by Blake, Penny
Good looking guys always make me nervous so my first instinct is to run away, but I chose to ignore it. Maybe it’s exhaustion or loneliness or the simple reality that I’m single now, so it’s perfectly appropriate for me to talk to cute strangers. But I find myself nodding and then following him around the corner and ordering a beer at the hotel bar.
“Want to talk about it?” he says as he sips his drink, peering at me over the rim of his glass with piercing brown eyes.
The intensity is too much, so I shift my gaze down at my wedding dress and gesture at it. “This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life and it’s absolutely, hands down the worst day ever. I was pretty much left at the altar…I think. When your fiancé breaks up with you ten minutes after you get married, does that still count as being left at the altar?”
“Technically I think you were dumped at the altar,” he says matter of factly. “And I’m sorry to hear it. The guy was obviously a huge douche. And a complete moron.”
I wrap my shawl tighter around myself and stare at my beer. "We were together for a long time. Half my life.” I throw my hands in the air. “All those years, a complete and total waste.”
“Well it’s not like you’re some old maid, and you’re awfully young to be getting married anyway. Why do you want to rush into that? Don’t you want to experience life a little more, take some time to figure yourself out before committing to just one person? You haven’t even had a chance to sew your wild oats yet.” He smiles again, and that dimple just kills me. I look away and play with a loose thread on my shawl.
“I just feel really confused right now. And rejected. Who’s going to want my wild oats anyway? No one wants my oats.”
He shakes his head. “You’re not going to have any problems out there in the dating world, trust me. You just need a little confidence. Men like that. And once some time has passed, this is all going to seem funny to you.”
I give him an incredulous look.
“I’m serious. This is going to make a great story someday. For instance, and I can’t believe I’m about to tell you this…” He rubs forehead and squinches his eyes shut, and I take a moment to admire the way his broad shoulders stretch his white t-shirt in all the right places. He even has nice hands, manly with neat square nails.
“My first job out of college was at a design firm,” he continues. “At the time, I was hitting the bars pretty hard. Thought I was hot shit too, young college grad working his way up at a good company. One evening I had a one night stand that led to a few more dates. The girl was clearly nuts, so I texted her a breakup message. Wrong decision, always. No one should ever text a breakup to someone they’ve been intimate with, it’s disrespectful. But I was stupid and she was hurt—and crazy. So she found out where I worked and proceeded to create a fake email account using my name, Drew Evans. She then used it to send an…um…an intimate picture that I’d sent to her after she sent a similar one to me.”’
“What was is of?”
He raises his eyebrows like I should know better.
“A penis picture?” I ask.
He nods once, then closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if the memory still pains him. “It was a bathroom mirror selfie that showed everything, including my face. So I had to explain the whole thing to everyone at my company, including the HR manager, and argue that while the picture was obviously me, the email most certainly was not. There was an extremely awkward public apology that happened. Some people believed that I didn’t send out the picture. I’m sure others still thought I did. But in the end, it didn’t matter anyway because I was laid off a week later. I was told it was for cost cutting reasons, but come on, everyone knew why I was really fired.” He shakes his head and sips his beer.
“Wow, that’s a seriously traumatic breakup,” I say, struggling not to smile.
“See, someday this”—he motions to my dress—“will make a good story. Comedy is tragedy plus time. You just need to give it a year.” He sips his drink. “Or three. Then maybe you’ll be telling it to some poor guy at a bar who’s just had a picture of his junk emailed to his entire office.”
I clink my glass against his. “Thanks for that,” I say. “And for giving me a tissue when I was crying.”
I cut my eyes over at him and take in his profile. The strong nose, square jaw and perfect bone structure. Was there ever a time when I looked at Brian and felt like this? Completely captivated and filled with longing?
“So what are you doing here?” I ask. “What brought you to this hotel?” Even though I know it’s silly, I can’t help wondering if fate is at work tonight. If I was meant to get dumped at the altar all along so I could meet someone better and discover what it’s like to fall completely, madly in love.
Drew gives me another half-smile and his eyes twinkle, and a stab of yearning radiates out from my chest. “I’m here for your wedding.”
“What?”
“I came with your sister.” He extends his hand out for me to shake. “I’m her boyfriend.”
Chapter 5
Last Call
“Oh,” is all I can manage. I’m deflated, but my dignity has been battered enough tonight, so I try to hide my disappointment. Besides, even if he wasn’t with my sister, it’s not like someone like him would ever be interested in someone like me.
Ah, so that’s why he approached me, I realize. Not because he saw me across the room and felt compelled to find out who I was. But because I’m his girlfriend’s sad sack sister, which obligates him to check up on me to see if they could call off the suicide watch.
“If you’d asked me where your sister was five minutes ago, I would have told you she was tired and went to sleep,” he says, oblivious to my sudden shift in mood. “But now that I’ve shared my most embarrassing break-up story, I might as well tell you the truth.”
“And what’s that?” I ask casually, taking a long gulp of my beer.
“Your sister and I are in a fight,” he says, staring sadly at the bottles ahead.
I remember April gushing about being in love with this guy earlier, so whatever issue they’re having at the moment can’t be the end of the world. It’s not like he just got dumped on his wedding day. But since he just offered me some encouragement when I needed it, I feel like I should listen to whatever he needs to get off his chest. I ask, “What are you two fighting about?”
“Here’s the thing. We’ve only been dating a few months, but she and I both agreed that from the very start, the whole thing—her and me—it just felt right, you know? So now, both of us happen to be looking for new apartments, so it seems logical that we move in together. Unfortunately, she doesn’t feel ready to take that step.”
“Not surprising. She’s a textbook definition commitment phobe.”
“Is that so?” he looks at me with a raised eyebrow, clearly eager for more inside information, but I’m not interested in getting into the nitty gritty of my sister’s romantic history with this schmoe, regardless of how hot he is. She’s still my sister, which entitles her to my unflagging loyalty, hot guys be damned.
“Anyway,” he continues. “That’s not what we’re fighting about. If she’s not ready to move in together yet, that’s fine. I get it. But at the same time, she’s looking for a roommate to split the bills with—a male roommate.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it tousled in an adorably sexy way, and I hate myself for noticing. “It just doesn’t make any sense to me. If she wants a female roommate, that’s one thing. But why does it have to be a guy? She’s even admitted to hooking up with more than one of her male roommates in the past, and now she’s telling me she wants to get another one”
“Well, if you haven’t noticed, my sister is very pretty.”
“Yeah, I’m aware of that.” He sips his beer.
“That’s why she doesn’t want a female roommate. Some women—not all women, but some—immediately dislike her because of the way she looks. I’ve seen it happen over the years, and that’s just
the way it is. Now men on the other hand, they have the opposite reaction. Them she can wrap around her little finger. You want your male roommate to disappear for a week because you have friends in town? Sure, no problem. You drank all the milk and ate his left over pizza? No worries, he’ll buy more. You’re a little low on rent?” I shrug and look over at Drew, who’s clearly irritated.
“If she ever needed help with the rent, she could come to me. I don’t want my girlfriend living off some other guy.”
I hold up a hand. “I’m not trying to say my sister has ever whored herself out. We both know she’s way too classy for that. But there’s a reason she prefers male roommates and I’m trying to help you understand it.” I finish the last of my beer.
“Want another one?” asks the bartender. “It’s last call.”
“No thanks, I’m good.” I say, gathering my dress underneath me and standing up. Drew raises his glass at the bartender and nods.
“Don’t worry too much about the whole roommate thing,” I tell Drew. “It’ll probably be a non-issue anyway. Brian and I were supposed to move in together and that’s not going to happen now. So if April needs a new roommate, you’re looking at her.”
Chapter 6
Survivor
Fast forward three months to me strutting into a gym while I’m a Survivor plays in the background and my hair flows diva-like behind me. No, I haven’t just walked into a cheesy 80’s movie. The song is playing from the speakers overhead and the fan is one of many used by the gym to cool off the place.
Today is my first day at Total Impact Fitness, and I’m wearing new running shoes, yoga pants and an oversized purple t-shirt that I probably shouldn’t have selected because it makes me look like a giant grape. But I’m hopeful that this whole diet and exercise thing will pan out and it won’t fit much longer anyway.
Now if we’d fast forwarded one month instead of three, you’d be witnessing a far more pitiful sight. I’d be on my sister’s couch in my pajamas, simultaneously crying and inhaling Oreos dipped in Duncan Hines vanilla frosting, the movie Titanic playing in an endless loop on the TV.
Or if my sister and Drew were at the apartment, a rarity since they usually shack up at his place, I’d be holed up in my bedroom, eating and crying while adding songs to a depressing breakup playlist entitled “When Forever Ends”. I eventually posted it on a random website dedicated to sad break up playlists, where it has yet to receive any ratings or comments.
By month two, I was only slightly less pathetic. Having heard nothing from Brian other than the box of possessions he mailed me, I began to feel emotionally healthy enough to stalk him.
I found his new girlfriend on Facebook and attempted to befriend her under a fake profile that I spent hours creating in hopes of it being convincing. Jacoby Jones was another horror movie aficionado who loved classic zombie films, slasher memorabilia, and just to mix it up, a healthy appreciation for ninja flicks.
She didn’t accept my friend request.
So I resorted to stalking them in person and was rewarded with the sight of them at one of the restaurants Brian and I used to go to. They sat side by side in a booth and looking at something on her phone together and cracking up.
The new girlfriend, like Brian, was a total nerd. She had a shiny, overly large forehead, and when she laughed, she looked unmistakably horse-like. But she was skinny, and that’s what killed me.
Brian always said he liked my body. When I talked about dieting he would shrug and ask why, as if he genuinely didn’t understand why I’d waste my time with such pointlessness. But if he really meant it, why would he throw away our entire relationship for a girl who didn’t have much else on me except weight? If I was skinnier, I’d be way prettier than this bitch.
After seeing them together, I cried so long and hard that my face was still red and puffy the next day. But it was the last time I stalked Brian, which felt like progress.
So now here I am at the gym, making even more progress.
I do some stretches beside the treadmill before stepping onboard. I’m not quite sure how the machine works, so I mess around with the buttons while trying to give the impression that I know what I’m doing. All the other members of Total Impact Fitness seem to be regulars, and I’m hoping to blend in.
I press “Personal Trainer Mode” and the treadmill shifts into motion. I walk along at a brisk clip, thumbing through a Maxim magazine that someone left behind.
As I flip through page after page of ridiculously attractive, half naked women, I’m annoyed that this is what men expect women to look like. When I skim an article about how to get a woman to go down on you on the first date, I’m filled with indignation. Then out of morbid curiosity, I read further and find an article about convincing your girlfriend to have anal sex with you.
So this is what I have to look forward to now that I’m single? Being compared to models, only so I can attract a guy who’ll try and coerce me into blowing him on the first night? And if I’m lucky, it’ll turn into a relationship where I’ll be pressured into unwanted backdoor action?
Ugh! No thanks! I toss the magazine on the floor. If this is what the male masses are reading, there’s something seriously wrong with the world. Just then, the treadmill makes a beeping sound and starts going so fast I have to sprint. To slow it down, I press a random button but it only goes faster.
Running as fast as I can, I start pushing the buttons haphazardly. But it’s gotten too fast and I can’t keep up. I feel myself falling backwards. And that’s the last thing I remember before everything goes black.
Chapter 7
Awakening
“Where am I?” I mutter groggily.
“Don’t worry,” says a voice above me. I blink my eyes to clear the mental haze, and it’s then I realize a man is kneeling beside me and cradling my head while I lay sprawled out on the floor. “An ambulance has been called. Just try not to move or you could make your injuries worse.”
“An ambulance?!” I shoot up in a sitting position, horrified at the thought of being hauled out on a stretcher while everyone in the gym stares and judges me.
I look around and realize it’s already too late. Everyone in the vicinity has stopped working out to watch the fat chick who wiped out on the treadmill. I hastily scramble to my feet. “I’m fine, just embarrassed. Actually,” I say, trying for humor, “I meant to do that. Now if you’ll excuse me—“
“Wait.” He holds on to my shoulder and I notice the Total Impact logo on his shirt marking him as a gym employee. I take a good look at his face and every last remnant of my self esteem shrivels up and dies.
Of course it wouldn’t be an old janitor or a butch lesbian who would find me. This is me we’re talking about, and since I’d just made an ass out of myself, of course the first responder would be an insanely hot guy.
Large and buff with black hair and midnight blue eyes, he grips my shoulder firmly. “You can’t go yet,” he says. “We need to get you checked out to make sure you don’t have a concussion. If you do, the gym could be liable.”
“No worries.” I pull away quickly. “I won’t sue. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get going.” I shuffle away before he can stop me and make a bee line for the front door.
He yells after me, “Call the gym later and let me know how you’re doing, okay? The name’s Rio.”
“Sure! Will do!” I yell as I run out of the gym for what I’m absolutely sure is the last time.
***
When Brian and I were in the early planning stages of the wedding, I signed up for yoga classes to get in shape for the big day. I had visions of myself carrying a yoga mat everywhere I went, getting ridiculously fit, and then constantly extolling the virtues of yoga the same annoying way my sister did.
Trouble was, my first day of class, I had Indian food for lunch, which sometimes disagrees with me. This was one of those instances, and with all the bending and stretching, I spent the first twenty minutes of class suppressing the most intense
, painful gas of my life.
We were instructed to do a pose that involved lying on your back and putting your knees up against your chest, and the minute I clasped my legs, I ripped one of the loudest, longest farts in human history.
I didn’t know what proper yoga etiquette was in this situation. Do I say excuse me, apologize to those around me or make a joking comment? And if it’s the latter, what might I say that would get a laugh? No one acknowledged my faux pas in any way, and while I was deciding on the best course of action, too much time passed and it would have been strange if I commented at all.
For the remainder of the class, I felt conspicuous and ashamed, and when it was time to do a pose that required a partner to sit on your back during a prolonged back bend, everyone was quick to duck away from me and break eye contact until I was the only one standing in the room without a partner. The lone yoga farter.
