Every Inch of You Page 4

  Next day, Hot Brad stood up on a table and yelled out in the middle of the cafeteria at lunch: “Hey, anybody want to go to prom with Fat Brad? He asked Vivian but she said ‘no’ cuz she’s going with me! Anyone? Anyone? No? Sorry, man. We tried.” He finished off by tossing a hot dog, fries, and a handful of Cheetos at me and telling me to eat my feelings. He was so generous. His idiot buddies followed suit.

  Vivian was there, sitting frozen at the popular table, staring down at her food. I know, because I watched her the entire time, until I threw my tray down on the floor and stormed out of the cafeteria.

  She kept trying to apologize to me after that. I didn’t respond to her calls, texts or emails. I didn’t come to the door when she went over, told my parents I didn’t want to see her. They had been under the deluded impression that Vivian and I had been dating and we just broke up. She tried to explain that Other Brad had seen her walking home with the book and the red rose and forced her to tell him who gave her the rose.

  I didn’t want to hear her excuses. I not only felt used and then tossed away like some toy she’d outgrown, but I was publicly humiliated by the worst person I knew.

  Needless to say, I didn’t go to prom. Later I’d heard through the grapevine that Vivian and Hot Brad did it in a hotel room on prom night. I immediately unfriended her on Facebook.

  She kept emailing and texting me even after we’d graduated. She wanted me to know how much she’d loved The Hunger Games and that she pictured me as Peeta when she read it. When I moved to Portland to go to college I changed my number. My parents sold their house on Mercer Island and moved to a cheaper suburb, so her parents lost touch with them and I guess she didn’t know that I had moved to Portland.

  She’d emailed me the night after the pilot episode of Game of Thrones had aired on HBO to ask if I’d seen it. I had, of course, and I was dying to talk to her about it. But I didn’t. She emailed me the week the movie version of The Hunger Games premiered. I didn’t reply. By then, I had my new body and had already had sex with more women than I’d ever dreamed of having sex with in my entire lifetime.

  So that’s what happened. It’s not like she left me at the alter, but believe me—when we were kissing in my basement I was pretty sure she’d be my wife one day, and I did not enjoy the realization that she wouldn’t even go to prom with me, much less down the aisle.

  I never really thought about whether or not I believed in fate before—but I also hadn’t believed in love at first sight until the first time I saw Vivian Sparks. I moved to Portland to start my life over, so I didn’t have to see anyone from high school again—especially Vivian. But then I find out that Vivian moved to Portland to be with her boyfriend and her boyfriend dumped her, which led to her weight gain and her sister’s decision to hire her a personal trainer? Come on. We were destined to be reunited—so I could make her understand what it felt like for me back then. I’m not saying she’s the fat one now—she’s not. But she’ll want me as much as I wanted her. That’s my secret goal for our sessions, and I won’t stop until we’ve achieved it.

  Is it her fault that people treated me like shit just because I was overweight? Of course not. Do I understand why she wanted to lose her virginity to an asshole who bullied me instead of to me—her best guy friend who loved her? Sort of. Is it fair that I blame her for all of my high school misery? Absolutely not. Is life fair? NO. If anything, I’ve learned how to turn my anger and frustration into workout fuel, and that will be my gift to her.

  Fuck.

  Thinking about making out with her in my basement and how she’d just shown up, out of the blue, into my well-planned structured life just made me confused and angry again and somehow even hornier. As much fun as I was going to have torturing her with ab work, I knew this wasn’t going to be easy for me.

  I could handle my feelings about her in the past. Handling my feelings for her now, in the flesh, would be something else entirely. Since opening the gym, I usually only agreed to train men, happily-married women or couples and Baby Boomers, so I was less inclined to be attracted to the women, and always had an easy out if a client tried to hit on me. If an attractive woman came in saying she needed a trainer to get her ready for bikini season, she was assigned to Sebastian the gay trainer, no discussion. If a woman had just gotten dumped and wanted to get back into shape so she could feel good about herself again—she’d be training with anyone else but me. Unless that woman was Vivian Sparks.

  Christ, I felt sixteen again.

  Especially when I got a text from Vivian.

  It was a photo of a salad. She must have gotten takeout. Huge salad with shredded cheddar cheese, blue cheese crumbs, balls of fried chicken. Okay, it looked delicious, but she could not continue to eat like that if she’s training with me.

  I wrote back: Enjoy it. In the future, while you’re training with me, here’s what your salads will look like: Organic Romaine lettuce, organic raw kale massaged in olive oil (to make it easier to digest), tomatoes, orange or yellow organic bell peppers, avocado, pistachio nuts and or pumpkin or sunflower seeds for crunch, olive oil and lemon juice for dressing. As a parmesan cheese sub you can top it all off with nutritional yeast flakes.

  Vivian: If that’s a joke I’m not laughing.

  Me: Bragg’s nutritional yeast flakes have a delicious umami flavor and lots of B vitamins. Look into it.

  Vivian: What about croutons?

  Me: No croutons.

  Vivian: What about gluten free croutons.

  Me: Gluten free does not = fat free and there aren’t enough nutrients to justify addition to an otherwise healthy salad. Do you really want to argue with me about croutons?

  Vivian: Kind of.

  Me: Good night. Don’t forget to stretch thoroughly before bed and first thing in the morning. And NO pastries!

  She didn’t write back. She was probably too busy enjoying her last fully-loaded salad for months.

  I did a hundred crunches, thirty burpees, and jumped rope before I was finally able to get her out of my head and get on with my night.

  Chapter Four

  VIVIAN

  Why was I so attracted to men who hated refined sugar products?

  After breakfast, before getting dressed for work, I sang the LeAnn Rimes How Do I Live (Without You) song to my croissants and Danishes as I packed them up to give them to my landlady/neighbor Mrs. Friar. I had to text her before going out to knock on her door, because she never hears when people are at her door. Hard of hearing. Hence, my wholehearted singing in the rain.

  When I received textual confirmation that she would open the door for me, I left my house. I walked slowly. Stiffly. I was sore. All over. I had tried to stretch in bed before getting up, but I hurt all over, Justin Timberlake kept climbing all over me, and honestly I just didn’t want to. The stiff muscles reminded me of Brad. Despite his cool reception of me, I was sure I could wear him down eventually. We had gotten along so well before everything went wrong. Surely he remembered that part of our history too.

  Even if he didn’t currently look like every guy that I’d pinned to my secret Pinterest “Hot Guys” board, I would still have been so happy to reconnect with him. If he insisted on continuing to be a stubborn ass about what happened senior year, after all these years, then I would simply let him get it out of his system.

  “Your rebound relationship with carbs is over already?” asked Mrs. Friar.

  I had to laugh at that. She knew about my ex’s ban on bad carbs, and had criticized him about it relentlessly. She gave me contraband cookies whenever I went to visit her on my own.

  “Yeah. We had a nice fling. I’m starting a workout regimen and eating healthier.”

  “Oh yeah? You gonna start dating again?” she asked, eyeing my baggy sweats and Snoopy sweatshirt.

  “Eventually. Probably. Yes. Definitely.”

  “Good. Not that no good ex-boyfriend again, I hope.”

  “Nope. This ship has sailed.”

  “What shit’s for s
ale?”

  “No, this ship—me—this ship has sailed,” I yelled.

  “Oh. Good girl.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Friar? You got anyone special? Anyone not so special? Any prospects?” Mrs. Friar was a widow, approximately sixty (give or take five years) and had been single, as far as I knew, for as long as I’d known her.

  “I got two internet boyfriends right now.”

  “Two?”

  “One’s good at sexting and he makes me laugh, but he’s a bad speller. The other’s good at spelling and we both watch the same shows, but he’s very serious.”

  “Oh wow, that sounds…Where do they live?”

  “Funny sexter is in Alaska. Serious good speller is in Atlanta. I have no interest in meeting either of them in person, but you know. It’s nice to have someone to flirt with.”

  “Yeah. It is, isn’t it?”

  “Especially when I don’t have to listen to them.”

  “I’ll bet. Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

  “Huh?”

  “Have a great day!” I yelled, as I walked away.

  Mrs. Friar was right. It was good to have someone to flirt with. Now I could flirt with Brad “Mitch” Mitchell. Whether he liked it or not.

  I could have worked from home that day, as I sometimes do, when I don’t have any meetings scheduled. Much of my job as a corporate paralegal involves filling out and updating company files, drafting contracts, creating annual reports, etc. It’s a lot of paperwork, which can be done on my laptop, and my bosses do not require me to put in a set amount of hours at the office. It’s one of the reasons I decided to become a corporate paralegal—good pay/decent hours. But I didn’t want to stay home alone all day, because I knew I would just obsess about Brad until it was time to return to the gym. I wanted to obsess about Brad with my work-friend Frankie.

  Just as I was about to step into Frankie’s office, I got a call from my sister. I realized I hadn’t contacted her since my gym appointment, so I signaled to Frankie that I’d be right back and answered the phone.

  “Sorry I forgot to text you—it was great.”

  “Was it?”

  “It was.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I’m so glad I went, it’s going to be fun. How are you?”

  “What’s wrong.”

  “Nothing really it’s a great gym I love the neighborhood.”

  “Vivian I don’t have all day.”

  “The trainer and I have…a history.”

  “Explain.”

  “You remember Brad Mitchell? My friend from high school?”

  “No.”

  “On Mercer Island. People called him Fat Brad.”

  “Oh yeah. You used to practice kissing on him and then you didn’t go to prom with him and he stopped talking to you and you were all upset.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Wait I thought the trainer’s name was Mitch.”

  “That’s what he goes by here. I guess he’s afraid someone will call him Hot Brad and he doesn’t want to be reminded of the Hot Brad who made life hell for him in high school.”

  “Wait, I thought he was Fat Brad.”

  “Yeah, but the other Brad was Hot Brad—never mind.”

  “Right. So what’s the problem?”

  “I didn’t say there was a problem. It’s fine.”

  “Viv.”

  “What did he say when you told him my name?”

  There was a pause. “Actually, at first he had said it was unlikely he could accommodate a new client this month, but when I said your name and pled my case, he said he had a cancellation.”

  “And he didn’t say that he knew me?”

  “No of course not, I would have told you if he had. Hang on. I’m Googling him. The pictures on the website don’t show enough.”

  I heard her catch her breath. I did too, when I’d Googled him late last night. He had his own fitness blog that was separate from the gym’s website, with pictures of his physical transformation. There were photo spreads and interviews with him all over the place. There was an article in some local online newspaper declaring him The Sexiest Man in Portland, as nominated and voted for by readers. It wasn’t People magazine, but still…

  “You made out with this guy?”

  “A lot. A long time ago.”

  “Did he seem interested in you yesterday?”

  “Not at all. He’s still mad at me for not going to prom with him.”

  “Well that’s just…”

  “I know.”

  “I’m sure he’s just joking. How could anyone that good-looking still care about you not going to prom with him?”

  “Thanks.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “These sessions must be expensive. You really don’t have to pay for them.”

  “I do. Otherwise you won’t go. This is my bridesmaid gift to you. It’s a lot cheaper than trainers in Seattle.” My sister was rolling in it She was the Senior Vice-President of Marketing for a wildly successful tech company that she’s been with since they were a startup.

  As a corporate paralegal for a boutique law firm in Portland, I was the underachiever of the family. Of course, if I had stayed in Seattle and taken the job with a big prestigious law firm instead of following a guy I’d been dating for three months to another state... no. I have no regrets. If I hadn’t moved here with Connor I wouldn’t have met so much delicious food and then reconnected with Brad. And I wouldn’t have realized just how much he loathed me.

  “My meeting’s here, I gotta go. You’re going back to see him tonight, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me know how it goes!” She hung up.

  I decided to take it as a good sign that Brad had chosen to fit me into his busy schedule, and to ignore the fact that he hadn’t mentioned to my sister that he knew me.

  When I finally collapsed into Frankie’s office sofa, she got up to close the door and joined me. “What the fuck is up with you, weirdo?” She offered me some of her bag of salted plantain chips and I took a handful.

  After shoving the handful of chips into my mouth, I asked: “These aren’t carbs, are they?”

  “I don’t know. Yeah, there’s simple carbs in fruits, right? Or complex?”

  “Shit, I probably shouldn’t have eaten these.”

  “Oh don’t go on a diet—who’s going to try out the really weird food trucks with me at lunch now?”

  I told her about my sister’s wedding, the maid of honor dress I’d have to fit into in three months, that my ex-boyfriend was engaged and would be in the wedding, and that the personal trainer my sister had hired turned out to be the chubby boy whose heart I broke in high school.

  “Your personal trainer is chubby?”

  “Not anymore. Now he’s a beautiful badass babe with a vengeance.”

  “Like Neville Longbottom in the Harry Potter movies.” This is why Frankie and I are friends.

  “Yes. If Neville Longbottom had better teeth and was ten times hotter now. We’re talking Men’s Health cover caliber torso.”

  “Zoiks. Which gym? Can I come?”

  “No.”

  She tsked. “Mean.”

  “You’ll embarrass me.”

  “You’ll embarrass yourself.”

  “Already done.” I sighed and grabbed another handful of salted plantain chips. They tasted healthy.

  “How do you feel about your ex?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You aren’t still…”

  “No. I’m not in love with him. I’m just…still processing what happened. I don’t understand how the man I was in love with could start a relationship with someone else while he was still ostensibly in a relationship with me. I still can’t believe I moved here for him and he left me to move back to Seattle for her.”

  “People try to justify their affairs by making the relationships seem really important.”

  “I don’t think that’s
what it was. I don’t think he was happy here. She blew everything up, so he didn’t have to deal with the consequences. Me.”

  Frankie put her hand on top of my head. “Well. You don’t have to worry about his reasons. You just have to deal with you. Are you happy here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good...Well, anyway. You’re making a positive change in your life after a breakup now. That’s a good thing.” Frankie nodded, as if trying to convince herself of this statement.

  “Yeah. It’s like Eat, Pray, Love except I’m not allowed to eat anything awesome, I’m praying for a bus to hit me so I don’t have to do anymore sit-ups, and Brad hates me.”

  “How was the sex with Hot Brad, anyway?”

  “Cold, quick, boring and sloppy. Like wolfing down a vanilla ice cream cone on a hot day.”

  “Ugh. You prommed with the wrong Brad.”

  I reached into the bag of plantain chips, but it was empty. “Yeah. Well. Nobody has a good first time, right?”

  “I did.”

  I looked at her to see if she was kidding. She was smiling and looking down, reminiscing.

  “Shut up.”

  “I did. I was in love. He was my boyfriend. It was nice.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it was brief, of course. But I have no regrets. None at all.”

  “Are you still in touch with him?”

  “Yeah. A bit. He moved to Toronto for a job after college. But hey. I’m still a single idiot with intimacy issues, so I’m sure it doesn’t really make a difference who you ‘prom with,’ in the grand scheme of things.” She checked her phone for emails. “I mean. If you went with this Brad you probably would have had a falling-out eventually and he’d still hate you now for some totally different reason.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  “Or. OR! This way you still get to look forward to your first time with him!” She held her hand up for a high-five. “Huh? Huh?! Don’t leave a girl hanging!”

  I slapped her hand, but all I could think about was what flavor ice cream Brad Mitchell would be, and then I realized he’s a Hot Fudge Sundae with everything on it—and he would never let me eat him.