well? Because I know this guy with a finance degree he’s not putting to use; maybe—”
“Okay, fine,” I mutter. “I’ll get you into a tennis skirt, but promise me one thing: that you’re not doing it for Devon Patterson.”
Chloe runs a tongue along the front of her teeth. “Okay. I promise.”
She’s lying. We both know it.
Hell of it is, I also get it. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d have done anything to impress the girl I loved.
Here’s hoping Chloe’s story has a happier ending than mine.
Chapter 8
Chloe
Two weeks later
“You have to come to our Fourth of July party.”
Michael moves around to the other side of the bench and switches out the weight.
“Okay, let’s try this,” he says, moving into spotting position. “I think you’re ready to press a bit more weight.”
I make no movement to grab the bar. Instead I stare up at him.
“Chloe.”
“Beefcake.”
“Get on it, Chloe. We only have twenty minutes before my next client gets here.”
“Ugh, Mrs. Rubio?” I ask, reluctantly wrapping my fingers around the metal bar. “She’s totally looking for a fling, you know.”
“Chloe, most of my clients are looking for a fling.”
“I’m not.”
“Thank God for that. Okay, you ready?”
I glance dubiously at the weights, which are way bigger than anything I’ve tried so far. “If this falls on my chest, can it, like, smash my heart?”
He moves his hands under the bar, legs braced. “Well, don’t drop it, then. But I’m here if you do.”
“You know, if you wanted to kill me, this would be a brilliant way to do it,” I say as I move the bar off the rests.
I’m already sweating, and I haven’t even lowered it yet.
“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it the second you started calling me Beefcake, ” he says. “No more talking. Focus.”
So I do. I get through only seven reps, but Beefcake looks pleased.
“What now?” I ask, wiping the sweat from my face with the towel he hands me and readjusting my ponytail.
But Michael’s not looking to me. All of his attention’s on the other side of the gym, and I know before turning my head who he’s looking at. There’s only one person that makes Michael go all soft and quiet like that.
I glance over my shoulder, and immediately I’m on my feet. I figured Kristin had come to flirt and make sure everyone noticed her new honey highlights that she’s been claiming are from the sun, cough cough, bullshit, but one look at her tearstained face tells me that something major is up.
Kristin would never be so gauche as to be an ugly crier, but she doesn’t exactly look her best with tearstained cheeks.
She’d show her blotchy face in public only if she was really, really upset.
My heart is in my stomach as I dash over to her, my mind already sorting through the worst possibilities.
Car accident.
Melanoma.
Rabies.
“Kristy?”
She sniffs. “I hate when you call me that.”
I drag her into the hallway. “What’s going on?”
Her chin wobbles just a little and my heart breaks, but then her face freezes for a second, and she looks me up and down. “Have you lost weight?”
Okay, so we’re probably not talking about a cancer diagnosis of a family member then if she’s worrying about my weight.
“Um, I don’t know,” I say in response.
“What do you mean you don’t know? What does the scale say?”
“Michael made me get rid of the scale.”
Kristin’s head pulls back in horror. “Get rid of the scale?”
“Is this why you’re all blotchy?” I snap. “Because I may or may not have lost weight?”
Although I’m pretty sure I have. Lost weight, I mean. I’m not lying about Michael forbidding me to pay attention to the scale, but my clothes are looser and everything feels less wobbly. I’m not a size two or anything, and I still feel like a jumbo loaf of Wonder Bread next to my sister, but . . .
“Seriously, why are you crying?” I ask, feeling atypically impatient with
“Okay, fine,” I mutter. “I’ll get you into a tennis skirt, but promise me one thing: that you’re not doing it for Devon Patterson.”
Chloe runs a tongue along the front of her teeth. “Okay. I promise.”
She’s lying. We both know it.
Hell of it is, I also get it. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d have done anything to impress the girl I loved.
Here’s hoping Chloe’s story has a happier ending than mine.
Chapter 8
Chloe
Two weeks later
“You have to come to our Fourth of July party.”
Michael moves around to the other side of the bench and switches out the weight.
“Okay, let’s try this,” he says, moving into spotting position. “I think you’re ready to press a bit more weight.”
I make no movement to grab the bar. Instead I stare up at him.
“Chloe.”
“Beefcake.”
“Get on it, Chloe. We only have twenty minutes before my next client gets here.”
“Ugh, Mrs. Rubio?” I ask, reluctantly wrapping my fingers around the metal bar. “She’s totally looking for a fling, you know.”
“Chloe, most of my clients are looking for a fling.”
“I’m not.”
“Thank God for that. Okay, you ready?”
I glance dubiously at the weights, which are way bigger than anything I’ve tried so far. “If this falls on my chest, can it, like, smash my heart?”
He moves his hands under the bar, legs braced. “Well, don’t drop it, then. But I’m here if you do.”
“You know, if you wanted to kill me, this would be a brilliant way to do it,” I say as I move the bar off the rests.
I’m already sweating, and I haven’t even lowered it yet.
“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it the second you started calling me Beefcake, ” he says. “No more talking. Focus.”
So I do. I get through only seven reps, but Beefcake looks pleased.
“What now?” I ask, wiping the sweat from my face with the towel he hands me and readjusting my ponytail.
But Michael’s not looking to me. All of his attention’s on the other side of the gym, and I know before turning my head who he’s looking at. There’s only one person that makes Michael go all soft and quiet like that.
I glance over my shoulder, and immediately I’m on my feet. I figured Kristin had come to flirt and make sure everyone noticed her new honey highlights that she’s been claiming are from the sun, cough cough, bullshit, but one look at her tearstained face tells me that something major is up.
Kristin would never be so gauche as to be an ugly crier, but she doesn’t exactly look her best with tearstained cheeks.
She’d show her blotchy face in public only if she was really, really upset.
My heart is in my stomach as I dash over to her, my mind already sorting through the worst possibilities.
Car accident.
Melanoma.
Rabies.
“Kristy?”
She sniffs. “I hate when you call me that.”
I drag her into the hallway. “What’s going on?”
Her chin wobbles just a little and my heart breaks, but then her face freezes for a second, and she looks me up and down. “Have you lost weight?”
Okay, so we’re probably not talking about a cancer diagnosis of a family member then if she’s worrying about my weight.
“Um, I don’t know,” I say in response.
“What do you mean you don’t know? What does the scale say?”
“Michael made me get rid of the scale.”
Kristin’s head pulls back in horror. “Get rid of the scale?”
“Is this why you’re all blotchy?” I snap. “Because I may or may not have lost weight?”
Although I’m pretty sure I have. Lost weight, I mean. I’m not lying about Michael forbidding me to pay attention to the scale, but my clothes are looser and everything feels less wobbly. I’m not a size two or anything, and I still feel like a jumbo loaf of Wonder Bread next to my sister, but . . .
“Seriously, why are you crying?” I ask, feeling atypically impatient with
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