back to being platonic friends.
And my being around campus that last year would have been unbearable. For all of us.
So I crammed what few remaining credits I needed into the summer courses and then slunk away into the night with a degree I no longer was sure I wanted.
I tell Chloe none of this.
Obviously.
But she prods anyway.
“So is it like a personal health major, or . . . ?” Chloe prods.
“Finance.”
“Finance?” Chloe grabs the table dramatically like there’s just been an earthquake. “What the hell are you doing pouring shots of Fireball on Friday nights when you have a finance degree from . . . ?”
“NYU,” I say reluctantly.
Chloe slumps back in her seat. “My world has been rocked. Beefcake, honey . . . not that I’m not grateful that you’re trying to banish the wobble from my butt every morning, but don’t you think you’re a little overqualified? Couldn’t you get a job in business?”
I pick up another rib even though I’m not hungry. Anything to prevent me from having to actually talk with the nonstop chatterbox.
Her eyes narrow and she leans forward. “You didn’t even try to get a job in business, did you?”
I take a bite of rib and chew unenthusiastically.
Said eyes narrow even farther. “Where are you from, Michael?”
“Told you. New York.”
“No, I mean, where are you really from? What part of New York?”
I set the rib aside, relenting. “Manhattan.”
“Dodgy hole-in-the-wall Manhattan, or uppity brunch-set Manhattan?”
Another sip of beer.
She lets out a huge laugh. “Dude. You’re not from the wrong side of the tracks; your family probably built the tracks, huh?”
Now is probably not the time to tell her that I’m loosely related to the Vanderbilts on my mother’s side.
“Beefcake,” she hisses in a whisper. “Are you a rich kid?”
“Recovering rich kid,” I say, giving her a firm look to indicate that the conversation’s over.
She ignores this. Of course.
“Cool,” she says in an awed voice. “Did you do some dastardly deed to get you cut out of the family?”
For years, I’ve been good at hiding my emotions. It’s sort of a necessary acquired skill when you’re secretly in love with your best friend’s girlfriend.
And when it all went to hell, I’d gone from hiding my emotions to not even feeling them.
But I guess I’m wrong about that, because Chloe Bellamy’s cheeky, off-the-cuff question feels like a knife in my chest. Even worse, I can tell by the way her too-big smile falls from her face that she knows it.
“Hey.” Her voice is gentle, and I hate that. “I didn’t mean—”
“Can we not?” I ask. The question comes out as an order, and I hope she doesn’t hear it for what it really is: a plea to drop it.
And although it probably pains her— anything involving silence probably pains Chloe Bellamy—she simply gives a little nod. “You got it, Beefcake. No prying. But only because we have better things to discuss, like exactly how many millions of miles I am going to have to run to get rid of the calories from this dinner.”
My shoulders relax.
I’ve got to give her credit. She’s got a way of putting me at ease. When she’s not drilling into my past with a power drill, of course.
“Remember, it’s not about what the scale says; it’s how you feel,” I say out of habit.
Chloe snorts. “Please. Quit that skinny-person babble. You said you wanted me to have confidence, right? Well, how about we make that a little more tangible? How about you get me to the point that I’m confident enough to trade in these man shorts for a flippy little tennis skirt?”
I’m silent, waiting for the rest of it, but she just stares at me.
“What?” she asks finally. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Well, the way you said that makes it sound like I’m going to accomplish this goal in exchange for something.”
“Beefcake. You’re my personal trainer. It’s your job . Are they not paying you
And my being around campus that last year would have been unbearable. For all of us.
So I crammed what few remaining credits I needed into the summer courses and then slunk away into the night with a degree I no longer was sure I wanted.
I tell Chloe none of this.
Obviously.
But she prods anyway.
“So is it like a personal health major, or . . . ?” Chloe prods.
“Finance.”
“Finance?” Chloe grabs the table dramatically like there’s just been an earthquake. “What the hell are you doing pouring shots of Fireball on Friday nights when you have a finance degree from . . . ?”
“NYU,” I say reluctantly.
Chloe slumps back in her seat. “My world has been rocked. Beefcake, honey . . . not that I’m not grateful that you’re trying to banish the wobble from my butt every morning, but don’t you think you’re a little overqualified? Couldn’t you get a job in business?”
I pick up another rib even though I’m not hungry. Anything to prevent me from having to actually talk with the nonstop chatterbox.
Her eyes narrow and she leans forward. “You didn’t even try to get a job in business, did you?”
I take a bite of rib and chew unenthusiastically.
Said eyes narrow even farther. “Where are you from, Michael?”
“Told you. New York.”
“No, I mean, where are you really from? What part of New York?”
I set the rib aside, relenting. “Manhattan.”
“Dodgy hole-in-the-wall Manhattan, or uppity brunch-set Manhattan?”
Another sip of beer.
She lets out a huge laugh. “Dude. You’re not from the wrong side of the tracks; your family probably built the tracks, huh?”
Now is probably not the time to tell her that I’m loosely related to the Vanderbilts on my mother’s side.
“Beefcake,” she hisses in a whisper. “Are you a rich kid?”
“Recovering rich kid,” I say, giving her a firm look to indicate that the conversation’s over.
She ignores this. Of course.
“Cool,” she says in an awed voice. “Did you do some dastardly deed to get you cut out of the family?”
For years, I’ve been good at hiding my emotions. It’s sort of a necessary acquired skill when you’re secretly in love with your best friend’s girlfriend.
And when it all went to hell, I’d gone from hiding my emotions to not even feeling them.
But I guess I’m wrong about that, because Chloe Bellamy’s cheeky, off-the-cuff question feels like a knife in my chest. Even worse, I can tell by the way her too-big smile falls from her face that she knows it.
“Hey.” Her voice is gentle, and I hate that. “I didn’t mean—”
“Can we not?” I ask. The question comes out as an order, and I hope she doesn’t hear it for what it really is: a plea to drop it.
And although it probably pains her— anything involving silence probably pains Chloe Bellamy—she simply gives a little nod. “You got it, Beefcake. No prying. But only because we have better things to discuss, like exactly how many millions of miles I am going to have to run to get rid of the calories from this dinner.”
My shoulders relax.
I’ve got to give her credit. She’s got a way of putting me at ease. When she’s not drilling into my past with a power drill, of course.
“Remember, it’s not about what the scale says; it’s how you feel,” I say out of habit.
Chloe snorts. “Please. Quit that skinny-person babble. You said you wanted me to have confidence, right? Well, how about we make that a little more tangible? How about you get me to the point that I’m confident enough to trade in these man shorts for a flippy little tennis skirt?”
I’m silent, waiting for the rest of it, but she just stares at me.
“What?” she asks finally. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Well, the way you said that makes it sound like I’m going to accomplish this goal in exchange for something.”
“Beefcake. You’re my personal trainer. It’s your job . Are they not paying you
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