Page 53 of Set on You

I sit next to him, blowing a stray hair out of my face. “I did a guest video on Mel’s Instagram Live feed yesterday. Some of the comments got a bit out of hand.”

“What do you mean byout of hand?”

I pull up the saved video. Our fingers brush ever so slightly as I hand my phone over, sending a tiny spark of electricity sizzling through me.

Scott doom-scrolls for a couple seconds, shaking his head before tossing the phone back into my lap. He stares into the void for half the Excalibur Fitness ad before meeting my gaze. His expression isn’t one of pity. It’s soft and sincere, as though he really cares. “Crystal, I’m so sorry you have to deal with this. You know these people—”

I raise my hand to stop him. “I know. It’s been this way ever since I started my account. Honestly, it’s fine.” I pause, realizing how that sounded. “I mean, it’s notfine, obviously. But I’ve learned to deal with it. I don’t care what asshole strangers from the bowels of the internet have to say about my body.”

He holds eye contact. “I know. And it’s amazing. But isn’t there a way to block them?”

I shrug, momentarily admiring the female bodybuilder’s impeccable biceps as she passes behind Scott. “Not really. I used to try, but it’s impossible to block so many accounts. Honestly, I’m more concerned for my followers than myself.” And it’s the truth. I know what I can handle. But I live in constant fear of my followers reading those hateful comments.

A vein flexes in his forearm as he reaches to touch his toes. “Iknow. You worry about everyone. I know you’re strong, but I guess I just... I can’t help but worry about you too. I know you say the comments don’t bother you, but they must get to you sometimes, don’t they?”

My lips press together, as if blocking the words that are so desperate to escape. Admitting that fact means I’m not living up to my body-positive message, and that’s a tough pill to swallow. “Sometimes, yeah.” The admission feels like a forty-five-pound plate has been lifted from my chest.

“Did I ever tell you about that asshole kid in middle school?”

“No.”

Scott gives the dumbbell a small, mindless push to the side. “I started at a new school halfway through sixth grade. I was late on the first day because my sister Kat had a meltdown before we left the house. Anyway, I showed up during gym class. They were doing basketball drills, shooting layups and stuff. I was up against this kid named Alex. He was massive for a twelve-year-old. Was basically the size of a teenager.” Scott’s eyes grow darker as he continues. “I scored before he did and he got pissed. Tossed the basketball at my face and broke my nose.”

“Jesus. What a psychopath.”

“Oh yeah. He bullied the shit out of me after that.”

I hang my head. “I’m so sorry. Why did he pick on you?”

“I was the new kid, I guess? Scrawny. An easy target. He terrorized me every recess. Held me down and made me eat sand. Basically used me as a punching bag.” Scott’s easy smile is replaced with a severe scowl as he focuses on a ripped spot on the mat.

I recall our sorbet date, when I discovered he wasn’t always the picture of confidence. It’s jarring and heartbreaking to imagine adevastated and humiliated adolescent Scott, compared to the (overly) confident man he is today. No one would dare challenge his cocksure, alpha presence now. While I’m amazed at the transformation, my gut twists. Kids can be serious assholes.

He lifts his ball cap and rakes a rough hand through his mane. “Anyway, sorry I’m so worked up about it. I guess I just know how you feel—” He backpedals, cringing. “I know it’s not the same thing... getting bullied by a jackass twelve-year-old compared to what you’re going through—”

“No, I get it. I appreciate you sharing that,” I cut in, taking in the residual pain in his eyes. I place a gentle hand on his forearm and his muscles flex under my touch.

“Do you ever feel like you’d be happier if you...” The words trail off when he realizes the weight of what he’s about to say. He looks away, as if he’s afraid of my reaction.

“Do I ever want to delete my account?” I finish for him.

He meets my gaze. “I’d never suggest that. I know how important it is to you. But I can’t imagine dealing with that day in and day out. It’s cyberbullying, Crys.”

I sit up straighter. “I’m fine.” My tone is harsher than I intend it to be, which doesn’t seem to bother him. “And I fully understand your concern. But I’m an adult, not a kid. I have off days, true. But I believe in my message. If that means I have to deal with assholes, I’ll take it if I can help one person feel better about themselves.”

He places his hand on my shoulder and I lean into it. Again, it doesn’t feel like pity. It’s support. It’s comfort. “Alright. Well, I’m always here for you. If you ever have an off day.”

Warmth blooms in my chest at his touch. For years, I haven’trelied on anyone but myself to feel confident and worthy. I’ve never needed a shoulder to cry on when the trolls unleash their fury, and I don’t intend on changing that. But just knowing he’s here to help lighten what’s been a solo burden for seven years makes all the difference.

•••

I’M CREEPING OUTSIDEthe Boston Fire Department, Engine 10, Tower 3 (whatever that means) with a stack of glass Tupperware in my arms.

It’s the last place I thought I’d end up after a fruitful gym session. I managed to shoot a full week’s worth of videos. When I woke up this morning, I had more vigor than the Energizer Bunny, partially because I slept for nine hours, but mostly because of Scott.

After our spin session yesterday, a delivery showed up at my door. It was a bouquet of lush pink, white, and purple tulips. The card read:

Crystal,

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