Page 14 of Set on You

chapter six

I ENTER THE GYM, ball cap hanging low over my eyes in a poor attempt at going incognito, or as invisible as possible in hot-pink Lululemon leggings. My gym bag snags on the turnstiles. I tug it twice before pulling it free.

When the combination lock in my bag makes a loud, echoingclunkagainst the stainless-steel turnstile, Claire, the redheaded girl behind the front counter, holds her hand over her mouth. She does a piss-poor job of not laughing in my face.

So much for stealth mode.

I take a cautious scan around as I head for the changing room, fully expecting to meet Squat Rack Thief’s inevitable taunting look from one of the machines I’m planning to use. All the regulars are here. The veiny gym bros. The hard-core female bodybuilder flexing up a storm in the mirror, admiring her impressive,award-winning, competition-ready figure. Yet Squat Rack Thief is nowhere to be found.

Head down, I busily film my planned segments for the day. But every time a tall, muscular dude enters the gym, my stomach free-falls and I do a double take. I’m on guard, just waiting for him to show. But he doesn’t.

Truth be told, I’m relieved. How am I supposed to face him again after yesterday? It was undoubtedly the hottest moment of my life, and my clothes stayed on the entire time. In fact, I’d go as far as saying it was better than sex. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it. All day and night.

Unfortunately, there’s a ninety-nine-percent chance he thinks I concocted the phone thievery as an excuse to attack him in the changing room. Not only does that make me look like a desperate, sex-crazed lunatic, but I can’t help but ponder what would have happened if that bald man hadn’t walked in and interrupted us. Would we have gone any further? Probably, given we were dry humping against the lockers, my legs hoisted around his waist like a pretzel. And worse, I catch myself wishing we had, which goes against my vow to take a break from random hookups.

While we didn’t actually have sex, no faceless Tinder random has ever made me feel...thatbefore. No less a nemesis who refuses to tell me his name.

I chastise myself for my lingering thoughts of him as I exit the gym, thighs already burning from my workout. I must resist thinking about that man, no matter how many abs he has, or how deep his V line is.

By the time I’m half a block away from home, my mind hasspiraled into hypotheticals. What if he’s avoiding me? He must be. Either that, or he’s come down with a sudden illness, or he perished in a freak accident. Avoidance is the most logical explanation, though. It’s no coincidence he’s suddenly changed his schedule after days of coming to the gym at the exact same time. Obviously he doesn’t want to face me.

Maybe he can’t stomach the awkwardness, similar to how I long to disappear into dust and nothingness when I see Tinder Joe, who, by the way, still acts like I don’t exist.

I attempt to push Squat Rack Thief out of my mind as I check the mail in the lobby and head up to my apartment, flyers, bills, and a massive package of sponsored protein bars in hand.

The moment I open the front door, I’m unexpectedly greeted by a bright-eyed, newly permed Grandma Flo wielding a batter-covered whisk. She’s wearing Tara’s flour-covered apron, which readsGET SOME.

Before I can even ask why Grandma Flo is in my apartment, the whisk is halfway down my throat, choking me. “Do you taste the butter?” she demands, luminous hazel eyes boring into mine like an operative interrogating their latest captive under seizure-inducing fluorescent lights.

When I gag dramatically, she takes mercy and removes the whisk. “Uh, yeah. I taste the butter. Why?” I ask, catching a glimpse of Tara snickering on the couch among a pile of books.

Tara followed me on the Instagram train. She’s a bookstagrammer, someone who reads 483,398 books a year and posts reviews. With thousands of followers, she receives stacks of free books in the mail from publishers who want her to advertise and review upcoming releases. Reminding her to keep her books in her roominstead of littering my living room with them has become my second job. Tara makes some money from her bookstagram, but certainly not enough to warrant it being a full-time job, which is the only thing that saves her from Mom and Dad’s disapproval. She has a “proper” job as a registered nurse in the neonatal ward at the children’s hospital.

Satisfied with my response, Grandma Flo swivels back to my kitchen, still talking. “At the church potluck, Janine asked Ethel if my shortbread wasstore-bought.The gumption!”

Janine Fitzgerald is Grandma Flo’s church nemesis. As the story goes, their rivalry began over a coveted church pew and went downhill after a particularly dramatic Bible study. I only half-listen as Grandma goes on a long-winded rant about how Janine likes to hold her hands in the air during sermons, purposely to block her view.

I plop onto the couch beside Tara. “How long has she been here?” I ask, voice low.

“Two hours. She said she had some business in the city. She walked in on me while I was naked. Didn’t even bother to knock.”

“Why were you naked in my apartment?” I fury-whisper. “And aren’t you supposed to be doing a shift at the hospital?” I kick off my running shoes and toss the unopened mail on the coffee table.

She shakes her head, promptly ignoring my first question. “Yeah. I got sent home early.”

The look on her face tells me there’s a story here, so I remain silent, just waiting.

“I was the unfortunate victim of pea-green explosive diarrhea.”

I cover my mouth, stifling a bubble of laughter as I open my laptop to begin my workout plan for a virtual client in Arkansas. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all day.”

“It was so potent. You would have fainted,” she says, expression grave.

“Anyway, why is Grandma here?” I ask.

Tara opens her mouth, itching to spill the tea, but stops when Grandma Flo emerges from the kitchen, plate of cookies in hand. She sets them in front of Tara, who she feels is “much too thin” and at risk of “withering away” at any given moment.

After settling into the chair, she fusses with one of my tiny succulents on the side table. Apparently unsatisfied with its state, she carelessly dumps the remainder of Tara’s tea over the top. RIP succulent. Grandma Flo has never had a green thumb.

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