Page 125 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

He surveys the gym, taking in the modified equipment, the adaptive benches we installed last week, the new ramp by the stairs, and the seniors chatting excitedly with my staff.

His eyes linger on the wall where I’ve hung before-and-after photos of our first success stories—people just like him who found their strength again after injuries or setbacks. I can see him processing it all, calculating the investment, the risk I took to make this happen.

Did I get it right? Did I finally do something he could be proud of?

Dad’s expression is hard to read, that careful mask he’s worn since I was a kid—the one that never quite tells you if you’ve measured up. My heart pounds against my ribs as I wait for his verdict.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat. “This is what you’ve been working on.”

I shift my weight, suddenly feeling like that sixteen-year-old kid who accidentally ran the gym into debt with his half-baked summer discount idea. “Yeah. What do you think?”

Dad takes a deep breath, and I brace myself. Whatever constructive criticism is coming, I’ll take it. I’ll improve the program. I’ll—

“I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you, Asher.”

The words hit me like a physical force. Did he actually just say that?

“What?”

Dad’s eyes soften as he looks at me. It’s such a rare thing that it catches me off guard.

“I’m proud of you, son. What you’ve built here . . . It’s exceptional.” The corners of his eyes crinkle, deep lines etching into weathered skin.

My throat tightens. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life, like the redemption I’ve been chasing since I was sixteen, wondering if I will one day be good enough to carry on the Collymore name.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“I mean it.” He gestures toward the gym floor. “When I started Collymore Fitness, it was just about getting people stronger. But this—” he nods toward Connie, who’s now showing off her bicep curl form to an impressed Fred, “—this is about giving people their lives back.”

I swallow hard, unsure how to respond to praise I’ve waited decades to hear.

“I know I wasn’t always . . .” He pauses, his mouth pressing into a line before he exhales. “I put a lot of pressure on you growing up. After the accident, watching you step up, seeing how you handled everything—it made me realize something.”

“What’s that?”

“I spent so many years worried you’d not understand responsibility that I never told you how impressed I was by all the things you did.” He shakes his head. “That summer program disaster? I held onto that for far too long. Made you think that one failure defined you.”

I exhale slowly, the tightness in my chest finally easing.

Dad sighs, his shoulders dropping slightly. “When I started Collymore Fitness, I was obsessed with doing everything perfectly. And somewhere along the way, I started treating your mistakes the same way.” His eyes meet mine, the hard lines of his face easing.

“Watching you these past few years, holding back more than you needed to . . . I realized I pushed the idea of responsibility so hard that I might’ve made you believe there wasn’t room for anything else. That’s on me.”

“It wasn’t until I handed over the gym that I saw what I’d done,” he continues. “But you showed me what true responsibility is. It isn’t about never making mistakes. It’s about having the courage to try anyway and the strength to make things right when you fail.”

Something loosens in my chest, a knot I’ve carried for years slowly unraveling. I’ve been chasing his approval, measuring every decision against what I thought he would do, terrified of disappointing him again.

“I didn’t know if I was doing it right.”

Dad’s laugh is low but gentle. “None of us do, son. We just do our best and hope it’s enough.” He looks around the gym again. “But this? This is more than enough. You saw a need and you filled it. That’s what matters.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, the words inadequate for what I’m feeling.

He reaches out, squeezing my shoulder.

Movement near the entrance catches my eye. An auburn flash and a familiar smile that could light up the darkest room. My heart stops.

She came.

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