by Lisa Ferrari
Not a minute too soon, either. For some reason, work is pissing me off lately. It always has its moments, but lately I haven’t been enjoying myself the way I normally do. All in all it’s a good job. It pays pretty well, it’s even fun sometimes, especially when everyone is in a good mood, which is much of the time. We have a good crew and everyone knows their job. Most of the time, things flow smoothly and it’s all fairly easy.
But lately I find myself not wanting to be there. I dread going and I count the seconds until I clock out.
As I start my car, I figure out why: Kellan.
He’s all I think about. I’m totally obsessed.
I’m far too terrified to admit to myself that I do indeed truly love him, like I said to Denise last night.
But I definitely like him a lot.
A whole lot.
As I should. He’s amazing. He’s gorgeous, for starters. But he’s also intelligent and funny and sweet and kind, especially to me. And he does things to me when we’re naked that no one has ever done before; things I’ve always longed to have done to me. I wish we could go somewhere, take a trip, go on vacation, someplace close to the ocean where we can see lots of white sand and sparkling water and blue sky. And we could be naked all day every day and do stuff. Lots of stuff. All. Night. Long.
I decide in that moment to get on the pill. I’ll call Dr. Adair’s office in the morning and make an appointment. I was on it years ago but stopped for obvious reasons; no sex equals no need for pills.
I want to have sex with Kellan.
Full-on intercourse.
As soon as possible.
I don’t care if it’s in a dirty bathroom at a gas station or even an Applebee’s.
It doesn’t have to be perfect, with candles and wine and flowers and music and harpists and a choir singing in the background, blessing our sacred First Time.
I don’t care about any of that. I mean, I do; but I want him more.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I drive to Iron Palace. I have my gym bag and my workout clothes.
While I change clothes in my car, I have a moment of inspiration. Texts from Kellan have been sparse, so I need a way to get his attention. I take a selfie of my breasts. Not my face, just my breasts. I take several, moving the phone around, trying different positions. I finally get a really good one, with me arching my back and twisting slightly. The afternoon sun is behind me, creating a sexy silhouette. My black bra lifts everything nicely. It’s sexy but also anonymous. It could be anyone.
I title the message For Your Eyes Only and press Send.
That should get a response.
INSIDE THE PALACE, I warm up quickly and then go and have a fabulous arm-and-shoulders workout. I super-set shoulders, biceps, and triceps. Kellan is always saying I have nice shoulders. I do rep after rep of dumbbell press and lateral raises and front raises and curls and reverse curls and tricep extension and tricep push-downs. I can see and feel my arms and shoulders get bigger. They get tight and full. It feels incredible. I surreptitiously examine myself in the mirror, turning side to side and flexing a little.
They look good.
I have a pump.
I’ve felt something similar while working out with Kellan. But never like this.
I snap a pic and send it to Kellan.
Got a CRAZY pump right now. WTF?
I don’t know when he’ll write back, but I want him to see.
My phone buzzes in my pocket almost immediately. It’s him.
What did you eat last night?
Uh-oh.
What indeed?
Then it clicks; the massive amount of carbs and sugar I ate and drank are causing the pump. But I also know they made me go backwards, away from my goals. It was simply too much food and not the proper food. Kellan and I have never eaten pizza and brownies and margaritas. We always eat clean food like eggs and oatmeal and chicken and rice and broccoli and sweet potatoes and green beans and fish and asparagus and protein shakes. Healthy stuff. It’s not always as yummy, but it’s certainly a better choice than what Denise and I inhaled last night.
Then it occurs to me: Kellan replied to my pump pic but not to my sexy selfie.
Did he not see it?
Oh crap on a Triscuit did I send it to the wrong person?
Did I send it to Chris?
Or my dad?
I ask Kellan quickly, typing so fast that my thumbs hit the wrong letter a bunch of times and I start to get pissed.
Did you get my selfie?
You in the mirror? Yeah…
Oh no…
What about the one b4 it? Of me. In my car. Topless.
That was you?
I’m taken aback; who else would it be? Is somebody else sending him naked pics?
Yes! Who else would it be?
Didn’t you see it was from
my number?
No, I guess I missed that.
I have to ask. I don’t want to. But I also do want to.
Who did you think it was?
I already know what he’s going to say.
Honestly, I thought it was Stacy.
I was right.
Does she always send you pics like that?
No, but every 2 or 3 months she does.
I always tell her to stop and she does.
Until a few months go by and she does it again.
Has she called you yet?
No, she hasn’t fricking called me. Why the frick would she call me? To tell me I’m not good enough for Kellan and to have me come to her clinic so I can see the oodles and oodles of naked pics she’s sent to him?
No.
Oh. She should.
I want you to go do another BF% dunk.
Great. Just what I want to do. See Stacy AND get half naked in front of her.
I’m so pissed right now. I have no idea what to do. I’m standing here in the gym, Kellan’s gym no less, in the middle of a workout, maybe the best workout I’ve ever had in my entire life, and now it’s all gone to utter crap.
Why does life have to be that way?
Because there are two sides to every coin; they coexist.
Such is life.
I stand there, feeling stupid.
What should I do now?
Should I resume lifting?
Should I leave?
Should I actually call Kellan so we can have an actual conversation with real words spoken by human beings so I can hear his voice and his tone and inflection, so I can figure out what the great good poop is going on?
Another text from him arrives.
I miss you.
I melt.
Wholly.
I defuse.
Entirely.
I miss you too.
Sorry I’ve been so busy.
This is why I wanted you to COME with me…
His innuendo makes me smile.
I would LOVE to COME with you.
Repeatedly.
Loudly.
I’m not sure if that is too much, but I hit Send.
Deal. Soon…
Before I can pen a reply ripe with sufficient pith, he texts again.
So what DID you eat last night?
Crap.
Chicken and broccoli.
I am a chicken. Such a chicken.
Claire Valentine! Liar liar pants on fire.
He knows. How can he know?
WHAT DID YOU EAT LAST NIGHT?
Shouty capitals. Crapola. I decide to come clean.
Pizza, margaritas, brownies, Peanut M&Ms,
chocolate-chip cookie dough.
Why?
Denise invited me over.
She’s sorry for the way she acted.
So she sabotages her “best friend”
by plying her with 10,000 calories
worth of calorie-dense, nutrient-poor
garbage?
This gives me pause; I hadn’t thought of it like that. But wait…I reply quickly.
It wasn’t like that.
She was apologizing.
She knows I used to like that stuff.
She offered to get Whole Foods chicken
and veggies instead.
But you didn’t.
No, we didn’t.
I hope it was worth it.
Ouch. That’s the harshest thing he’s ever said to me. It’s borderline cruel, and certainly mean.
It’s true…
But shitty and hurtful nonetheless.
I don’t text him back.
I put my phone away and do a set of curls.
But I feel stupid now. I’m angry. And sad. And a bunch of other stuff. I’m now filled with turmoil.
Maybe Denise was right. Maybe Kellan and I have been going too fast and I’ve been getting my hopes up over nothing.
We are a mismatch physically; that’s so obvious it’s embarrassing.
We barely know each other.
He got really pissed in the movie theater the other day when it was too warm. That was kind of disturbing.
And now he’s not only being a total dick via text message, he’s openly admitted that he thought my pic was from Stacy. Jeez. If he and I continue dating, if that’s even what we’re actually doing, will we ever be free of her?
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I hope he’s apologizing for the last text that made me want to cry a little.
Stacy is calling.
Oh for cripes’ sake. Talk about timing. Speak of the devil.
I quickly run through my options. I could easily not answer. But then it will bug me. I answer.
“Hi, Claire. It’s Stacy. Kellan would like you to come get tested, to check your progress. Is now a good time?”
And for some unknowable reason, I say, “Sure.”
“Great! See you in a few!”
And the call ends.
She’s so pert. Just like her precious Beverly Hills boobies.
Why did I agree to that? I’m in the middle of a workout as well as the middle of a conversation with Kellan.
If you can call it that.
Texting hardly qualifies. The advent of pocket computers has increased the quantity of communication, but it sure hasn’t helped the quality of it.
TEN MINUTES LATER, I park in front of NorCal Physio, right beside Stacy’s sexy little red BMW Z4 convertible. The top is down. There’s a white, silken garter hanging from the rearview mirror. I don’t understand its significance; guys usually have those. But it’s very sexual.
Why am I here?
Why am I letting Kellan tell me what to do?
I could easily have said I didn’t want to do it. He’s in freakin North Carolina; what’s he going to do about it?
But then things would be awkward when he got home.
I don’t want that.
He did say he missed me. He made a cute joke about orgasms.
Or maybe he’s just horny, like a typical male.
Inside, Stacy is wearing a short red skirt and red heels and a red top under her white lab coat. A sparkly gold chain adorns her perfect cleavage. My dark side knows it was a gift from Kellan. Like the bags of silicone underneath.
“Hi, Claire. How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. You?”
I’m so fake.
But so is she so screw it.
“Great.”
Pert. So pert.
And fake. So fake.
“Whenever you’re ready.” She motions to the tank.
The last thing I want to do is strip in front of her.
I peel off my shoes and socks and black compression pants and Iron Born shirt and get in. I exhale and go under water for a few seconds.
When I come up, I start to climb out but Stacy says, “Wait. I didn’t get it. The water was moving too much. One more time, okay?”
I kneel in the little pool, looking up at her, feeling monumentally stupid. My hair is wet. I’m sweaty and stinky. And fat. And Stacy…isn’t.
We wait in a silence that redefines the meaning of uncomfortable.
Finally the water stills and Stacy gives me the go-ahead.
I exhale and go under, slowly this time. I hold my breath a long time, as long as I can, hoping the water is still enough for her to get a reading.
At last, I breach the surface like the great white whale that I am. And the best (or worst) part is, I’ve never read Moby Dick!
“Got it!” Stacy declares. She comes over and hands me a big white towel.
“Thanks.”
She shows me a printout with my information. I’m 3% lower than I was last time.
“Is that a lot?” I ask.
“That’s a ton. Considering it’s only been a week or so. That’s good progress, Claire. You should be happy.”
I should.
But I’m not.
“Are you going to show that to Kellan?” I inquire. I sound so meek.
“Yes. I already sent the report to his phone.”
“Oh.” We’ll see what he thinks of my 3% in light of my epic boost meal last night.
“So Kellan’s in North Carolina,” Stacy says, a propos of nothing.
“Yeah.”
“Expos are fun.”
“Yeah.”
“How’s things going with you guys?”
Why is she asking me this? Should I even answer her?
“I know it’s none of my business,” she continues. “But Kellan is my friend. I care about him. I want him to be happy. I guess even if it’s not with me. He just moves around so much.”
“What do you mean?”
“He moves around a lot. He’s always on the go. He’s hardly ever at home. He’s always traveling and buying stuff and he always has a new girlfriend. I can hardly keep up.”
She smiles and makes googly eyes at me as if this is the joke of the century.
And maybe it is.
On me.
The whale.
“I love Kellan to death,” Stacy continues, “but he is just so A.D.D. it’s ridiculous. When he and I first starting going out, he got all excited and wanted to see me every day. Then he just lost interest all of a sudden and stopped calling. And look how he bought that new Inventadoor all of a sudden. He’ll probably sell it in a month. He bought a Bentley last year that he sold two months later. I went with him to Vegas to look at it and he bought it right on the spot and then he took me back to our suite at the Bellagio and, just between us girls, he fucked me so hard I thought my vagina fell out. Oh my God. It was probably the best weekend of my life.
“Now he won’t even return my calls. He just texts short...succinct…noncommittal…texts.”
Stacy starts to cry.
O-M-F-G she is standing there in her lab coat…crying.
“It’s been more than a year but I’m still not over him. I just thought we were so good together. We have so much in common. Everyone said we made such a perfect couple. He even tried setting me up with a few of his friends but they just wanted sex. Which, stupid me, I let them have. Now they won’t call me back, either. Fucking men. You know, Kellan wouldn’t have sex with me for a month. He instituted a no-penetration clause. I thought it was so sweet that he wanted to go slow with me, you know? Like it meant he really liked me, that I was different. My mom and my friends were all like: watch out, he’s a player, he’s going to love you and leave you like they all do. My sister said never trust a bodybuilder. They’re insecure little boys trapped in a man’s steroid-ridden body and they’re immature and stunted and they might be good for a quick fling, especially if you’ve never been with a guy with a body like that, but you’re better off with an average-looking guy with a good job who isn’t so self-centered and who doesn’t constantly have women throwing themselves at him. It’s just too much temptation for most people. God, it feels so good to finally have another girl to talk to.”
Stacy smiles and wipes her tears but only smears her mascara further.
I am in shock.
Stunned
silence.
Enraged.
Terrified.
Betrayed.
And feeling so stupid that I want to run and hide and live in a different city and become a lesbian. Or a nun.
I don’t know what to think. Is this the real Stacy telling me how it is or is she trying to undermine my relationship with Kellan?
According to Kellan, Denise sabotaged me by tempting me with an unholy amount of junk food.
Is Stacy sabotaging me by highlighting the precise elements of my relationship with Kellan that I hold dear and illustrating how utterly common they are for him because he does this with tons of women?
“I’m sorry,” Stacy says, over and over and over again. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, Claire. If you and Kellan are happy, then fine. That’s a good thing. To hell with me and my feelings. It’s over. I’m sorry. I understand. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you guys.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her about sending scantily-clad photos to Kellan every month or two, which by his own admission is something she does.
But I decide not to.
Because I’m a chicken.
Or a whale.
Or some hideous Island of Dr. Moreau combination thereof. (Another book I never read! But I saw the cheesedick movie!)
I put on my clothes. I feel extra stupid when I put on my Iron Born tee shirt.
Right now I want to burn it.
Chapter 14
BY THE TIME Sunday night rolls around, I’m completely messed up in the head.
I’m home from work early for a change.
There’s no Game of Thrones tonight, which sucks ass.
But there are four, yes, one-two-three-four pints of ice cream in the freezer.
And I’m going to eat every single one of them.
Maybe not tonight.
Probably just the Chunky Monkey and the Cherry Garcia tonight.
The Cinnamon Buns and the New York Super Fudge Chunk can wait for tomorrow night, since I figure I probably won’t be having that alluded-to date with Kellan.
I’ve pretty much not heard jack squat from him.
Not since the text about him hoping my calorie catastrophe was worth it.
Asshole.
God, what a dick.
Three thousand miles away, staring at my breasts on his phone, and all he can do is insult me and hurt my feelings by saying something like that.
I’ve done nothing but obsess and ponder and think and ruminate and obsess some more, wait I already said that, over Kellan and our quote-unquote relationship.