Page 181 of Gym Bros
“On?”
“On how much work I get,” I say, focusing on my cat, the way my fingers look moving through her soft, thick fur.
“How much work do you want?” he asks.
“It’s not really the work I want. The money, however…necessary evil.”
“I guess so,” he says.
“Yeah.”
And then the silence comes.
I’m not used to silence with Samuel. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it until now. How much we talked. Even when talkingwas totally unnecessary, we were always doing it. Missing him has hurt, and I thought mostly what I’ve been missing is holding him, him holding me. His kiss and his smile and his laugh and all the small intimacies that individually don’t seem like much but amount to a relationship I loved. But I realize now I miss the noise of him, too. The sound of his random sniffs and the soft little grunts he makes every time he moves.
This silence lays bare the damage I did.
I’m opening my mouth to apologize again, but he says, “Most people watch football on Thanksgiving.”
“I can change it,” I say.
“You a Cowboys’ fan?”
“I’ve never met one.”
He gives me a look that would have cracked me up once upon a time, but I can’t find a laugh inside me to save my life today. “I’m kidding.”
He lets out a breath. “Oh.”
“My dad loved football,” I say randomly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think it’s one of the reasons he didn’t think much of me. I was never gonna be a ball player. I could have been a figure skater maybe, but I don’t think he would have been too excited about that, either.”
“My mom wouldn’t let me play football,” he says. “She didn’t want me getting a concussion. Joke’s on her, huh?”
It feels like we both understand what he just said at the same time, and my stomach sinks.
“Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—anyway, I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I ask. “For loving your mom? For caring about her happiness? Don’t be. It makes you a good person, Sam, and I know what I did. It’s not like I don’t think about it. I think about it all the fucking time.”
“Which part?” he asks softly.
I sigh heavily. “Let’s see. Um…that I used to sleep with married men and didn’t care who their wives were. I never asked about their kids or even whether they had any. I didn’t think about whether what we were doing could hurt them. And then I wonder if the single men who asked me out ever wanted more than a fun night, and I just didn’t give them a chance because what if they did want to actually get to know me and then realized I was just…” I gesture at myself. “A pretty package. No substance. I wondered that about you, too.”
“But?” he asks in a tone gentler than I deserve.
“But…you didn’t quit yoga.” I’m all over the place. I’m not even sure what I’m talking about anymore.
“You’re saying it was because I kept showing up? Because I remember it a little different.”
The urge tobanterrises, but I push it down. Now is certainly not the time.
“What did you really come here to talk about?” I ask instead.
He slides his palms firmly down his thighs. “Do you consider us broken up?”
