Page 4 of Set on You

We hit it off right away. We’re both twenty-seven. We’re both Chinese, although she’s adopted and I’m half Irish. We’re both staunch proponents of the body-positivity movement. And we also share an unapologetic obsession with reality television, particularly anything related toReal Housewives.

“Okay, damn. You’re serving some serious looks here. Not that it’s an invitation for dick pics.” I pause, eyeing the bonkers number of Likes on the photo.

She wipes a single drop of sweat from her forehead with her perfectly polished acrylic nail before continuing her story. “It was the weirdest one I’ve ever seen. It was bent. Like... super off-kilter to the side. Like a hook.”

“Ahook?” I clarify through a startled yelp.

“Like an umbrella hook, Crystal. No exaggeration. Do you think penises can break?”

I’m about to tell her I haven’t the faintest idea, followed by a rant about how dick pics are never attractive, hook-shaped or otherwise, when Squat Rack Thief parks himself on the bench beside us.

His mouth is curled upward in amusement, which is shocking, because I was unaware those channeling the spirit of Darth Vader were capable of joy. I wonder how much of our penis conversation he’s heard.

After Paper Towel Gate yesterday, I vowed not to stress over this punch-worthy, smug stranger. But it’s more challenging than expected when he’s sitting so close, filling my nose with hisenthralling, freshly laundered scent, drawing my attention to how marvelous he looks in his maroon hoodie and ball cap.

I wonder if Squat Rack Thief is the type to send unsolicited dick pics. Once that completely unfounded thought registers, I will it away to the desolate, dust-caked corners of my mind. Why am I thinking about his penis?

You know what they say about large feet...

As he takes a long swig from his water bottle, our eyes lock in mutual loathing. It feels more like a challenge, lingering before I blink it away.Crystal, be zen. Channel your inner peace.

I refocus on Mel, who gives him a curious once-over.

“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat to defuse the tension, “we’re doing sled pushes next.”

She grimaces. The last time I assigned sled pushes, she dry-heaved and sweat off her eyelash extensions.

I cheer her along one length of the aisle as she huffs, puffs, and mutters curse words with each labored stride. I wait for her to begin the second length back, but she hesitates.

“Looks like I don’t have to finish my rounds after all.” She gestures joyously toward Squat Rack Thief, who is casually lunging with dumbbells directly in the middle of the pathway.Mel’spathway. Who does this guy think he is?

My mouth is open wide, like an infomercial mom who’s astonished the detergent removed the stubborn tomato sauce stain on her white blouse. “Sorry. One minute,” I mumble.

Arms crossed, I storm toward him, blocking his attempt to lunge around me. “Did you not see us just now? We were here.” I manically gesture to Mel, who is observing with keen interest, resting on the sled.

Without a word, he continues around me, as if I’m a mere blip, a pothole in the road to avoid. I’m on the brink of calling him a pompous prick, but I bite my tongue and walk away, for the sake of maintaining the illusion of professionalism in front of my client.

“What’s his deal?” Mel asks as I begrudgingly turn the sled horizontally, toward a less ideal aisle.

“He’s just been pissing me off.” I flash him the stink eye, though he doesn’t notice. He’s mid-lunge, smug face red from exertion, definitelynotlamenting the weight of his transgressions against me like a decent human.

Mel lifts her perfectly shaped brows. “He checked you out earlier. Like full-on head to toe, while we were talking about dicks.”

“He was probably plotting to assassinate me.”

“Or he was undressing you with his eyes.”

Had someone suggested this to me years ago, I would have immediately expressed my doubt. But now, after years of working on myself and my confidence, I don’t doubt it.

Despite always being into sports, I never had the body of an athlete. I inherited Mom’s genes. Big frame, muscular, with thick thighs, boobs, and no shortage of booty—the opposite of my older sister and Dad’s side of the family, all of whom are slim and petite. For me, a low body fat percentage isn’t in the cards genetically. Accepting that fact and getting to this place has taken some time. I now focus exclusively on de-stigmatizing and demystifying the gym for people who may not have felt they belonged. I prioritize the goal of confidence. Not calorie deficits, and definitelynotthe number on the scale.

“Mel, just three more laps,” I instruct like a hard-ass, changing the subject entirely. “Finish strong before girls’ night.”

Tonight’s glorious plan to re-watch a rom-com on Netflix with my sister, Tara, is just what I need after all this gym and Instagram drama.

Squat Rack Thief lingers in my peripheral vision as I follow Mel down the aisle. He rests against a machine, catching his breath. When I turn to meet his gaze, he flashes me a shit-eating grin.

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