Page 172 of Gym Bros
I’m fully prepared to say more, but he speaks up. “You know Rachel told me before we hooked up that you liked older, married men. I totally blew it off. I mean I figured it lowered my chances, but I didn’t really give a fuck about your past. Honestly, I just wanted to fuck you. I wasn’t planning on…” He waves a hand between us. “Whatever happened.”
Whatever happenedwas that we fell in love with each other, and the fact that he can’t or won’t say it is another blow I can barely withstand.
“I guess it just hits different when you know the married man. And who he’s married to,” he says. Then he gives his heada quick, firm shake without meeting my eyes. “Anyway, this isn’t gonna work out.”
I flinch at that. It’s not that I wasn’t expecting it. It’s the decisive way he says it. Like nothing I could possibly say would make a difference. But I knew that, too. Maybe I expected it to feel less clinical. Less like standing in front of a casting agent who changed his mind about me at the last minute because I didn’t have the right look for the brand.
An old feeling coats me, almost like a protective film. I feel rigid beneath it. Jaded. Sad.
A face without a mind. A body without a heart. A clothes hanger.
Plastic and soulless.
Loveless.
“I’ll miss you,” I say, which doesn’t even begin to cover it.
He stares at me, and for the first time, I see the wound I left. He’s letting me, and as devastating as the sight of it is, it’s also a gift. One horrible moment of time where I get to see that I meant something to him. That I became someone more to him than a guy he wanted to fuck.
“I wish the scheme worked, you know?” he says. “I wish you two had been able to keep this from me. You know when you have like a really bad dream—like someone you love dies or whatever and you wake up and there’s this intense relief that it was just a dream? I woke up like that this morning. Like oh, thank fuck…and then I saw my phone. All the texts that asshole sent me. The one I sent you. So yeah…in case you’re wondering how I’m doing. I don’t actually know. Why are you here?”
“Because I wanted to say I’m sorry,” I tell him, my voice choked and raw.
“Oh, yeah. Right.” He pushes away from the door only to put his hand on the latch. “Me, too.”
He opens the door and steps aside. I can’t move. I know Ineed to. I try to make myself, but this doesn’t feel over. If it did, I’d go. But what’s he gonna do when I leave? Deal with this alone? He doesn’t fucking deserve this.
Every risk I’ve ever taken between us has brought us closer, and I don’t know whether this one will, but I can’t leave knowing I could have done something but got too scared. I take two steps, closing the distance that separates us, and wrap my arms around his shoulders.
He stiffens, inhaling sharply.
I squeeze tighter.
A horrible noise comes out of him, and I think it’s a sob. Working myself to my tiptoes, I get as close as I can to his ear. “I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. I know it’s over. I know it’s too fucked up to fix. But if for any reason you ever need someone—for anything—you have someone. I’ll always be in your corner.”
He hugs me back. I’m not sure he can help it. I tell myself it’s only a reflex, and don’t allow myself to let it mean more. I have to take him at his word—this isn’t going to work. I pull away and notice he’s looking at me—his eyes roaming my face. He’s the picture of devastation, but I make myself look. What we had might have been quick, it might have been a mere blip on the timeline of our lives, but it was real.
We were the real thing.
It would take a lot of therapy and someone fucking extraordinary for me to ever fall in love like this again. Looking at him now, I think it might actually be impossible.
“Thanks,” he says, letting me go.
I don’t say any more. But I do put my hand over his heart and let my hand linger there until I’ve walked too far away. He closes the door behind me.
Having my heart broken feels exactly as painful as I imagined it would, and the only person I have to blame is myself.
26
SAMUEL
Yep. This is the fucking worst. And nope. Not speaking to my dad.
It’s been more than a week since I’ve talked to anyone but the folks at the gym. I have another fight to train for. Turns out when I left the expo Saturday, three promoters wanted to set me up with matches.
The conversation with my coach went something like this: “You’re gonna lose this one, but you’ll learn a lot.”
“What makes you think I’ll lose?”
