by Jamie Lake
“I see you’re stocking up on midnight snacks,” Tim said, with a smirk and a teasing note of cattiness.
Chris felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He thought about lying and saying he was buying it for Mrs. Berliner, but he figured, why bother? His ex knew him too well, and in fact could probably identify everything covering the vegetables as a signature indulgence of Chris’s diet. Instead of acknowledging the comment, Chris chuckled and found himself swimming once again; or rather drowning in the oceanic blue irises of his ex.
“I uh...how have you been?” Chris asked, trying to change the subject.
“Good. Real good,” his ex said. He did look good; perhaps it was just the factor of Chris’s fading memory, but Tim seemed to look sexier and more in shape every time he saw him. His hair was styled in perfect bed-headed boyishness and his blue eyes sparkled. He always looked younger than his 40 years. A little bit of a five o’clock shadow added a roguish appeal to his cut jaw line. It sickened Chris to realize how powerless he was before Tim’s charisma, and the salt in the wound was how Tim seemed to enjoy mocking him with it. After all the loving care Chris had shown for three years, it was the ultimate fuck you.
He thought about saying something tart about the bright pink sunburn Tim had on his shoulder, or the obvious V-neck tan line on his chest, but the truth was, he didn’t have the heart for it. Even more honestly, it only increased how attractive and athletic Tim looked.
“So, what have you been up to?” Chris said instead.
“You know, work. Working out with Justin and Alec. We’re doing beach running. It’s brutal and making my calves huge.” his ex said. Why was he bringing up Alec and Justin when he knew Chris couldn’t stand them? They both had degrees in shade-throwing with a minor in bitch studies from the University of Hate.
“Nice. You’ll have to tell them I said hi next time you see them,” Chris said as flatly as possible, a polite grimace twisting his face into a poor imitation of a smile. “Well, I better run, I’ve got to get back to work.”
Chris was about to turn when Tim stopped him.
“Hey, hang on,” his ex said. “Take care of yourself, Chris. Might want to hit the gym. I can see you’ve been up to a little more eating than writing.” He effeminately poked one index finger into Chris’s belly.
Chris wanted to melt into the ground and just go away. He was embarrassed by his body more than ever, even without his ex jeering him about it in public. He’d done whatever he could to avoid Tim, and was hoping the next time he saw him he would have been when he was in better shape. No such luck.
Instead of telling him to ‘shut the fuck up’, he found himself swallowing his anger: it was such a frustrating habit. He simply chuckled it off. At least he would try to hide how much all of this bothered him.
“Yeah, guilty as charged,” Chris said with the same forced smile.”I’ve been working a lot, though. You know how sedentary my life is when I have a lot of work.”
“Still working on the same novel, huh?” his ex asked, stingingly.
Yes, motherfucker, as a matter of fact I am, he wanted to say: but of course he didn’t.
“Almost done,” he said.
“I thought you were almost done six months ago,” Tim noted.
Chris just stared at him: clearly he didn’t want to play nice.
“Well, you just don’t really know much about how writing works. Or reading,” Chris murmured passively. “It was nice seeing you. We’ll have to get together sometime. You know, for coffee or whatever.” And with that, he started to push the cart down the aisle.
“Stay good,” his ex called from down the aisle, “And lay off the chocolate, babe.”
He could hear a soft, malicious chuckle. Chris’s blood boiled. He had never felt more furious with Tim: no, he had never felt more furious with anybody.
His hatred was cleansing. It would give him the strength to change, and to abandon all his feelings of attachment to his ex. What a piece of shit. Three years of love and sweet talk, and he had the sociopathic gall to bully and shame Chris about his most vulnerable soft spot. What did he have to gain? Clearly, Chris had been deluded all along. Tim was not worthy of him, and Chris was determined to do something different. Anything different. He hurled all the junk food into a random shelf in another aisle and swung up to the cashier with a cart full of weird vegetables.
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CHAPTER 3
Chris felt like crying as soon as he came out of the grocery store. The sun beat down on his face and dogs barked. He took a deep breath. He would rise above his hurt feelings someday, but he couldn’t help but obsess about how much happier Tim seemed without him: as if everything they’d been through together and all those years of keeping it together meant nothing.
He marched up the streets under the palm trees, the humidity and heat making sweat roll down his arms. What was he thinking, walking, and then buying so many groceries? The bags were cutting into his hands and he had to stop periodically in the shade to adjust them. He only hoped they wouldn’t snap before he got home.
Chris suddenly remembered that he had to get the number of that personal trainer Jessica knew and then text him as soon as possible. A few weeks back, he had gone to the gym, bought a membership, and tried to exercise sporadically, but he lacked the motivation and diligence to follow through on a daily basis. Whatever it cost, it would be worth it if he could get in shape. The next time Tim saw him, he wanted to look so hot that he would be unable to feel insecure.
He wanted to make him jealous. God, how this whole situation had made him so petty. Chris felt like he was in high school again; jilted and jealous and overwhelmed with waves of silly drama. If there was anything mature and constructive about this whole mess, he thought, at least he should get his shit together. Physically, emotionally, mentally. He’d work out every day if he had to, even if it killed him. And he would learn to like rabbit food.
He stopped in the shade of some mango trees and squatted down with his phone pressed to his ear. It rang and rang. Jessica finally picked up.
“Bueno,” she said flatly. He heard her scolding her daughter and then her voice cut out.
“Yeah, yeah, Jessica. Can you hear? Can you hear me? You were going to send me the personal trainer’s number?” he asked.
“What?” she said.
It was useless. He could hear her cutting out, coming back in. The fact that she was still speaking Spanish made it clear that she couldn’t hear him either. However, when he reached his own neighborhood, his phone chimed. A text from Jessica? Yes. It had a phone number and then--MASON--written in all caps. Chris swiftly added the number to his contacts and punched out a message.
Hey Mason - I’m Chris, Jessica’s friend. She said you’re a personal trainer? 8045-8059.
Back in his apartment, he put all the groceries in the fridge, poured a glass of water and dropped a lime wedge into it. Thank God that, unlike some of his neighbors, he had drinkable tap water. He sat down to a cold plate of lettuce and cucumber salad (rabbit food), then got onto Wikipedia, building both his English and Spanish vocabulary for vegetable matter. How thrilling. He spent the rest of the evening revising the endless revision of his novel. For dinner, he decided to roast up some of those parsnips and squash with some oil and salt. Yes, parsnips, and he made a nice fresh salad. It felt very satisfying to have something cleansing and good, and yet the meal left him craving more. Before bed, he checked his phone for a text back from the guy. He grumbled. Nothing.
Typical flake, Chris thought to himself.
He checked his phone first thing when he got up. It was dark outside, and the birds of paradise hadn’t even begun their dawn chorus. Warm winds blew through the palms and ferns on the hillsides, and the clouds hung, reflecting the dim orange light of the city.
Ever since his break up, Chris got up at four a.m., even on the weekends, which was ridiculous. However, he’d been trying to stay hyper-focused on work: mostly bec
ause it was his best source of self-confidence, and the structure of work was the one thing that gave him reprieve from his personal dramas and his otherwise near total self-indulgence. So as long as he had a rigorous work schedule and personal hygiene acumen, he felt just a little bit dignified. It was a sad and lonely life, Chris thought; but for now, he just needed to hold on until he had regained some stability.
His morning lark energy was something that Tim used to hate, since he always wanted to sleep in. Chris didn’t particularly like the feeling of getting up early, but as soon as he was awake, he loved the morning solitude, especially in Costa Rica. Even when it was chilly, he used to love to try to snuggle under the covers with Tim, but Tim never was the cuddling type, and used to shove his arm off of him and complain that Chris was making him hot. Looking back, he should have been paying attention.
There he was; another morning lying alone in the cold, empty bed with no one beside him but an extra pillow where Tim’s head used to be. He sighed, and checked his phone again to see if there was a text message from Mason. Nothing. Ridiculous.
He closed his eyes and made a silent prayer, “Dear God. Or Goddess. Whatever you are. It’s been a long while. I know I’m not so good at the prayer or church thing, and maybe I’m not really that good at behaving myself either. Anyway, all that aside, I still believe you’ve got to be out there. You know what I’ve been through, and I’m just asking. Please...give me a sign. Give me something to go on. To help me know if I should stay here or move back. I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone, but if that’s what you have in store for me...”
Chris sighed with that thought. Tears welled in his eyes. He never finished the prayer, but sprang out of bed and wiped his eyes, went into the kitchen and started the coffee machine. Washing his face in the bathroom, he looked up at the mirror. His face was rounder, fatter than it had ever been. His hairline was thinning more and more every year. Who would find anything attractive in him? Ten years ago, if he’d seen himself in a bar or a club, he would have thought, “God, what an ancient pudge.” Maybe he should just give up and move back to the U.S. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t such a bad idea. Just as he was going to make that decision, he heard his phone chime in the bedroom.
Sup. Just got ur text. Sorry, bad reception at my house. I’m Mason, Jess' friend.
Chris sighed in relief. Finally, something was going his way. He was glad Mason got up early too.
Chris thought about calling him later on, but figured since they were both up, why wait? He needed to get the ball rolling.
“Hello, Mason?” he said.
“Morning,” Mason replied. His voice was very low, his tone casual.
“Good morning, Mason, it’s Chris Whitman. I’m sorry to call so early.”
“No, it’s cool. I’m just getting ready for school. What’s up?”
“School?”
“Yeah, so what’s up? I heard you want to train.”
“Yeah, I really need a trainer. I used to be in much better shape, but I’ve been dealing with a lot of ... well, let’s just say, my body became my last priority.”
“I feel you. Don’t worry. I’ll get you in shape. Guarantee it.”
“Great,” Chris said, a broad smile breaking across his face. Mason’s tone was so laid back and open that Chris immediately felt reassured. Some kind of mountainous stability and confidence resonated in the man’s voice.
“When do you want to start?” Mason asked, nonchalantly.
“Right away if you can, like tomorrow.”
“Sure, I can do that. What time were you thinking?”
“I get up pretty early.”
“Me too,” Mason said. “How early?”
Chris blurted out his next question. “Would five o’clock be okay?” His eagerness was making him a little punchy, but he felt more inspired by this three minute conversation than he had since the whole breakup started.
“Damn, five is really early,” Mason laughed.
“Well, we can do later if you want.”
“No, no, five is cool. I just...” Mason seemed to hesitate a beat. “I have to take my daughter to school by seven-thirty every day. Did you want to do it once a week or...?”
“About three or four days a week would be great,” Chris said.
“Okay, wow. Cool. You are really serious, I like that. I don’t know if Jessica told you, but I train a little differently than probably what you’re used to. I use muscle confusion: but we can talk about that tomorrow. I train at my house and at the park not far from you. I can text you the address. I have a little gym here I set up in the garage. ”
“Yeah,” Chris nodded, “That’d be great.”
“Now Chris, I’m a hard ass about time,” Mason said authoritatively. There was nothing sympathetic in his voice: it was a statement, not a warning or an apology. “So you be sure to...”
“Oh, yeah, no problem. I’m like, never late.”
“Good. ‘Cause I have a two-strikes-and-you’re-out rule,” he said flatly.
“Oh, okay. Wow.” Chris felt a little surprised that a personal trainer was that militant. Most of the trainers he’d ever heard of were often simpering, compromising, constantly having to accommodate their clients if they wanted to stay in business.
“If you’re serious, you’re serious,” Mason explained. “I don’t work with people who aren’t bought in.”
“I totally understand,” Chris said. His throat felt a little dry. Mason seemed like the kind of man who was very much accustomed to being in control, comfortable with telling other people what they needed to do, and unafraid of people’s disapproval. Exactly the type of personality that made Chris twinge with a bit of curiosity, a bit of tension, and needless to say, a bit of arousal.
“So, see you tomorrow,” Mason said. “Come stop by my place tomorrow at five. I’ll text you the address.”
“Yeah, great.” Chris said excitedly. “I’ll see you at five sharp.”
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CHAPTER 4
Setting up the personal training date put Chris in a good mood all day. He sailed through the pages he was writing in the thriller and stayed off the Internet, which was always a distraction for him. Facebook was his nemesis, along with The New York Times and YouTube. How was it that he could be writing one minute and somehow, seconds later, found himself watching a video of cats playing the piano?
His guiltiest distraction, however, was a fake profile he'd made on Facebook a few months back. His fake name was Luis Jose Sanchez, and all the pictures were stolen from an old college friend who had a smoking hot body and a Latin baby face that he knew Tim would fall for. He only made the profile because Tim had started acting so sketchy, and Chris wanted to see if he was flirting with other guys on Facebook or somewhere else. Of course, he was. Lots of guys. As soon as “Luis” friended Tim, the older man was complimenting him, making comments about his package, and asking if he ever came down to Escazu. Chris, shedding tears as he continued the bizarre deception, said ‘yes’, and asked if Tim would show him a good time.
He still remembered that cheesy, fucked-up promise Tim made: “I’ll show you more than a good time. I’ll show you eight inches.”
Chris only replied with an “lol”, and “I’m gonna rush down.” But he immediately went into the bathroom, ran a hot bath, and sobbed into the water for hours. He’d wondered why Tim was always so distant whenever he suggested they have sex, and now he knew why. When Tim came home that night, he acted like he was really sick, then went to bed early, and didn’t say anything about it. As the days passed, Chris continued to act like nothing was going on, until he could found some other proof that Tim was being unfaithful. It happened soon enough. Tim carelessly left his Facebook up on the computer one night. Chris found a series of messages to a couple different boys, all flirtatious or downright sexual.
He confronted Tim about it, and Tim acted as if he was the victim. He was furious that Chris
had looked at his Facebook profile, and in their argument about it, Chris held his ground for once. This was a deal breaker: either Tim had to stop talking to them, or it was over. Tim just laughed and said, “so be it.”
After they broke up, Chris swore he’d erase the "Luis" profile, but he couldn’t help himself. It was his only way of seeing Tim’s profile, and his morbid curiosity, which more often than not only left him feeling miserable afterward, kept him going back to Tim’s page every day or so. He’d spend forever sadly searching through the photos, many of which still had pictures of a much younger, much fresher, much happier looking him. He wanted to move on, but it was so hard not to drown himself in memories of the past, painful as it was.
The day wore on. He ordered lunch and dinner from a Thai place, and spent much of his afternoon actually working through a hardcopy of the manuscript. Marking something up with a red pen was so much more satisfying than working with a document lost in the ghost-world of the Internet; words and text trapped forever in a glowing screen, untouchable and distant. With the paper copy, Chris could spread the chapters out on the living room floor, see every single section’s markups at once, then rearrange them. Things were very close to being finished: just a few more revisions, a month or so of work, and his agent would be ready to start bargaining with the publisher who had already expressed interest in the story.
Around eight, the sun was setting and Chris finally sheafed all the pages back together. He had to go online to do some research on particular streets and buildings in Portland, as there was this whole chapter in which the protagonist was hunting down the villain at night, but Chris couldn’t remember the neighborhood well enough to do it from memory. After virtually wandering the streets of his hometown on Google earth for a minute, then writing notes on the hardcopy, he found himself in front of a cafe where Tim used to take him for lunch. Memories of the rare sunny days and moss-covered succulents of Portland made his heart sting. Back onto Facebook. He just had to find the picture of the two of them by that bridge: the one in which Denny and Alison were with them. God, that was such a wonderful day.
