Page 147 of Gym Bros
“Ugh,” he groans. “Figures I couldn’t wait anymore.”
I tighten my arms around him and squeeze. Three times.
“That’s what it means, doesn’t it?” he asks, running a cool, wet hand up my back.
Three squeezes. I. Love. You.
“Beat you to it,” I whisper.
22
SAMUEL
“Ineed. A decent. Meal.”
Calyx is standing in front of my refrigerator unimpressed with the containers of grilled chicken and Greek yogurt. I don’t blame him. I’m sick of the shit, too, but with my fight in three days, and my weigh in less than forty-eight hours from now, I can’t have any carbs around me, or I’ll go fucking apeshit.
I’m lean as hell, but Calyx has also lost five pounds he wants back immediately. He doesn’t believe me that it’s just water weight. He thinks his muscles are wasting, but really he just looks cut and angry.
“Have something delivered,” I tell him. “But I’m going on a walk when it gets here.”
“You’re gonna make me eat alone because you have no self-control?”
I shake my head from the yoga mat on the living room floor where I’m working through back bends and forward folds. I’m in a wide stance with my hands on my right calf, determined as hell to rest my forehead on my knee like he can. It also happens to be a great leg stretch, hitting my hamstrings and inner thighs.
I don’t think I’ve stopped working out in some form or another for the last ten days except to sleep. Best sleep of my life.
The only thing hanging in the balance is whether or not Calyx is coming to my fight. I’m pretty sure he won’t, but he has yet to give me a definite answer.
I’ve told him I want him there, but only if he won’t wig out on me. He says he wants to be supportive but also can’t guarantee he won’t try to drag me out of the venue and make a scene.
I mean, I’m pretty sure he’ll be chill if he does end up coming, but he’s been kind of all over the place with me lately, and I get it. There’s not a day I come home without bruises. What he doesn’t know is I’m also in pain. Not terrible oh shit pain, but I’m beat up as hell. Exhausted. And I’d kill someone for a loaf of bread.
The refrigerator door closes. “I’m sorry. I give up.” He’s already on his phone, probably ordering a juicy burger or some shit he knows will kill me.
Because I like to torture myself, I ask what he’s getting.
“Just a sandwich,” he says.
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you want…like…a salad or something?”
“Nope.”
“On Monday, you can stay in bed all day—I’ll feed you chips and cookies and pizza…”
“Stop talking about food,” I say.
“Sorry. Want some water?”
“I’m fine,” I say, moving over to my other leg.
“You look great,” he says.
“Thanks, baby.”
He walks over to my mat and puts slight pressure in the middle of my back. “Relax here,” he says.
