Page 21 of Green
5
Theo
For those first few months after Gemma and Andrew had broken up, Ethan was always making comments, in her absence, about how she shouldn’t get involved with anyone yet because it was too soon. “She needs to have a grieving period.” I assumed he was just voicing his wife’s opinion, because Ethan tends not to have opinions on anything beyond architecture and music. I never saw much evidence of grieving on Gem’s part, and I didn’t ask her many questions because I’ve always given her space where Andrew was concerned. I never voiced my concerns about him when they were together. He was there first. She’d known him her whole life. Family friend, blah blah blah. I didn’t even say “I KNEW IT” when I found out that he’d been cheating for years, because what if they got back together?
I didn’t think she would be dumb enough to get back with him, and I would have tried to keep it from happening, but you never know. Still, I couldn’t help but reminisce about those simpler times—when Gemma was spoken for and I never had to wonder what her single status would mean for our marriage and impending divorce…That was a weird sentence.
Regardless, I hadn’t been inviting any of my LA buddies around since she’d become single, especially the ones who’d always asked me what her deal is. Last thing I needed was for one of my friends to start hitting on her, especially after that little moment we had the night I brought her home from the airport. Which was why I didn’t invite any of them to our little party for Ethan and Chloe. Even though it had been a year, I was still skeptical about her being ready to deal with a bunch of horny twentysomething L.A. guys. She still seemed so raw and on edge.
Ever since that night of the almost-kiss, she’d been in a bad mood every time I was home, complaining about everything I did. If I hadn’t found it so adorable and amusing it would have been pretty annoying. “Put your shirt on—you’ll catch a cold.” “Oh my God you’re a freaking millionaire now—can’t you afford a shirt?” “Stop laughing at me this is serious—the fact that you refuse to wear a shirt is just insulting to people who can’t afford shirts!” She was obsessed, and it certainly didn’t help that I steadfastly refuse to wear a shirt if I don’t have to. Ask any runner who’s experienced nipple chafing—when the opportunity to free your nips arises, you just take it. She used to be fine with my rampant at-home-shirtlessness before the break-up. I figured she was just uptight because she hadn’t gotten laid in a while.
It wasn’t going to be easy for me to stay chipper all night either, seeing her all dolled-up, knowing she must have been doing hundreds of squats and lunges and plank poses in my absence—who was she getting in shape for? When did she get the ass of a Brazilian supermodel? Was she getting spray tans now? When did her hair get so long and was she using a new product to make it all bedhead-y?
I mean, I’d seen Gemma in a bra before. I had her beta-test the high tech sports bras for my new line about nine months earlier (because she’s my go-to non-athlete beta-tester). The bras are equipped with sensors that transmit data about heart rate and energy output to an app. She looked great back then, but she definitely wasn’t working out. She complained that the first design gave her uni-boob and the material smelled like a high school gym shower. She complained that the second design let her boobs bounce around too much. I made her run in place to demonstrate. I was in work-mode, so there was nothing sexy about it, especially because she was so grouchy. She loved the third design, praised the lack of scent from the moisture-wicking material, and said that the comfortable flattering style was “almost enough” to get her to start exercising more—“but not quite.”
Something or someone was enough to get her to start exercising more. Nobody starts to work out for no reason. And I knewIwasn’t the reason. I had tried endlessly to get her into running and she just hated it. It’s not that she needed to lose any weight, it’s just that now she was all toned up and her posture was better and she looked more confident and it was just the way she was carrying herself. She seemed different. She was blossoming, and I wasn’t the one who had forced the bloom.
I didn’t even know why I cared about this so much.
As her best friend, I should have been happy that she was finally ready to move on from Andrew.
Still…So much about her had changed physically since I last saw her, I couldn’t help but wonder what else had changed for her. And how it would affect us.
Had I thought about making some sort of move to take things to another level with Gemma lately?...I think about everything. All the time. From many different perspectives. Of course I thought about it.
Here’s a good example of how I saw it: With some things, you just don’t know if they’re going to convert successfully from one form to another and it’s just not worth it for me to risk being disappointed by a potentially life-altering event by experiencing it in the wrong way. Like,Avengers: Infinity War.The big question was—should I experience it in 3DandIMAX? You’d think it’s a no-brainer, because it’s a big event movie, so you should see it in the biggest, boldest manner possible, right? But—Avengers: Infinity Warwas not filmed using a 3D camera. It was shot with the most advanced IMAX camera. So I knew it would look amazing in IMAX, and there was a good chance that it would have converted well to 3D—but I didn’t want to risk it. I saw it in IMAX 2D. Will I always wonder if it would have been more astounding in 3D? Maybe. But at least I wasn’t disappointed by the lack of extra dimension.
My friendship with Gemma was, in my life, a thousand times more important than a Marvel movie event of a lifetime, so I didn’t want to risk feeling disappointed and nauseated by a poor conversion. I didn’t want to mess up a great thing. I just wanted more of the great thing that we already had.
Half a year earlier I’d started spending a lot of time in Palo Alto and Portland, then traveling around the country, talking to trainers and athletes, because my company was gearing up for the launch of our first line of wearable sports technology. Meanwhile, Gemma had been on set a lot, so we’d only really spent time together a few days a month. Our last year of marriage had flown by and I was feeling ripped off. But now we had launched. That crucial first week had passed and we were hesitantly optimistic, so I’d planned to stay home for the next week to grab some down time, and hopefully some much-needed Gemma time. But it looked like the only Gemma time I’d have was that weekend.
When she emerged from her room, she had changed—into a tight black tank top—and even though there was no exposed cleavage or navel, she somehow looked even sexier because…Shit. The curves and the tight little waist on this woman.What is happening?
“What?” she snapped, when she saw me staring. “Too tight?”
I shook my head and started to say something, but apparently I no longer possessed a voice.
She looked at me funny, then shook her own head because she didn’t have time to contemplate me and the look on my face—she had to ensure that every throw pillow was in exactly the right place at exactly the right angle before people started arriving and sitting on them or moving them out of the way.
I cleared my throat. “Dude, you need to relax.”
“I will later.”
“No, you seriously need to relax now.” I grabbed two beers from the fridge, twisted one open and placed it in her hand. “Drink.”
She held the bottle like she had no idea what to do with it.
I twisted off my cap, clinked the bottom of my bottle with hers, and then raised it up in front of her tense little face. “To Chloe and Ethan. May we calmly remember that this laid-back but entertaining party is for them.”
I watched as her shoulders lowered several inches and she started breathing again. “Right. To Chloe and Ethan.” She took a swig of pale ale, licked her upper lip. “Where are they?”
“Downstairs, I’d imagine. They’ll come up when they’re ready. I’m not gonna tell you to chill because I know you hate that. But, you know. Chill.”
She inhaled deeply and shook off her jitters. “Yeah. Chill. I seriously don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She chugged about half the bottle.
“Whoa there, Nelly!” I reached out to touch her beer-guzzling arm and she flinched.
“What?”
