Page 179 of Gym Bros
He was my boyfriend, but he was also just—a great person to be around. He was a friend. The best one I’ve ever had. The benefits weren’t too bad either. Shit, I can’t think about the benefits right now.
I don’t know if I can separate the issues I’m having with him from the sense of impending doom when it comes to my family. But from what Rachel says, it sounds like she thinks it’s possible—or that I should.
I fucking hate my father. I hate him for being weak anddisloyal. I hate him for lying. I hate him for leaving me to figure out how to clean up this mess.Hismess.
But I hate him the very most for not being the kind of man he and my mom raised me to be.
27
CALYX
I’m used to spending holidays alone. I’m not going to say it’s no big deal. It feels like a big deal that after seven years, I’ve gotten used to it. I’d like to say it builds character, but it actually doesn’t. It strips me raw and shines a light on all the choices I’ve made that have left me on my own. I may not be the only person in San Francisco this holiday Thursday, but it certainly fucking feels like it.
Initially, I was pissed off about the unfairness of it all, but now I’m only resigned. I keep telling myself “Thanksgiving is just another day.”
Rachel and Priya are out of town separately with their own families. Ryan and Malcolm are going to two Thanksgivings, one in Ojai with Ryan’s mom, the other in LA with Mal’s dad. Bailey is only as far away as Berkeley, but while she did invite me to go with her to her family’s dinner, I declined, knowing I’d be terrible company.
The gym is closed for the day, which I think pisses me off the most. It’s very presumptuous of them to think that no one gives a shit about their fitness on an eating holiday.
So it’s just me and Siva at my townhouse. I thought aboutgoing full out—finding some complicated recipes and muddling my way through them just to have something to do—something different. Instead, I’m watching Merchant-Ivory movies, as many as I can fit in, and alternating between popcorn and ice cream. Oh, and wine.
Glass after glass of wine. I’m not guzzling it, but I’m not allowing my glass to get empty, either.
The texts come in from all my friends who left me behind wishing me unironic Happy Thanksgivings. I release a bitter laugh after each one. They all know exactly where I am today. On my sofa, by myself. Although, I think I might move to the bed soon. I should have booked a trip to the Maldives, but loathe as I am to admit it, my bank accounts aren’t what they were before I took my time off this summer.
Since I haven’t acquired any more high-paying marketable skills, London is now non-negotiable. I have Italian Vogue, and another job booked with a British menswear store whose customers are young and trendy, but the rest of my time will be spent standing in front of people assessing my “look,” contemplating whether I fit their vision for their brand or concept.
Marcus will be with me, and Rachel certainly gave me an earful about that, but he’s been nothing but professional since…well…since Samuel shoved him into a building.
I wonder howthatThanksgiving is going. Although I’m trying not to think about it. It makes my heart break over and over again, knowing it could be Samuel’s last with his whole family together and knowing I had a hand in that.
So, no, I didn’t tag along with anyone on their Thanksgiving trips. I have nothing to be thankful for. Only regrets—rotting me on the inside.
But you’d never know it to look at me. Nope. The genetics are holding up just fine. It’s disgusting, really, that as ugly as Ifeel, the outside never matches. If I weren’t so superstitious—and vain—I’d break all my mirrors.
But I am vain. Vain to the point where a pimple sends me into an irrational tailspin. Vain to the point where even though I’ve got nowhere to go and no one to see, I still moisturized this morning and carefully styled my hair because I knewI’dsee. I knew there wouldn’t be a reflection I could resist. I plucked a few stray hairs from my brows, and I even put on a lip stain, just to make myself look less ill.
I’m watchingMaurice,which I haven’t seen in years, and I don’t remember it being so sad. Does it even have a happy ending? I hope so. I’m about to Google it and look when there’s a knock on my door.
Since everyone who knows where I live is out of town, I pause the movie and get up, assuming it’s a delivery from Rachel or Priya. Maybe one of them sent me a turkey.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper when I find Samuel standing on the doorstep of my townhouse with a beanie covering his head and the rest of him clothed in warm layers.
“Hey,” he says quietly, but I hear him fine because everything is quiet today. Even the rain.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came for the usual reasons. To see you. To talk.”
“To—talk?”
“You’re still sharing your location. I knew you were here, so…”
“But it’s Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah.”
“You should be at home—in LA.”
