by Lisa Ferrari
But going low means coming further back up. Halfway up, my progress stalls.
I have a moment of panic when I think I’m going to fail; my muscles will fail and I’ll drop the weight on the support bars and it’ll make a ton of noise and every single person in the gym will look over here to see the idiot who dropped their weight.
Screw that.
I look up at the ceiling and drive the weight up. Slowly, my legs straighten, until at last I’m upright. I carefully rack the weight and get out from under it.
I feel suddenly lightheaded. I grip the bar with both hands, feeling the cold metal against my palms, hoping to God that I don’t pass out, fall, hit my head, get concussed, and wake in the E.R. a week from now, lacking the ability to remember my name or say the alphabet or smell oranges, or suddenly a fan of the Kardashians.
The feeling passes and my darkening vision returns to normal.
It’s then I realize that I did it. I freaking did it. All by myself.
I wish Kellan were here to have seen it.
I pull out my phone and snap a pic of myself and the bar in the mirror, angling it so Kellan can clearly see that I’ve got two plates on each side. I type out a quick text while I catch my breath.
95x20
135x15
185x9
225x6!
:P
I send it.
Wow. That was scary. But I did it.
I grab my gym bag and move to the leg press.
I finish my workout with four heavy sets on the leg press, the hamstring curl machine, and the seated calf raise.
By the time I’m doing my cool-down cardio on the treadmill, I kinda wanna barf. But I’m elated that I had such a great workout all by myself. I really, really, REALLY wish Kellan were here, but I’m amazed by how much he’s taught me. I almost feel like a regular here at the gym. Good progress for someone who hadn’t been for more than a month.
I drive back to my apartment, lamenting that there will be no post-workout feast at Mel’s, no thrilling drive out to Los Gatos to Kellan’s house, and no nakedness and orgasms with him in his Jacuzzi.
Monday. I need only wait until Monday. Then we’ll go on a date and I’m sure there will be massive amounts of nakedness and copious, mind-blowing orgasms.
Once I’m home, I make myself a shake and drink it while I unpack my bag and take off my gym clothes and do a quick load of laundry so my work clothes will be clean for tomorrow.
I enjoy a hot shower. During which I recall last night’s shower. With Kellan. I fellated him. I swallowed every drop. He responded in kind. The memory turns me on and I touch myself, pretending it’s Kellan touching me, massaging my clit and cupping my breasts and pinching my nipples the way he does with his big strong hands.
It doesn’t take long for me to climax.
As I’m drying myself, it occurs to me to take a naked selfie and send it to him.
But what if he’s not alone and someone else sees it?
Or what if I accidentally send it to someone else by mistake, like my mom?
Or what if my phone gets hacked like Jennifer Lawrence’s did?
I’m no celebrity and I doubt anyone would want my naked selfies and sex pics anyway.
I transfer my clothes to the dryer and curl up on the sofa and turn on the TV. My laptop is on the coffee table, beckoning me as it always is to write something, create something, further my career, even if it’s only 1000 words. Or a mere 500 words. It’s better than nothing.
But I don’t think I’m sharp enough to write. I’m getting sleepy. My legs are already starting to hurt, my shoulders are starting to hurt more, I’m doing a mental inventory of the food in the kitchen, noting the absence of ice cream thanks to Kellan, and I still haven’t heard from him.
I switch on the cable news station, wondering if there was a plane crash. Nothing.
I find the show where the two guys are testing a myth about driving while wearing high heels.
My phone pings.
Yay!
It’s a pic from Kellan.
Super yay!
He’s standing in what looks like a warehouse, surrounded by a sea of brown cardboard boxes. There are tee shirts and cases of protein bars and a bunch of other stuff all around him.
He does not look happy.
Sorry I haven’t called.
Been swamped.
Been doing inventory for five hours.
Total disaster.
That’s okay.
Hope you get it straightened out.
Almost done.
I got your pic of the squat rack.
Did you really squat 225?
Yes.
REALLY???
Crap, is he impressed or angry?
Yes, really.
Did you have a weight belt?
No.
Did you have a spotter?
Um, no.
Claire bear…
That’s dangerous.
I know. But I had to.
Why?
There were people watching me.
Would they be watching you have surgery in the hospital
to fix a herniated disc or a blown ACL?
What’s an ACL?
Anterior cruciate ligament.
What’s that?
It keeps your knee in one piece.
Oh.
Macho antics aside…
GOOD JOB!
That makes me smile.
Thanks.
Wish you were here.
I know this is needy and typical but it’s true.
I know. I wish I were too.
Or that you were here.
The hotel room shower
is big enough for two.
I take a moment to ponder what would’ve happened if I had called Nancy and quit my job and then flown with Kellan to North Carolina as his assistant. Fifty bucks an hour would be nice. The most the catering job has ever paid was about $35 an hour. Average is closer to $25, which is still decent, but the hours aren’t regular enough for it to be a truly lucrative job.
Kellan’s been doing inventory for five hours. I could’ve made $250 by now. And we could’ve gotten naked and fooled around in his hotel room afterwards.
Or right there in the warehouse, on a stack of cardboard boxes.
Monday.
I just have to wait until Monday.
Kellan and I text a bit more before he signs off. He promises to be in touch tomorrow when he gets a break at the expo.
I turn off the TV, quickly eat some cottage cheese so I have a steady stream of amino acids in me, brush my teeth, and get into bed.
I thumb through Kellan’s Instagram account, admiring his photos. I continually go back to the one of him in the spa after our first workout together, the one where he may or may not be naked.
I contemplate touching myself again but wind up falling asleep with my phone still in my hand, clutching Kellan’s image.
THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up and go for a jog around my apartment complex before breakfast.
It’s literally the first time I’ve ever done something like that. I dare to be a tiny bit proud of myself.
I’m home and showered and scrambling eggs when I get an alert on my phone.
I hope it’s Kellan.
But it’s Denise. She wants to meet for lunch.
I don’t have to be at work until three, so I’m available.
But I tell her I’m not.
I want to make her wait.
It’s totally passive aggressive and fairly childish and not entirely honest, but it was entirely not cool of her to try to woo Kellan into a threesome with me as a spectator, downgrading the romp to a twosome. I may as well have simply stood in the closet and peeked out at them. Or left altogether to get gelato or a bucket of chicken. Or I could’ve gone to Starbucks and gotten a coffee and when they asked my name so they could write it on the cup I could’ve said, “Pathetic Loser.”
Denise sends anot
her message:
Want to come over tonight?
Crap. Do I?
While I’m pondering, I know she senses my reticence so she tries to sweeten the deal.
You can sleep over. Girl’s night.
We can make brownies.
Frickin brownies.
Why do people always feel they can coerce me with sweets? This pisses me off.
I no longer eat brownies.
Since when?
Since two weeks ago when I started
training with Kellan and eating properly.
I regret mentioning Kellan. I don’t want to get into it via text message.
Oh. What would you prefer?
Something healthy.
We can manage that.
Okay.
So you’ll come over?
Yes
Yay!!!
Stupid triple exclamation points again.
WORK IS FUN.
It’s a bar mitzvah for a boy named Micah.
We serve up chicken fingers and macaroni-and-cheese and cheese sticks and French fries and onion rings, plus a buffet of normal food for the adults. There is an ice cream buffet where everyone makes their own sundae.
Everything looks and smells so good and I want to inhale all the fried food.
But I don’t.
I eat three chicken breasts and a huge plate of grilled vegetables, and a cup of coffee with two packets of stevia for dessert.
To my surprise, it actually works. I’m satisfied, my sweet tooth is sated as well, and when everyone else is pigging out on cheese sticks and ice cream with hot fudge, I busy myself carrying trays of dirty dishes out of the ballroom and into the kitchen.
Chris smiles at me a few times but doesn’t come and talk to me the way he usually does.
Not sure what that’s about.
Maybe he’s feeling dejected. Maybe he saw me with Kellan and realized where my heart is.
Nancy is a total bitch for some reason.
We find out later that she got her ass chewed by her boss for something that wasn’t her fault, some political work-related nonsense.
This causes me to once again second-guess my decision not to quit this job in order to work with Kellan.
But then if he decided he didn’t want to date me, we’d end up like him and Stacy; it would be weird.
And pathetic.
And sad.
And uncomfortable.
Then I’d have to quit that job and come beg Nancy to give me back this job. That would suck.
Unless Kellan asked me to marry him. He’s mentioned it a couple of times. It was in a joking manner, but there’s truth in humor.
Was he putting it out there to gauge my reaction?
What was my reaction?
I don’t remember.
I hope I was enthusiastic.
In my heart, deep, deep, deep down, I know I would say yes. I would want to, anyway.
But in my mind, I know I would let all my fears and doubts and amalgamated bullshit get in the way. My ghosts from the past would interfere for sure, and I’d say no. Kellan and I have known each other only two weeks!
What would my parents say?
A tiny voice inside me says who gives a crap what the parents say? It’s my life.
And I know that voice speaks the truth. Frightening and illogical and exciting and scary as it is.
The thought of marrying Kellan makes me feel good; the thought of no longer being with Kellan makes me feel…not good.
I’m going to focus on the good.
Which means counting every second until Monday when Kellan gets home.
In the meantime, I prepare myself for girl power with Denise. Oy vey.
DENISE OPENS THE door and literally hugs me.
I can’t remember the last time she did that; she’s not the most touchy-feely person. I suspect there’s some psycho-pathological connection between fear of intimacy and being a bit of a strumpet. But I really don’t want to delve into it.
The door is barely closed when she begins apologizing. She says she was way off base, that she acted like a total bitch, a cunt-blocking bitch of the first order, and she knew what she was doing but couldn’t stop herself.
She also tells me that she propositioned Kellan directly while they were waiting for me to arrive.
She doesn’t go into details but she says that she asked and he said no.
Wow. The two of them could have set something up and could be getting it on on the side and I’d never know, me, the gullible innocent that I am who would never do such a thing.
I’m not sure how to react or what to say.
I could end my friendship with Denise.
But that doesn’t feel good.
She is apologizing, spilling her guts and coming clean, trying to make amends. That’s a step in the right direction.
And she did stick up for me with Stacy at the Turtle the other night when I was hurling.
She veritably drags me into the kitchen, where she has two huge pitchers of margaritas ready for us, one lemon-lime and the other strawberry. There’s a giant rectangular baking dish of brownies with Peanut M&Ms baked into half of it.
The doorbells rings.
“Pizza’s here!” Denise exclaims. She grabs her pocketbook. “Should we bring him inside and do him as part of his tip?” She drags me, veritably once again, to the front door. “I’ll ride his little boner, you sit on his face. That way you can save your virtue for Kellan.”
“I’m not a virgin.”
“I know. But it’s been so long, you might as well be.”
That is true. Sad, but true.
“I’m just kidding, sweetie.” She kisses my cheek, something I don’t believe she’s ever done, except maybe the day we graduated from college and got our degrees.
She opens the door and the delivery driver is standing there holding the big warming bag. He’s young and almost certainly a virgin. If we dragged him inside, veritably so as to intensify his fear and thus the thrill, and then undressed him and had our way with him, his head would explode. I can see it by the way he’s eyeballing the crap out of Denise. She’s wearing jeans and a black tank top, no biggie, but her olive skin and porn star-caliber cleavage is giving this kid masturbation material for at least 24 hours. He probably has paid monthly subscriptions to half a dozen porn sites. Who am I kidding? Nobody pays for porn anymore.
He glances my way a couple of times but focuses on Denise before his pubescent voice squeaks out, “$42.53, please.”
Denise takes the two pizzas and hands them to me. She pulls a wad of cash out of her pocketbook.
She sticks her hip out and tilts her head in classic coquettish Denise fashion. I’ve seen her do that move a hundred times in bars and clubs; she got laid every time.
“So, have you been busy tonight?” she asks.
“Um, sort of.”
Holy poop she is not actually going to bang the pizza delivery guy.
Is she?
I’m sure as hell not.
If she drags him inside, veritably or otherwise, I’m getting the heck out of here; I’m going home and having phone sex with Kellan. Even if I’m the only one on the phone.
Denise drops one of her twenties. She bends over and picks it up.
The delivery guy stares at her ass in her tight jeans.
She turns around and stands upright slowly.
The delivery guy looks down the front of her shirt. She does have nice breasts.
“My girlfriend and I already drank an entire pitcher of margaritas.”
The delivery guy scratches his chin. “That’s good.”
Denise puts her arm around my shoulders. “We’re really hungry.” She starts nibbling on my ear lobe.
What. The. Frick?
The delivery guy looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust on Denise’s front porch. If I smell human flesh and fat and hair burning, I will puke for sure.
I’m in my work clothes, holding two giant pizzas. Sexy I
am not.
Denise holds out three twenties.
The delivery guy takes them.
“Keep the change, sweetie,” Denise says. She grabs my boob, the right one, kinda hard, and when the delivery guy’s mouth drops open, she swings the door shut with her foot.
She puts her index finger to her lips, signaling me to be silent. She peers through the peep hole.
“What’s he doing?” I whisper.
“He’s just standing there. Oh, he’s adjusting the front of his pants. He’s leaving.”
Denise grabs the pizzas from me and we return to the kitchen. “We totally gave him a boner,” she proclaims with pride. “He’s going to go back to work and tell all the guys what just happened. We just made his night. Probably his week. Maybe his year. And he got a $17.47 tip. I never got tipped like that when I was his age. Got a lot of phone numbers, though.” She sighs. Wistfully.
Denise swings open the lids on both boxes.
“I got one large half-cheese and half-combination with extra meat,” – she gives me a pointed smirk – “and one large veggie for you. You’re eating lots of vegetables now, right? Since you’re training with Kellan and getting all fit and stuff?”
“Yeah. But eating vegetables doesn’t mean it’s okay to eat pizza. And brownies. With Peanut M-and-M’s, which I love. Thank you.”
She smiles at me.
“You’re right,” she says. “Shit. I blew it, didn’t I. Want to throw all this stuff out and we’ll go to Whole Foods and get a bunch of grilled chicken and broccoli and spinach?”
Decision time. For real.
Kellan isn’t here to hold my hand. Even when he’s not out of town and even if, I dare to say if if IF we got married someday, there will be plenty of instances when I must determine for myself what I’m going to eat.
This is one such instance.
I resisted the cinnamon roll this morning. It would’ve been warm and sweet and gooey and oh-so-delicious.
Just like this pizza. And the margaritas. And brownies. With the Peanut M&Ms.
Dammit…
I stand there…staring at the pizza. Salivating. I want it.
“Trying to decide what to do?” Denise asks.
“Yep.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Claire bear. I should’ve thought about it. I’m such a shitty friend.” She sags against the kitchen counter. She then grabs her margarita and chugs the entire glass.