Every Inch of You Page 2

  “Aubrey. Thank you.”

  “I want you to enjoy it. I have to go, I’ve got a lunch meeting. Call me after your session! Love you!”

  “Love you.”

  Damn you. That meant I didn’t have time to go home to get workout clothes and shoes before the session, so I had to go to the downtown Target during my lunch break. That meant that I had to eat Starbucks food for lunch, on the run. It meant that I didn’t have time to do any internet research on this Mitch person that she’d made an appointment with. It meant that I didn’t have any time to vent to Frankie about my ex. It meant that when I finally called my parents to discuss Aubrey’s upcoming nuptials, I was concurrently driving and eating an apple fritter, and they berated me for not caring enough about my sister.

  More importantly, it meant that when I got to the Good Form gym at exactly 7 pm, unshowered, in my new neon workout clothes (the only ones that fit me of the limited sizes and styles available at the small urban Target), I did not exactly look or feel my best when I walked in and caught sight of the most beautiful shirtless male specimen I had ever seen in person.

  It was a neighborhood fitness center, at the corner of a commercial street in North Portland. It wasn’t a strip mall gym, and it wasn’t a boutique gym. It looked like a remodeled studio or warehouse. It was the perfect size, as far as I was concerned. There was a reception area at the entrance, with a clean modern vibe. It wasn’t floor to ceiling windows, so the members didn’t have to feel like they were on display for passersby while they were exercising, but there were ample windows high up along the exterior walls, and high ceilings, to make use of as much natural light as possible. It was evening, and the interior lighting was beautiful. Bright enough, but flattering. There were tons of plants near the entrance, and a water dispenser filled with cucumbers, lemons and limes. Spa water at a gym! I loved the environment immediately.

  The woman at the reception desk had short hair and looked like she could lift me over her head while hiking up Mt. Hood. I told her I had an appointment with Mitch. She smiled and told me I could find him towards the back of the main area, in his office. I thanked her and made my way towards the back, past the elliptical machines and treadmills, recumbent stationary bicycles, and various large exercise equipment that I did not know the names of. The music that played from the ceiling speakers wasn’t ear-splittingly loud. To the side, I could see two more rooms with glass doors. In one room I could see a cardio class in session. In the other room, it looked like people were climbing the walls.

  As I turned my attention towards the back of the main room, I saw a tall man, who was standing with his back to me. He was holding a T-shirt in one hand, his hands on his hips, as he watched another man bench press. His light brown hair was short in the back, messy on top. He wasn’t super muscular, he just looked so incredibly fit. As soon as I saw him, I wanted to touch him. Not necessarily in a sexual way, but in the way that you instinctively reach out to touch a statue to fully appreciate it. I slowed down my pace, so I could stare at his perfect butt a few seconds longer. I didn’t see a lot of great man butts on a regular basis, sadly.

  He could probably feel me staring at his glutes, because he turned around and watched me, as I walked towards the door to what I assumed was an office. I couldn’t look away from him. His front was even more gorgeous than his back. His face was so handsome, but my eyes were immediately drawn to his perfect torso. I swear he was glowing.

  I forced myself to look up and meet his gaze as I passed by. His eyes were wide, and I saw a flash of recognition and, I thought, appreciation. He looked so familiar to me. I figured I’d seen him in a local Nike ad. Nike headquarters was based in a suburb of Portland, so there was no shortage of athletic people around--but few were as beautiful as this man who was giving me a look that I couldn’t interpret.

  My face felt hot. My mouth felt dry. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten to bring a bottle of water. Or a towel. Or my dignity. I was clearly a fitness noob.

  I walked up to the open office door and knocked. There was no one inside.

  “Hey, Viv,” said a sexy voice behind me.

  I turned around. The gorgeous male specimen was looking at me, but he wasn’t smiling.

  “You’re looking for me,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  You can say that again. “You’re Mitch?” Oh Aubrey, you magnificent control freak, I love you.

  He grinned and put on his T-shirt, slowly, like a reverse strip tease. I caught my breath. He looked me in the eyes as he let go of the bottom of his T-shirt, shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah,” he said. “I am. But you’d probably remember me as Fat Brad.”

  It was the strangest thing.

  He said those words, and as I stared into his green eyes, his face morphed into the face of a chubby teenage boy, and I forgot where I was. I forgot when I was. It was surreal.

  Brad.

  My Brad.

  “Brad Mitchell?”

  He blinked and barely nodded, as he brushed past me and went into the office.

  Brad Mitchell was my friend from high school in Seattle. He was one of my best friends. We’d lost touch and I hadn’t seen him since we’d graduated. People at our school—myself not included—used to call him Fat Brad, to distinguish him from another boy who grew up in our Mercer Island neighborhood named Brad. That guy was called Hot Brad.

  Well well well, who’s the Hot Brad now?

  “You can come into my office,” he said.

  I hadn’t moved. I was staring at the space where he had stood, remembering the hours and hours I had spent with him, the two of us alone, in the basement of his parents’ house junior year. He was the first boy I had ever kissed. I had suggested we practice kissing on each other. We kissed a lot.

  I had repeatedly made out with this man—the most beautiful ab-mazing male specimen I had ever seen.

  I turned to face him and stepped inside his office. “Brad Mitchell?” I still couldn’t believe it.

  What is happening?

  “I go by Mitch here. The name Brad had…negative connotations for me. You understand. Have a seat.” He sat down at the desk chair and gestured towards a bench.

  “I never called you Fat Brad,” I said. “But wow. You look so…Wow.”

  He looked up at me, all gorgeous and painfully expressionless. “Have a seat.”

  “It’s so good to see you,” I said, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. I straightened up my posture and sucked in my new little pooch belly. “I tried to get in touch with you for so long.”

  “I know.” That’s all he said. No apology for never responding. No feigned regret for not keeping in touch.

  He had changed his phone number and left town after he graduated, and he’d never responded to my emails. I gave up a few years ago, but I had regretted losing touch with him, and all of the reasons that led him to lose touch with me, all through college. It had somehow never occurred to me that I might find him in Portland. It had definitely never occurred to me that I might find him HOT.

  Transformed or not, I was so happy to see him. I had missed him. I wanted to hug him. I put my bag down on the ground and started to reach out to hug him, but he backed away in his chair. Women must try to touch him all the time. I was just some carbo-loaded single lady who was trying to grope him now. I finally sat down in the bench.

  I’ve been benched.

  No Brad for you!

  “What’s it been,” he said. “Eight years?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you move to Portland?”

  “Two years ago. When did you move to Portland?”

  He didn’t answer. He handed me a clipboard with some forms, and a pen. “Welcome to Good Form. Please fill out these medical history forms and this brief questionnaire. No need to go into great detail with the answers, since you were supposed to get here earlier.”

  “Sorry about that, I—”

  “Usually I’d have you fill it out in a pdf form before you
got here, but I forgot to get your email address from your sister when she called.”

  “I do still use the same email address I had when we were in high school. The one I kept emailing you from for years even though you never responded…”

  It was as though he didn’t even hear me. “This questionnaire will be filled out every week, we’ll use it to track your progress. So just fill that out quickly. I’ll be right back.” He got up and went out the door, leaving me to fill out my forms and try to recall exactly why Brad/Mitch seemed to hate me so much.

  We had been total besties the first year that my family had moved from the suburb of Kirkland, Washington to Mercer Island, a small upper class island within the Seattle metropolitan area. We lived a block away from each other and walked to and from school together junior year. We hung out in his basement after school, doing homework, reading and watching TV, and eventually I had suggested we practice kissing on each other. Brad was, at the time, shall we say—pudgy. But I thought he was cute, and he was so funny and nice to me. I closed my eyes every time. I pretended he was Leonardo DiCaprio, or Justin Timberlake (the singer, not the cat). As it turned out he was a great kisser—a natural. Brad’s lips were so soft, his tongue was so smooth. He always tasted like spearmint. We both got to be very good kissers after a lot of practice. But no one else knew what we were up to. I made him promise not to tell anyone.

  Senior year, I sort of blossomed, and got to be more popular, so I had more friends to hang out with. It happens. We didn’t spend as much time together, but I still went to his house on weekends quite often, because I didn’t know anyone else who liked to read novels for fun, or who liked to watch Twin Peaks, Lost and 30 Rock.

  But then he asked me to prom, and I had to say no to him. Someone else had already asked me. I felt bad about it. I really did. But he was so mad at me. He never forgave me for the rest of senior year.

  Apparently, he still hadn’t.

  And here I was, looking and feeling worse than ever in my life.

  But I refused to feel bad about things. I was too happy to see him, and genuinely happy for him. Seeing his yummy face and body had given me even more of a rush than a box of gourmet donuts ever could.

  When he returned to the office, he handed me a bottle of water, took the clipboard from me and read through what I’d written. I stared at his hands. Beautiful hands. No rings. But it was certainly possible that he didn’t wear one at the gym.

  What is your ultimate goal for these personal training sessions? — To drop two dress sizes by June.

  Why? — So my sister will be happy with how I look in her wedding photos in June.

  How much water did you drink today? –- Not enough (busy).

  What are your strengths? — Determined. Organized. Efficient. Clear communicator.

  What are your weaknesses? — Lack of portion control. Pastries.

  How do you rate your body on a scale of 1 to 10? — 6.75

  How do you rate your energy level on a scale of 1 to 10? — 7

  How do you rate your confidence level on a scale of 1 to 10? — 8

  How do you rate your sense of well-being on a scale of 1 to 10? — 7

  “6.75?” he said, looking me up and down. “That’s pretty specific.”

  “I guess I’m comparing how I see myself now to how I usually look.”

  “How do you usually look?”

  “I mean…I’ve been overindulging for the past few months, not as active as I usually am. Also, I didn’t get a chance to shower today…”

  He nodded. “Your sister filled me in, a bit. About your ex, I mean. I didn’t know you hadn’t showered.” He wrinkled his nose at me.

  I forced a laugh and shifted around on the bench. “What did she tell you about my ex?”

  “Not important. So you’re doing this because you want to make your sister happy?”

  “Yeah, I mean, she’s the one paying for these sessions, so…”

  “You don’t have any interest in making yourself happy?”

  “Well. Sure. Of course, yes.”

  “So that hasn’t changed.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Or would you say that you only care about how you look and what other people think about you?”

  “No, Brad, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Please call me Mitch when we’re at the gym.”

  “Does that mean we’ll be seeing each other outside of the gym?”

  “Not if I can help it. Back to the questionnaire. Is there any part of you that’s doing this because you care about how you feel about yourself?”

  “Sure. I see where you’re headed with this.”

  “Or do you only do things that other people want you to do?”

  I scowled at him. “Why don’t you tell me. Am I selfish and unconcerned about other people’s feelings or am I overly concerned about what other people think about me? It can’t be both.”

  “Actually, it can be both and it often is. I’m going to write TBD, we’ll revisit that next week.”

  “Great. Sounds good.” He was being such a dick. I understood why, conceptually, but I wasn’t going to let him dictate the tone of our reunion. “This place is great. It’s your gym? You started this business?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s so impressive.”

  “Yep.”

  “Your parents must be so proud of you.”

  “They are.”

  “How are they?”

  “They’re good, thanks.”

  “Do you make them call you Mitch?”

  “No.”

  “Does your wife call you Mitch?” I blurted it out.

  He laughed. “No.” He kept his eyes and voice lowered, but I heard him loud and clear. “I’m definitely single.”

  I cleared my throat and nearly drank the entire bottle of water, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough to quench my thirst.

  “Let’s get to it, shall we?”

  We stood up. “Look, I just want to be clear—I am doing this because of my sister and for her, but not because I want her to like me. She does like me. But she wants me to fit into a specific dress that she bought for me, for her wedding in June.”

  He nodded, though he wasn’t looking at me, he was busy filing away my papers.

  I continued. “I’d do anything for her at this point. She came to visit me three months ago when she knew I was sad and she bought me groceries and cleaned my bathroom for me even though she has a ridiculously busy schedule.”

  “Why were you sad?”

  “Because I had just broken up with my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah. She told me you got dumped. And that you’ve been eating and drinking your feelings. And that he’s going to be at the wedding with his hot fiancée.”

  “She said she’s hot?”

  “Yep.”

  We walked out of the office, to the main room. It felt like everyone was watching us, but I’m sure all eyes were always on him. I’m quite certain that if anyone other than Brad Mitchell had been treating me like this, I would have left by then—even if he looked that good. Probably.

  “Great, so you’re all caught up then.”

  “Not yet. I need to know how you feel about your ex and his hot fiancée.”

  I searched his face for clues—was he serious? Was he teasing me? Was he being mean? This person that I’d once known so well was now impossible to read. I was going to keep my cards close to the vest too, then. I shrugged. “I wish them well.”

  “Do you?” He was studying my face too.

  “I don’t not wish them well.”

  “That’s too bad. Revenge can be a really strong motivator for working out.”

  “I want my ex to come in his pants when he sees me at the wedding and then drop dead from regret.”

  He started to grin, then controlled it. “That’s more like it,” he said.

  “However,” I said. “I believe in forgiveness.”

  “That’s adorable. U
nfortunately, forgiveness is not a strong motivator when it comes to achieving peak fitness levels.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says the one of us who’s certified in personal fitness training.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll be the first person in history who gets in shape because she’s so forgiving of people’s past mistakes.”

  He leaned in and spoke to me in a deep, low voice. “No, Vivian. You’re going to get in shape because I’m going to whip you into shape.”

  The nearness of him, despite his attitude, almost made my knees buckle. The words felt like a quick slap to my ass, in a way that made all of my nerve endings come alive. What was happening? That this sexy man was the sweet and adoring boy I once knew, did not compute in my addled brain. My inner sixteen year old was swooning. My inner twenty-six year old was flustered and bewildered. My outer twenty-six year old was flooding her panties.

  I held my breath until he moved away from me.

  He gestured for me to follow him towards the bank of treadmills. “In addition to our private sessions three times a week, I’d encourage you to join our classes at least twice a week. Have you ever taken a yoga class?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Fear of public queefing. “I don’t like carrying around a sticky mat, and I don’t want to use one that doesn’t belong to me, so…I just do yoga at home. With videos.”

  “Got it. Have you used a treadmill before?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He adjusted the settings on a very high tech treadmill for me. “It’s a ninety minute first session tonight. We’ll focus on proper form and breathing techniques for different exercises. But you’ll usually get an hour with me. You can spend as much time at the gym as you want, of course, but don’t overdo it. Our bodies need to rest in order for our muscle tissues to grow. I’d like you to warm up on this for fifteen minutes, and then meet me in that back room over there, with the climbing wall.”

  “Are you going to make me climb the wall?” It sounded dirty the way I said it, but I honestly didn’t mean it that way.

  “Not tonight.” He grinned at me. Was he flirting with me now? “That’s the room where we do private sessions.”