs the shower to muffle the sounds we can’t contain.
His fingers move over every inch of my body, lathering me with soap, dipping between my legs, massaging me in a maddening circular motion. My head falls back against the cold tile when his fingers begin to loop exactly where I’m aching for him. When he mouths You’re beautiful, the pleasure triples, because I know he means it.
I grab his face with both hands and press my lips to his, showing him how much I care about him in the only way I can. I can’t physically utter a word right now. Everything comes out in small, undiscernible moans.
He presses his free finger to my mouth, telling me silently to be quiet as the steam billows around us. I nod, but my promise is broken the moment his hand presses harder against my core.
“Fuck,” he whispers in my ear as his fingers smooth in and out of me, torturously slow.
In return, my hands dance around the hard, impressive ridges of his back, his stomach, and down, stroking his length. I revel in the sight of him, eyes stormy and wild with pure need, abs clenched and shaking in desperation.
When he can’t take my hand anymore, he brings his lips to my neck, pressing kisses all the way down my body, until his face is right where I want it. He smooths his tongue, rolling it over me in a perfect circular motion. Then he brings my leg up, deepening the angle.
I clasp his hair, still trying to muffle myself, to stop from crying out his name. It happens fast. I feel it coming, crashing, tunneling everything around me until all I see is him.
When it’s over, Scott comes back up, kissing me again before he presses himself to me. “You’re gonna have to be quiet this time. Promise?” he whispers, moving his thumb over my lips.
I nod dutifully as he drives inside of me so unexpectedly hard it’s impossible for me not to scream. He shudders, letting out a guttural groan of his own as he pins my wrists against the tiles above my head. He pulls my leg around his waist to hit me deeper, burying himself inside me.
Purposeful force and passion join us together, over and over, to the point where I can’t even remember how it feels to be without him. He’s so much better than any hope, dream, or fantasy I could conjure in my head. And he’s real.
He’s whispering how beautiful I am. How much he desires me every minute of the day. He’s here with me, cementing all the endless reasons he’s stolen my whole heart.
The sprinkle of the water ricochets off the tiles as we chase our release together.
• • •
FULLY SATIATED AND no longer requiring an early-morning leg workout tomorrow, I lie in bed scrolling through the photos Mel took of Scott and me on a beach outing last week. Mel has been asking me for weeks when I’ll give my followers a glimpse into my relationship with Scott. From a business perspective, she’s of the opinion that filling my grid with couples’ workouts will expand my audience. She isn’t wrong. For some reason, people love the catalog shots of perfect couples in matching cable-knit sweaters posing in pumpkin patches, cutting down perfect Douglas fir Christmas trees, or gazing into each other’s eyes in front of a crackling fire.
Business aside, I’ve always been an open book with my followers on a personal level. I genuinely consider many of them to be friends. Keeping them out of the loop of my relationship feels strange, as though I’m somehow being dishonest with them about a huge part of my life.
I’ve been hesitant to reveal Scott mostly because he isn’t interested in Instagram fame in the slightest. Despite being supportive of my business and eagerly helping me with my content, he rarely even uses his own account.
While Scott and I are certainly not that perfect couple in matching pajamas, the beach photos of us are seriously adorable. We’re laughing hysterically because he’d just pulled my bathing suit out of my crack, preventing it from riding up too far (one-piece swimsuit problems).
I’m struck with overwhelming happiness as I scroll through. Maybe Mel has a point. Why not share my joy with the people who’ve faithfully followed my journey for years? Besides, Scott is a stone-cold fox, a walking thirst trap, and that’s putting it lightly. The world deserves some eye candy.
I zero in on my favorite shot of us side by side, his arm firmly around my waist, rippled six-pack shadowed at all the right angles. We’re smiling at each other, completely lost in the moment.
Before we go to sleep, I finally debut Scott to my followers.