Page 11 of Set on You

“Oh, sugar. I meant blackjack.”

Silence lingers as Dad stands to dump more broth into the hot pot. Grandma has never set foot in a casino in her entire life. She’s clearly lying. But why?

I contemplate going full detective mode, picturing Squat Rack Thief’s penetrating glare when I hid his phone. But I blink myself back, suddenly feeling guilty. If Grandma feels the need to come up with an elaborate lie to get some space this Easter, who am I to be bothered?

“Well, um, I’m glad you’re having fun.” I decide to let her offthe hook, given that Mom is leaning halfway across the dining table, ready to launch into an interrogation. “We miss you.”

“I miss you guys too. Your dad must be pleased he doesn’t have to eat my turkey this year,” Grandma says knowingly.

Dad’s eyes grow wide. “Did you tell her?” he whispers to Mom, who shakes her head in unconvincing denial.

“Well, I’d better get going. Love you, dear!” Grandma says, before the line cuts.

I blink slowly, stirring my dipping sauce as I digest the bizarre conversation. “What was that all about?”

Mom flattens her lips, hoisting Hillary back onto her lap. “She was definitely not at the casino.”

•••

FOLLOWING THE STRANGEcall with Grandma Flo last night, as well as some nasty comments on the launch of my Size Positive campaign, I distract myself at the gym. It’s empty, as expected on Easter weekend. Even the staff are off, making the facility accessible solely via swipe pass. Apparently, gym bros also take Easter off to celebrate, because it’s only me and two other women killing it in the Gym Bro Zone.

This positive female energy is diluted the moment Squat Rack Thief stomps through the turnstiles, emitting enough testosterone to fill the entire facility. He’s wearing his normal ball cap, track pants, and a dark green hoodie, which brings out the mossy hues in his eyes. We make reluctant eye contact as he stalks past me, prowling his way to the changing room.

Despite glowering at each other several times during ourrespective workouts, we keep our distance. He’s doing a leg day. I’m focusing on biceps and shoulders.

This strange, silent truce is actually tolerable. Maybe now we can return to being complete strangers, despite the fact that he knows my name, profession, and Instagram handle, all of which are easily exploitable pieces of information.

Speaking of Instagram, I need to check my emails. I’m waiting for Maxine, a particularly needy client, to confirm our virtual check-in this afternoon. But when I come up for air from my downward dog position to grab my phone, it isn’t on the mat where I left it. To ensure I’m not delusional, I retrace my steps, scanning the floor around all the machines I used today. But it’s nowhere in sight.

Unless my phone disappeared into thin air, there’s only one other explanation. I zero in on Squat Rack Thief, who’s currently occupied on the inner and outer thigh machine. Seemingly, our truce is null and void.

Tired and grouchy, I march in front of him, hand on hip. “Alright, I’m done with this game. Just give me back my phone.”

He stares at me, mid-set. “You’d have to be sick and deranged to steal someone’s phone at the gym.”

“I didn’t take your phone. I simply stored it for safekeeping.”

“I didn’t take your phone either,Crystal.” He smiles ever so slightly, drunk with power when he says my name.

“You did,” I shoot back. “I had it with me the entire time. Except when I was stretching. I left it on the mat.”

He grimaces as he completes his last rep. Letting the tension go on the machine, he leans forward, breathing hard. “Someone else must have taken it, then, because I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, believe it. I don’t have it.” He opens his palms to proclaim his fake innocence. “Although I kind of wish I did. Imagine all the Tindering I could do on your behalf.” He’s overcome with glee at the very thought.

Ignoring him, I nod toward his lower half, which looks far too appealing in those low-hanging Under Armour shorts. “Empty your pockets,” I demand.

He gets up from the machine, shoving his hands in his pockets, extracting his own phone. “See?”

I don’t know what’s come over me, but I reach out to pat both of his pockets myself, like an overzealous TSA agent at the airport. His pockets are light and empty, except for the jingle of his keys. No sign of my phone.

“Did you just frisk me?” His deep, rumbling laughter makes my insides coil in a way it shouldn’t.

I scoff, quickly losing interest. My phone is definitely not in his pockets. If he didn’t take it, who the heck did?

I dart away to conduct one last thorough inspection of the gym. I rack my brain for possible explanations. Did one of the ladies lifting steal it? Both of them were completely unassuming. Normal. Middle-aged. Mom-energy. Matching low-maintenance hairstyles. One was even wearing a tennis visor. Certainly not the type who would conspire to steal a dented iPhone 10 with a tacky bedazzled case from a clearance bin in Chinatown. But then again, anyone can be a klepto.

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