chapter nine
I’M NEVER EATING dairy again, I vow. Unfortunately, lactose intolerance was destined to befall me. Dad’s entire family suffers from it.
Making quick work of unfastening my bra from under my dress, I carelessly discard it on the living room floor before sprawling on the couch in a food coma. I’m about to fire up Bravo when my phone lights up on the coffee table. My throat constricts. I hope it isn’t Neil.
And it isn’t. It’s an Instagram direct message. From Ritchie_Scotty7.
Oh hell no.
I pick up my phone and open the message.
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
Hey Crystal. Your sister told me you were upset.
I stare at his message for a few moments before violently shaking my phone. He isn’t even the slightest bit unique. In fact, he’s a textbook cheater, desperately sliding into a girl’s DMs.
And how am I supposed to respond to that message? I decide to remedy the situation by avoiding the shit out of it. I’m not enabling his behavior further.
Tossing my phone aside, I reach for the remote and turn on a rerun of my beloved Real Housewives of Orange County. Halfway through, amid an all-out screaming match between Tamra and Vicki, my phone lights up again.
RITCHIE_SCOTTY7
I see you read my message. Are you planning to respond? I’ll even accept an emoji response.
I almost catch myself snorting at the message, because I can picture his punchable face and hear his deep voice as I read the DM. I spend the entire rest of the episode shamefully stalking his Instagram. He doesn’t have tons of photos, but I analyze each one forensically.
In his profile photo, he’s wearing aviators against a sunny, azure sky. He’s holding a huge, leggy goldendoodle in his lap. The doodle is literally smiling. With teeth. Apparently, I was wrong in my Instagram rant. He does like puppies. In fact, he’s seemingly obsessed with his dog, because his Instagram bio reads Dog dad to Albus Doodledore.
Against my better judgment, I continue to hate-scroll. There is no sign of Diana, the figure skater girlfriend Martin and his mom were talking about. Instead, there’s a plethora of nature pictures, some solo photos of Albus Doodledore on hiking trails, and a couple shots of fire trucks and other guys in firefighter gear.
There aren’t even any shirtless gym-bro selfies. In fact, there’s only one shirtless photo, of him with another friend on the edge of a dock on a lake. I zoom in with surgical precision, so as to ensure I do not accidentally Like the photo. His abs are unmistakable. And this photo is from 2016. Damn. He’s lived years of his life this beautiful. It’s almost unjust.
There is no photographic proof of his womanizing ways, even after checking his tagged photos. No club pictures with big-breasted models, or bikini-clad women on yachts. Sure, his friends are all fit and attractive. But I’m not about to judge someone for having attractive friends, so I abandon the task, tossing my phone aside.
Only minutes later, it lights up yet again. But this time, it’s a text from Tara.
TARA: Hey, hope you’re feeling better. Just wanted to let you know I’m staying late to help Mom clear all the flowers from the restaurant, etc. PS. The waiter is sticking around and I have it on good authority from the hostess that he’s working up the courage to ask me out. Going to have to let him down easy. Wish me luck.
CRYSTAL: Good luck! And I feel bad I’m not there to help. Tell Grandma I’m sorry for leaving.
TARA: No worries! There’s not much to do. And I think you should talk to Scott. FYI. He wants to apologize.
I roll my eyes. Apologize for being caught? Beg me not to tell anyone? No, thanks.
CRYSTAL: Tara, I don’t want an apology from him. I don’t care.
I toss my phone back on the table. The mere fact that he wants to be righteous and “apologize” pisses me off even more.
I scroll through my texts, revisiting my random text from Neil. I still haven’t responded.
Crystal, do not give in, I tell myself over and over, eyes fixed on the exposed ceiling.
To distract myself from the temptation of responding to either man, despite my growing curiosity, I throw on some gym clothes and head to Excalibur Fitness—the one and only place I can find any peace. My cramps have subsided in my rage, and I’m desperate to throw around some weights.
• • •
EXCALIBUR FITNESS IS vacant of all human life, except for me. Then again, it’s midnight. Most people in their right minds aren’t pumping iron in the middle of the night.
The sound system isn’t even on, extending the tranquility. It reminds me of when I used to work at Pottery Barn in the mall as a teenager, coming in to open the store in the early hours of the morning and closing late at night. The stillness of a place that is normally bustling with people is off-putting to some, but it’s the ultimate serenity for me.
Pre-workout, I snap a photo of my running shoes and dumbbells for my Instagram story, captioning it, “Late-night session. Blowing off some steam!”
Catching my breath, I massage the slight blister forming on my calloused palms after two sets. I close my eyes, concentrating on the air passing in and out of my lungs, when the gym door whooshes open.
Scott pushes through the turnstiles.
He’s still in his perfectly tailored sport coat from dinner, while I’m wearing a hideous neon workout top that highlights all my worst angles. I desperately need to do laundry.
By the pink flush of his cheeks and the rate at which his chest rises and falls, I’d wager a guess he just ran from the restaurant. “Can we talk for a minute?”
I set the barbell down with a grunt. “I think the better question is, how did you know I was at the gym?”
My menacing, probably downright unnerving expression stops him in his tracks. He takes a small step backward, maintaining a couple feet between us. “Your Instagram story.”
“Are you stalking me on Instagram now?” Dad would surely freak out if he found out his fears have come true, that someone actually did stalk me.
“Well, it sounds creepy when you say it like that.”
“Why did you follow me here?”
He lets out a long sigh, taking a step toward me. “I’m really sorry—”
“Scott, save it. I have no desire to be some secret sidepiece when you’re not getting it from your girlfriend.”
“Crystal.” His face is pained. “This is a massive misunderstanding.”
“How? Your tongue just accidentally fell into my mouth when you have a girlfriend?” I’m on fire now, blood boiling, itching to roast him within an inch of his life.
He snaps his head back, bringing his hands to his temples. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I never would have kissed you if I did.”
“Then why do your grandpa and your mom think you do? Diana the figure skater? You don’t need to lie. I’m not going to out you. I have better things to do with my time.”
He takes another step forward, closing the gap between us. “I had a girlfriend. We broke up two weeks ago. Not long before I met you, actually. I hadn’t told my family before tonight.”
It’s a good thing I’m not holding the barbell, because I absolutely would have dropped it on my toes. This is just too convenient. I shake my head in denial. “Scott, you don’t have to make up some elaborate lie. Good night.” I stubbornly turn to begin my next set of ten.
“I’m not lying.” Scott rounds the rack, standing to the side, waiting silently. “Crystal,” he says firmly as I hit my last rep.
“What? Just go away,” I plead, setting the barbell back on the rack with a lazy thud, still unable to fathom why he didn’t vanish into thin air the moment I let him off the hook.
“Is that really what you want?”
I meet his eyes for a long moment, trying to determine whether he’s being genuine or not. I want to believe him. I want to treasure our kiss. I want to tell him, No. Stay, but I stop myself.
Whether he’s being truthful or not, it doesn’t change anything. He literally just broke up with his girlfriend. It takes me twice as long to mourn the end of a juicy season of Game of Thrones, let alone a human being I was romantically involved with. And it doesn’t help that Diana is a literal Disney princess on ice. Judging from a quick social media stalk, she fully embodies the character of Belle from Beauty and the Beast. Aside from her tiny figure skater frame, she has Belle’s soulful doll eyes, porcelain skin, and perfectly symmetrical heart-shaped face. What guy wouldn’t rush back to a girl who looks like that if given the chance?
I don’t want to be some fill-in, giving him a momentary reprieve from how heartbroken he actually is but isn’t aware of yet. I’ve only just emerged from Rebound Land with Neil—and I won’t be returning.
“Yes, just go,” I say, squinting in a sad attempt to blur him out of existence.
He sighs, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay. Fine. But I wasn’t lying. I don’t have a girlfriend. I wouldn’t do something like that.”
My expression remains unchanged. After a few beats of thick silence, he bows his head in defeat and walks out of the gym.
10:47 A.M.—INSTAGRAM POST: “SIZE POSITIVE CAMPAIGN—KNOWING YOUR WORTH” BY CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL:
Okay, buckle in. This post is about to get serious.
Would you ever tell a friend: “You’re disgusting,” “You’re ugly,” “You’re not smart enough,” “You’re not good enough for him”? My guess is NO. Unless you’re a really shit friend, or a sociopath. If you’d never say these things to a friend, then why would you say them to yourself?
Your self-worth isn’t just about your weight, or your fitness level. It’s also about the health of your mind, soul, and heart. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over my fitness journey, it’s that negative attracts negative. Get that toxicity out of your life. And yes, that includes people. If you’re toxic to yourself, you will attract toxic individuals into your life. Don’t allow people to put you into positions that make you feel less than. Take control of your own life and don’t be afraid to put people in their place when necessary.
So, do me a favor and write down a list of all the things you like about yourself. Your bomb hair. Your amazing legs. Your sense of humor. Anything. Stare at that list and memorize the shit out of it like it’s your elementary school speech. Reread it every day.
If you have one of those days where you like what you see in the mirror, or you’ve had a kick-ass workout, or you’re happy with the way you’ve handled something, write it down and keep it for whenever you have a negative thought. We tend to remember the bad over the good.
Love,
Crystal
Comment by Train.wreckk.girl: I needed to hear this today. Thank you.
Comment by Melanie_inthecity: Yes!! Don’t give people the power to dim your sparkle.
• • •
“WHAT HAPPENED WHEN you went back into Mamma Maria’s?” I ask Tara, finally emerging from my room after uncharacteristically sleeping in.
She’s lying upside down on the couch, reading her latest paperback, a historical romance, from the look of the cover. She makes me wait a couple beats before looking up from her book, eyes widening at the sight of my hair. I closely resemble a mangled killer doll in need of a good exorcism and I don’t want to talk about it.
“Mom, Dad, and Grandma were worried, wondering what happened. I told them you were upset because Scott was a dick,” she explains.
“Okay . . .” I gesture for her to continue as I perch on the edge of the couch.
“I think Scott overheard, because he awkwardly came up to me after. I was telling him about my New York Public Library disaster and his eyes glazed over one minute in—and you know that’s a damn good story,” she adds defensively. “I thought he was just an awko-taco, eyes darting around, looking all sad. Turns out, he was concerned about you. He wanted to know why you left. I figured you should be the one to explain it to him, so I just said Ask her yourself and left it at that. Then Nathan, the waiter, discreetly left his number on a napkin on my plate. I took it. I figure if I’m still single in ten years, I’ll text him.”
“You won’t be single in ten years,” I reassure her, collapsing back into the couch, momentarily glancing at the random Instagram notifications popping up on my most recent post promoting my Size Positive campaign. “Scott showed up at the gym, by the way.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“He claimed he didn’t have a girlfriend,” I say through a snort. “Said they’d broken up. Conveniently before I met him when he stole my squat rack.”
“Why would he say that if it wasn’t true?” She stares at me, blinking.
“Because that’s just what these guys do. They spin lie after lie. Aside from getting their dicks wet, all they care about is image.”
“What if he’s telling the truth? What if he’s actually super into you?”
“It wouldn’t matter. He’s been a total douchebag to me at the gym. Even when he kissed me, it wasn’t some romantic kiss. It was an I want to screw you against a locker type kiss.” The latter half of my statement isn’t true. But I refuse to remember how tenderly he looked at me. How gentle he was when he touched me.
She gives me a look of derision as she sets her book facedown on the coffee table. “I don’t buy it. He went looking for you at the gym. That’s pretty extreme. He isn’t Neil, you know.”
“Maybe he’s just trying to clear his conscience,” I continue, conveniently ignoring her. “He feels guilty for being a cheater. He’s probably trying to cover his own ass. I doubt he wants his family to know he’s a secret man-whore. And now that our families are related, he’s probably doing damage control.”
“He wouldn’t do that if he was just trying to clear his conscience. I’d assume cheaters don’t have a conscience.”
I shake my head, doubtful. “People will go to great lengths to save face so they don’t have to feel awkward. And even if he isn’t lying, I’m not getting involved in post-breakup drama, especially with a dude who’s now joining the family.”
In addition to my declaration of no more hookups, I make a new vow to myself. I will never be anyone’s rebound. Ever again.