Page 36 of Set on You

“Yup. We’ll be doing my choice of workout, though,” he says as he starts toward his car.

I’m tempted to say yes, simply because I don’t shy away from a challenge. And maybe because seeing him work out is a sight to behold. But I already know it can’t lead anywhere good. I ponder this proposition until he’s almost at his car. “And if I do your mystery workout, I’ll be forgiven? Just like that?” I call out.

Even from a distance, his eyes offer a glimmer of amusement. “Don’t underestimate me, Chen. You’ll be working for it.”

chapter thirteen

WHEN MEL INVITEDme to her place for a “working lunch,” I eagerly accepted. Admittedly, I was exceedingly curious to see if her apartment was as glamorous as it looks on Instagram, sans filter. And just like her, it truly is.

The moment she opens the door, she shoves a sparkling tray full of various fancy, bite-size sandwiches in my face. An array of macaroons, scones, and mimosas awaits me in her gleaming, all-white kitchen. She claims she gets it from her mom, who is the “ultimate Stepford host extraordinaire.” Either way, I’m now appalled by my own hosting skills, which are limited to store-bought trays and chips, no bowl.

Mel lives in one of those modern buildings in the Theater District with floor-to-ceiling windows you can probably see directly into from a neighboring building. Even though it’s a deranged stalker’s dream, it’s perfect for her Instagram aesthetic. I beam andpoint when I spot the dusty-rose velvet chaise by the window where she takes a lot of her photos, as if I’m on aSex and the Citytour scoping out Carrie Bradshaw’s iconic front stoop for the first time.

Spending the afternoon with Mel is a much-needed distraction from thinking about Scott and how I’m supposed to meet him at the gym later today to mend fences. Yes, I want to ogle him without restraint. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m doing this for peace. For the sake of our families. End of story.

I’m about to ask Mel’s opinion on Instagram’s new algorithm and my nosedive of engagement in the past few weeks when a lanky, bare-chested dude lumbers into the kitchen. He wears nothing but boxers covered in cartoon hot dogs. His wild blond hair sticks straight up, as if he’s been through a wind tunnel.

“Hey, you.” He treats me to a flirtatious smile, chest puffed out. He’s boyishly cute, if I were a decade younger and still drinking Bud Light from a funnel.

Mel rolls her eyes, giving him a dead-eyed stare. “Julian, grow up.”

“Relax, Mel. I’m just being friendly.” He shoots her a defiant look and begins to rifle around in the fridge, but not before winking at me. He slightly resembles a photo I’ve seen online of Mel’s late adoptive father, with his baby-blue eyes and narrow face.

Mel casts him an indignant look over her shoulder. “This is my charm-void of a brother, Julian. Julian, this is my trainer and good friend, Crystal.” She pauses and leans in. “I wouldn’t live with a college student by choice. Trust. But my mom is making him stay with me while he tries tofigure his life outin the city.”

“Sounds familiar.” I chuckle, glancing at Julian, who isimpatiently tapping his foot, waiting for the toaster to finish cooking his bagel.

“At least Tara’s twenty-nine.” Mel’s lips turn to a slight frown. “I wish I had a sister.”

“Sisters are great. But only sometimes. When they’re not stealing your shit.” Tara has never stolen my clothes, given our size difference. But she’s always swiping my makeup and hair products. I refocus my attention on my laptop, while internally mourning the expensive salon-quality shampoo she polished off as of yesterday.

I’m working on catching up on the comments on my recent Size Positive post. Despite the trolls and hateful fatphobic comments that I can barely read before I start to shake, I’m pleased so many people are loving it. It makes all the negative comments worth it.

“Which preset looks better?” Mel asks, shoving her phone two inches from my face.

I lean back, squinting. There are two side-by-side shots of her wearing an adorable polka-dot dress. It’s the same photo, but one is filtered slightly darker.

“First, that dress looks fire on you. But I like the lighter one.”

“Same. My boobs look bigger in that one too.” She double-checks the photo. “I think I might start using the pink preset. I noticed I’ve been getting more Likes on them.”

I’m about to offer to send her some of my favorite presets when I receive a notification.

Ritchie_Scotty7is now following you.

My stomach somersaults.

Before I can even contemplate following him back, I receive anotification that he’s liked my most recent post, a video of my ab workout from the day he stole my phone.

Within a minute, I’ve received over twenty notifications. All from him. This is a surefire sign all is not lost. That he doesn’t completely hate me.

Ritchie_Scotty7has liked your post.

Ritchie_Scotty7has liked your post.

Ritchie_Scotty7has liked your post.

Ritchie_Scotty7has liked your post.

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