Page 24 of Gym Bros
I should go to bed and jerk off before I work myself all the way up to needing to call my mom again.
It’s a new day.A nice day. Once the smog burned off, I took a walk in Alamo Park, even jogging for a few short stints. Nothing hurts. I’m just tight from lack of use.
It’s a crisp, late September day bathed in sunlight, so all themoms and nannies are out with kids. Lots of dogs, too. I wish I had time for a dog. I mean, I do right now, but long-term, with the amount of time I spend at the gym…
No…I could probably have one. I live close enough to where I train. I’ve always wanted a big dog to wrestle with. Would I get a puppy, though? What if I’m healed before it’s house-trained? Do I have the patience to house train a puppy?
Fuck, I don’t know. I mean—Ithink I do, but I’m pretty sure my mom would feel differently. Anyone I’ve ever started a fight with would, too. But I only ever started fights with total assholes picking on other kids, so I don’t really see myself screaming at a little puppy for having an accident on a rug I don’t give a damn about.
By afternoon, I’ve made my way to the animal shelter. It’s lowkey depressing as fuck. There’s a lot of pit mixes looking up at me with sad eyes, but I stop in front of a mutt that’s probably part German Shepherd, part Labrador, and who knows what else. She’s got a reddish coat and a black spotted tongue, a longish snout and tall ears that are too big for her head. She closes her mouth when our eyes meet and lock.
“Hey,” I say to her through the cage.
She doesn’t blink. I think we both gulp. Me from nerves, and her—well, I’m just imagining it, but it feels mutual.
I’ve heard when you meet your true love, you just know. I think that’s probably bullshit. There’s too many people I’ve known in my life that didn’t much care for each other before they fell for each other—my mom and dad for example. She thought he was an arrogant ass. Butheknew. Or he claims he did.
I guess somebody has to. Like they get a feeling or whatever. A connection. A spark? A lightning bolt or Cupid’s arrow hits someone somewhere.
Anyway, this dog is the one. This nondescript mutt I’mgonna name Beauty because it’s in the eye of the beholder, right? She’s a bit of a mess, but with a bath and a few weeks of good meals, I think she’ll clean up nice.
She and I go to a small yard for a getting to know you session, but she’s clearly been here awhile. I sit on a low bench, and she stands between my legs, her head on my calf while I pet her and tell her not to worry. This is just a formality.
“So what do you like to do, huh? Chew stuff? Chase stuff? Long walks on the beach? I could probably manage that. You like peanut butter? ‘Cause I’m a big fan.”
She never stops staring at me.
I feel as desperate as she looks.
Yep, this is happening. I’m getting a dog.
Turns out, they let you just take the things home. I had to sign a few forms and pay a small fee, but Beauty and I walk out together and get into my car like I can totally be trusted to keep her alive.
She shakes all the way home. Once we get inside, I sit down on the floor with her and place a massive delivery order for dog food, toys, treats, a new collar, a leash, and a bed.
I go back and forth about a crate. I go ahead and get one with no intention of actually keeping her in it, but the lady at the shelter made it sound like I’d be an asshole not to have one. I also throw in carpet cleaner, poop bags, a pack of sponges, a brush, shampoo, the works.
If I forgot anything, I’m sure my Instagram ads will tell me later.
She and I spend awhile on the floor until I realize it’s almost five, and I’m supposed to go to the gym for more yoga.
Fuck. That delivery needs to get here. I don’t want to have to lock her in the bathroom. Now a crate seems like an awesome idea. I won’t lock it or anything—there’s nothing here she can domuch damage to in two hours I don’t think, plus, she’s probably exhausted. I’m sure she could use a break from me nonstop talking to her and touching her.
The delivery arrives with fifteen minutes to spare. I set up the crate, put her new bed inside it, and cover it with a big towel. I fill a toy with peanut butter and toss it inside. She follows me while I get changed into something not covered in stressed out dog hair. I don’t have time to shave, but I do fill up a water bowl and leave out a small amount of food.
Before I leave, I put on ESPN, let her sniff the peanut butter toy again, and put it back in the crate. She watches me leave with woeful eyes, and I already feel like shit.
I should have waited for this weekend, I guess, but that’s not how I roll. I’m like that Ariana Grande song. I see it. I like it. I want it. I got it.
I’m so busy wallowing in my guilt and wondering how I’m gonna make it up to the dog that seeing Calyx about knocks me on my ass.
I don’t know what kind of alchemy happened in my brain last night while I was sleeping, but I must have become a fan or something because it feels like I’m face to face with someone more like Gideon York than a model I’d never heard of before a couple of days ago.
Wowis my mental reaction. He’s one of those people that makes backgrounds blur. He’s all—portrait mode.
He’s wearing very tight gray joggers that emphasize the length and shape of his slender legs—legs most girls would kill for. His t-shirt is nothing special, but it’s tight, too, and white, making his skin fucking glow. His shaggy blond waves softly frame his photo-ready face, and I realize now how long I was staring at it in the pictures and videos last night.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll do more than breathe tonight.”
