Page 41 of Fake Dating My Best Friend

“Like this,” Asher steps behind me. His chest lightly brushes my back as he lifts my hands to the grips, setting them at shoulder height. The contact is barely there, but it still sends every nerve in my body scrambling for oxygen. The warmth of him seeps through my workout tank. Solid. Warm. Distractingly present.

I turn my head a little, just enough to sneak a peek. His brow is furrowed, mouth set in that quiet, serious line he gets when he’s in full trainer mode. His eyes track every movement, calm and focused, like nothing else exists but the moment and the person in front of him.

The same side that made me realize I was in trouble.

It happened when we were sixteen. He was showing someone how to adjust their grip on a barbell, completely in the zone, calm and steady. I watched from across the gym, dropped my chemistry book, then tripped over it when trying to pick it up.

That was the moment I knew. I had a full-on, hopeless crush on Asher Collymore.

“Eyes forward, Is.” His voice has that low, assured tone.

Right. Yes. Forward. Good idea.

“Keep your elbows close to your body when you pull, and think about squeezing your shoulder blades together.”

My shoulders burn as I follow Asher’s instructions for what feels like the hundredth rep. A familiar ache shoots through my shoulder, the same one that’s been bothering me.

“Hold that position,” Asher says, moving behind me. “But drop your shoulders down. You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“This.” His fingers press gently into the spot where my shoulder meets my neck, right where the pain always flares up. “You’re compensating for the old injury. Creating more tension here.”

Ignoring the strange warmth his touch leaves behind, I force a shrug. “It’s not really an injury. Just an old habit.”

“Acts up for three years, you mean?” His voice drops lower now. Firmer. Taking on that serious tone that brooks no argument. “You think I don’t see how you flinch when reaching up? How your shoulders tense the second you try to lift something heavy, even though you pretend it doesn’t hurt?”

“You notice all that?” Heat creeps up my neck. There’s something almost embarrassing about how much he sees.

Asher’s hands go still against my shoulders.

“I notice a lot of things, Peachie.”

He exhales slowly, fingers still resting on me. “Like how you pop ibuprofen when you think no one’s watching. Or how you never asked for help. It kills me watching you take care of everyone else while acting like your own pain doesn’t count.”

My stomach twists. I don’t know how to process Asher sounding this serious. I know Asher cares. He’s mentioned it before with little comments and light teasing, but never like this.

But he’s right. I don’t think it counts.

I swallow hard, staring at the floor. Maybe part of mewishesit did. But caring about my own pain feels like a luxury I haven’t earned. I only matter after I’ve proven I’m worth it.

“Daddy’s just busy, Izzy-bean. Be good, be patient, be quiet while I work. Maybe tomorrow.”

I still remember standing in my pajamas, clutching the teddy bear Dad gave me, asking when he’d be home. He used to be home every night. Every single one. But after that night, when he and Mom talked in the kitchen, and I saw her quietly wipe her eyes, he started coming back late, sometimes only a couple of nights a week.

Mom said nothing was wrong. But Conner and I knew better. So we asked Dad ourselves.

We cleaned our room until it sparkled. I drew him a picture. Conner folded the napkins into triangles and said Dad would like it.

Dad came home the next night. Read us two bedtime stories, not just one.

I’d been so proud.

It wasn’t only my dad. Every romantic relationship I’ve had proved it, too.

That’s how it works, isn’t it? Care and love are something you getafteryou’ve earned your place. And sometimes, even then, it’s not enough to make people stay.

“These exercises are meant to help strengthen the area,” he continues, adjusting my form with careful precision, “but they need to be done properly. One wrong move, and you could aggravate that old injury.” His hands guide my shoulders into the correct position. “I could’ve just sent you YouTube videos, but . . .”

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