When I returned to the gym later that evening, and saw Brad/Mitch again, he was even more excruciatingly gorgeously sexy than the day before. He was wearing an ultra tight black tank top and grey fleece pants that were deceptively plain and simple, because they hung from his hips and hugged his ass and crotch in a way that complicated everything. How could anyone look so delicious in sweatpants? How could I be expected to not try to make out with him?
I saw a skinny blonde go up to ask him something. Judging by her body language, the question was: “Hey, do you think I need to do more squats, or is my ass perfect the way it is? Go ahead and touch it. Touch it. With both hands.” He did a very admirable job of keeping a professional distance from her and not ogling her at all, and I did a very good job of not going over there and dragging her to the street by her stupid blonde ponytail.
When he looked up and saw me, he nodded at me. He tapped his watch and told the blonde that he had to go, and he came over to greet me. “You came back.”
“You didn’t expect me to?”
“I know better than to expect anything from you, Vivian.”
Back to that again. “And what do you expect from Blonde Ponytail Buttgirl?”
He screwed up his face. “What?” He saw the blonde walk by, and went expressionless. “Oh. Don’t talk about my gym members like that.”
“Fine.”
I told him I was stiff and sore and asked if we could go easy today. He said ‘no’ and reprimanded me for not stretching and not drinking enough water. He led me through some stretches, then sent me off to warm up on the treadmill. Then we did reps with free weights. When I started slowing down, he told me to use my anger towards my ex to motivate me. I told him I’d rather not “go negative.” I said I wanted to focus on how great I’ll feel once I’ve reached my goal.
The expression on his face told me that he was impressed, but the tone of his voice told me that he was a total asshole.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
When I was cooling down and stretching, in the back room, after I’d reached across my legs and touched my toes, he got down on the floor between my outstretched legs, told me to lay back, moved my right leg out straight in front of me, bent my left leg and pressed down on my left knee and right thigh.
I let out a gasp.
“We’ll do some assisted stretching exercises today. So you aren’t as stiff tomorrow.”
I swallowed, but my mouth was as dry as my undies weren’t.
“Is this okay?” he asked.
“Yes.” My mind raced, trying to think of something to say other than “it’s more than okay please don’t ever stop.”
“Breathe, Vivian.”
I made a noise, something like “NUH” as I exhaled, and closed my eyes so I didn’t feel compelled to reach out and run my fingers through his sexy hair and pull him further towards me.
He counted to thirty under his breath, then shifted my bent leg to an angle and gently pressed against it.
“How could you afford to start your own gym at such a young age?”
He looked annoyed that I had interrupted his counting and answered as if by rote. “My grandmother died and left me quite a bit of money, and the rest was funded by a small business loan from a banker who was one of my first clients when I was a personal trainer at another gym.”
“I’m sorry about your grandma. I know she meant a lot to you.”
“Thanks.”
And that was it for our conversation.
After ten minutes of the most satisfying stretches I had ever experienced, I asked him if he wanted to grab a late dinner or a drink when he got off work. “To catch up some more.”
“I think we’re caught up,” he said, and walked out of the back room.
“Are you really still mad at me for not going to prom with you?!” I followed him and blurted it out.
“Shhh! Keep your voice down.”
“Why? Are you ashamed about being mad at me for not going to prom with you?”
“No.”
“So you are still mad?”
“I don’t know if ‘mad’ is the word I’d use.”
“What word would you use?”
“Annoyed.”
“Isn’t one of the most important tenets of health and well-being to not dwell on the past?”
“Yes. But, I’m not talking about dwelling on the past. A lot of athletes use past disappointments as motivations for future success.”
“Is that why you’re still annoyed by the fact that I didn’t go to prom with you?”
“Currently, I’m annoyed by you for a thousand other reasons.”
“Right back at you, Mitch.”
There was fire in his eyes and we glared at each other with such restrained fury that if he had made the slightest move towards me right then, I would have kissed him so hard it would have knocked him back on his perfect, tight, stubborn ass.
But he didn’t move. At all. He stared me down. I watched as his eyes clouded over and felt a chill go down my spine. Not in a good way. He really was mad at me.
How dare he.
I never purposefully said or did anything to hurt him.
He was being infantile.
If he actually thought I would let him stay mad at me forever, he had another thing coming.
He adored me once and I would make him adore me again, no matter how many reps I had to do to achieve those results.
Chapter Five
BRAD
Most personal trainers have been athletic since childhood—high school jocks, or at least they’ve been fitness enthusiasts for years. I started out way behind the curve, but that became part of my business story and I used it to my advantage. What I didn’t tell clients or anyone else is that the one muscle I still had to work on was my heart. Yeah, I said it. I know it’s cheesy, but it’s true.
On a scale of 1 to 10, my relationship experience would have rated about a 2.5 at best, and I hadn’t had the time or the inclination to get that score up. Dealing with Vivian Sparks again was making me feel more like I was at around 1.25.
Still, it was so satisfying, seeing her look at me like she wanted to eat me alive. I just wished that the feeling weren’t so mutual. I wondered if people were doomed to be attracted to the people they were attracted to in their youth forever—the way that listening to the music you listened to when you were young instantly makes you feel young again. I couldn’t believe I was battling erections like an adolescent again—even while I was at work. I was usually very good at compartmentalizing, but this was another level.
Mind over matter was one thing.
Mind over Vivian’s groaning panting sweaty body—nearly impossible. I never should have agreed to take her on as a client to begin with. It was just asking for trouble.
I had to resort to every trick I had up my sleeve—listing state capitals, multiplication tables, listing World Series MVPs, thinking about all the gross farts I’ve ever had to smell at the gym, thinking about that scene in Game of Thrones where the guy’s head was crushed.
Sometimes all it took was a text message from her. She had sent me about five pictures of her meals and I had criticized all of them. The sixth photo she sent me was of a leather shoe. At first I thought it was a mistake, but then she wrote: going paleo for lunch.
I replied: As long as the cow was grass-fed and raised without antibiotics and growth hormones. Just don’t add too much salt.
For dinner, she sent a picture of a live squirrel.
My response: Depends how you prepare it. Recommend roasting with vegetables and small amount olive oil.
For her late-night snack, she sent a photo of a weird crooked uncircumcised penis.
I burst out laughing. Now I had one more thing to think about when trying to vanquish a stiff one. I wrote back: You should bring your boyfriend to the gym—I’ll give him a discount. Looks like he can use all the help he can get.
I liked that she was being funny with me. I didn’t get a lot of that f
rom women. Before I got in shape, girls mostly just talked to me about other guys. After I got in shape, they’d just compliment me and then try to make out with me. Or they’d try to make me think they weren’t into me and then try to make out with me. Or they’d pretend to be lesbians so I’d hang out with them and then they’d make out with each other in front of me and then try to make out with me. I’m not saying which of these techniques were successful in getting me to make out with the women—I’m just saying that I appreciated how funny Viv was with me.
But I didn’t tell her that.
She showered at the gym after her workout Saturday evening. I wanted to ask her if she had plans, but I also didn’t want to know. I wanted her to ask me if I wanted to grab dinner or a drink again, because I probably would have said yes. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing her for two days and I didn’t like that. I didn’t like wondering whom she’d be spending her time with if not me.
Her hair was still damp, and I could smell her shampoo (she was back to Pantene again), and I wanted to see her naked. But I didn’t even smile at her when she waved goodbye to me. I just nodded and looked away.
I went out to the parking lot behind the gym to look for her a minute later, but she was gone. I’m glad she was gone, because I wasn’t exactly sure what I would have said to her then. Actually, I was sure I wouldn’t have said anything.
I went through the contacts in my phone, trying to pick a woman to call, to keep my mind off of Vivian, as I had done for years and years prior to that week when she started coming to my gym.
I almost smashed my phone into the cement, because there wasn’t one person on Earth I wanted to be with besides her.
But at that point, I would rather have thought about farts and head-crushing every day for the rest of my life than let her know how I felt again.
Chapter Six
VIVIAN
My whole body was so sore, but it felt like it was already changing even though my brain was the same old squishy mess.
Aubrey had my dainty bridesmaid dress shipped to me. I hung it on the outside of my bedroom closet door as inspiration, but I hadn’t tried it on since I knew it wouldn’t fit yet and also because it would have physically hurt too much to attempt to get my body into it. At home I was exclusively wearing baggy elasticized clothing that was easy to slip in and out of.
I’d texted my sister to ask if there was anything she needed me to do as maid of honor, and she told me to get healthy, get laid, show up to the bridal shower and the wedding and then go home without getting drunk and embarrassing her. She asked if I’d boned Fat Hot Brad yet. I told her I was working on it and I would not leave her wedding until I had embarrassed her to an epic degree, but that I would look great doing it. That is—if I could actually move my body by then.
I was trying to stretch, on the floor, my legs splayed out in a V shape. I was strangely hungover even though I had only had two glasses of wine the night before. It was the first time I’d consumed alcohol since the last Sunday night and I had planned to go longer without it, but that was before I got the letter.
I received a letter, in the mail, from Connor. I had recognized his handwriting before I saw the return address—his office in Seattle. It was such a thin envelope, I thought maybe he’d sent me an old receipt of mine that he’d found or something, but it was just a hand-written note on his company’s letterhead.
Dear Vivian,
I know that you have heard about my engagement by now.
I didn’t call you, because I didn’t know what to say.
But you know now, so…
See you at your sister’s wedding.
I hope you’re doing very well, Viv.
Tell JT I miss him.
-- C
I told JT that his former housemate missed him. And then I told JT that his former housemate was still a stupid idiot asshole who wasn’t coming back. And then I told him that it had nothing to do with him, because he still loved him even though he’s not here. Then I crumpled up the letter and threw it in the recycling bin, and then I poured myself a glass of wine and stared at the picture of Sexiest Man in Portland Brad on the local newspaper site and the rest of the activities of my night had stemmed from that.
I could not stop thinking about the fact that I had kissed his lips so many times. I still remembered exactly what it felt like. One thing I had forgotten about until this past week—I made him touch my boob! I hadn’t understood it at the time, but the poor guy came in his pants. It wasn’t until I was in college that I realized how much I’d tortured him with those make-out sessions. He must have had blue balls all through junior year. Now he was giving me a serious case of blue bean. What goes around comes around.
I was dying to see him. I knew that he took Sundays off, so there was no point in going to the gym. He didn’t reply to the photo I’d sent him of the high fiber muffin, protein smoothie and fruit salad I’d had for breakfast. I took that to mean he had no comment. I was thinking of taking a picture of something ridiculous, like a car tire, and telling him it was for lunch, but my phone rang and his name and number came up. I figured he was butt-dialing me but I answered immediately.
“You miss me, don’t you?”
“Hi. It’s Brad Mitchell.”
“Oh hello Brad Mitchell. You miss me, don’t you?”
“So I have a…little situation here.”
“You miss me and you’re dying to see me?”
“I’m in my garage. At my apartment…Shhhh. It’s okay, I’m staying right here.” He was talking to someone else in a hushed voice.
“Brad? Are you okay?”
“It’s a kitten. I was going to go buy groceries and I found a feral kitten in our parking garage, and it won’t let me pick it up, and there’s no mother cat around, no other cats, and I asked everyone in the building and the neighbors if it’s theirs and it’s not. It looks hungry, but it keeps hissing at me and I don’t…”
“I’ll come over.”
“I didn’t know who else to call.”
“I can come over. I’ll bring JT’s carrier.”
“Do you want it?”
“I can’t have another pet. I already asked my landlady. Do you want it?”
“No…I mean…I don’t think it wants me…I don’t know. What’ll we do with it?”
“Well, we take it to a vet. Mine’s closed on Sundays, so we take it to an emergency animal hospital to make sure it doesn’t have a microchip, and have them check it out, tell us how old it is, if it seems healthy, stuff like that. They might have formula there, otherwise we go to a pet store and buy some. Oh and you’ll need a litter box.”
“Okay. I don’t know if I can keep it—this is happening too fast.”
“Okay, you don’t have to decide this second.”
“Are you busy—do you have time for this?”
“Yeah. I can come now. Text me your address.”
I looked over at Justin Timberlake, who was busy licking his butt. “Did you ask the cat gods for a miracle, you little genius?”
I entered Brad’s home address into my Waze app. It was a five-minute drive from my house. Five minutes! He was one neighborhood away from me. How is it possible that we lived five minutes away from each other and I’d never seen him in the two years that I’d lived in Portland?
He was standing outside the entrance to the garage. He looked nervous and unshowered. He was so freaking cute. I parked and brought over my cat carrier and a towel and a pair of rubber gloves. He looked so relieved to see me. “Hey,” he said. “Good. I didn’t want anyone to drive in or out of the garage and scare it. Come on.”
“Okay. Calm down. It’ll be okay.”
“I know it’ll be okay,” he snapped. He immediately apologized. “It’s so tiny and scared and it stresses me out. It’s so dumb.”
I rubbed his back and practically had to pull my hand away with my other hand, to stop myself from feeling up his rhomboid major. He led me towards the back corner of the garage, but I coul
d hear the poor little thing screaming. “Ooooh, hey buddy,” I cooed. It went silent for a few seconds, then started meowing again. “He’s hungry.” I put the carrier on the ground where the cat couldn’t see it, opened the carrier, and put on the gloves.
“Gloves. Why didn’t I think of that? What do you want me to do?”
“Hold this towel so I can wrap the kitten up in it after I pick it up.” I handed him the towel.
“What about the carrier?”
“We’ll wrap it up first, then put it in the carrier. Don’t move the carrier, okay, it’ll scare it. No sudden movements or noises.”
“Okay.”
I took a breath and started to tiptoe towards the tiny angry frightened animal.
“Hey.” I felt his hand on my arm and jumped.
“Sorry!” He was whispering.
“What?”
“I didn’t thank you. For coming.”
I nodded. “Shhh.”
He crouched down and held up the towel, like a lion tamer.
I stifled my laugh and stepped slowly towards the nervous creature, cooing and trying to appear as calm and loving and trustworthy as possible, to both of them.
Getting the little black feral kitten into the carrier wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be—surreptitiously trying to encourage Brad to adopt it was no picnic. He kept grumbling about how this thing (a girl, it turned out) just showed up out of the blue and he couldn’t just change his life to accommodate it. He had grown up with dogs, as had I. The vet had said that the kitten was around four weeks old. She was old enough to begin transitioning to wet kitten food, but should be fed formula for a few days first. Brad muttered that he didn’t have time to bottle feed a kitten five or six times a day. As soon as the vet told him he could take it to the humane society, but that black cats were adopted at much lower rates than other cats, Brad said he’d take her “for now.”
Every Inch of You Page 5