Page 2 of Resistance Training
Decimate mental speculation re: Why now? It’s irrelevant.
But fuck.
The truth is Vivian was never a Twinkie.
Vivian was the best chocolate cake, made with love, the icing, and the cherry on top.
And I never got to taste her the way I wanted to…not the cherry, the icing, or the cake—and I will never forgive her.
But fuck.
I can’t believe she lives here.
Why didn’t her sister mention if she’s single or not?
Fuck.
CHAPTER 2
VIVIAN
Iam genuinely delighted for people who get to live happily ever after with their soulmate or whatever, but why aren’t more people talking about how amazing it is to live alone?
Being able to redecorate this little house in my own brand of librarian–cottagecore–boho chic–defiantly messy teenager aesthetic that would drive my ex crazy is objectively awesome. I don’tneedall these pink Himalayan salt lamps, houseplants, antique mirrors, bohemian area rugs, Moroccan-leather poufs, framed graphic prints from Etsy, large crystals that I can’t identify, or all of the books I can afford. Especially not theOfficial Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour BookI got on eBay. But Idoneed to have all of these things in my living room while setting the thermometer to a balmy sixty-nine degrees because it makes me deliriously happy knowing how much my ex-boyfriend would hate it.
Being home alone on a rainy Sunday night, doing what I want to do, when I want to do it—this is the stuff my dreams were made of when I was living here with the ex.
And the whole food thing?! I get to eat whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want. I can eat donuts while takinga bath at seven thirty on a Tuesday night. I can eat tacos for breakfast while standing over the kitchen sink, listening to a murder podcast and doing Kegels. I can stuff my face with a banana cream pie and then wash it down with a large glass of pinot noir that doesn’t pair well with banana cream pie. How could I possibly top this?
By wearing pajamas all day and singing along to myFuck U Jeremy Thank U, Nextbreakup playlist really loudly to annoy Hairy Styles, that’s how.
Hairy Styles is my cat.
This is bliss for me.
Really.
And that’s not just the sugar high talking either.
This is the happiest I’ve been in years.
I almost feel like me again.
I have Taylor Swift breakup song lyrics coursing through my veins. I don’t have to wear headphones to listen to my nineties-nostalgia playlists or watch every episode ofFriendswith my office bestie at lunch because I live with an asshole who believes grown-ups should only stream shows with educational value at home. I can havePride and Prejudicestreaming on my iPad while listening to Stevie Nicks on my phone and rereading my paperback ofThe Secret History—one of the fifty or so books I had to store at my parents’ house because my ex considered physical books to be clutter.
I am free. Free to be me. As long as my cat is cool with everything.
I’m right in the middle of belting out “Stronger” by Britney Spears when the song is interrupted by a FaceTime call request from my sister.
This is not ideal. I am not mentally prepared to talk to anyone with less than four legs tonight—unless it’s one of those amputee cats or dogs. I just want to sing theGleeCast versionof “Take a Bow” again, rearrange some of the books on my new vintage bookshelves, then get in bed with Hairy Styles and eat an apple fritter while reading a paperback. I want to leave sugary fingerprints all over the pages and be judged by exactly no one. Then, to relax my brain, I want to watch celebrities do their nighttime skincare routines on YouTube until I fall asleep. And sleep all through the night, sprawled out starfish-style, taking up the entire mattress. As long as I’m not disturbing my cat.
That was the plan.
But the fact that Aubrey didn’t text me first to ask if I’m available to FaceTime leads me to believe that either there is an emergency or she’s checking on me again because she thinks I’m depressed. If it’s an emergency, then I’m an asshole for not answering. If this is a check-in, then she’ll keep calling until I answer and my songs will keep getting interrupted anyway. So, I reluctantly accept the video call. “Heyyyy, girl…!?”
My sister’s freakishly symmetrical pretty face is barely recognizable because she’s smiling. A lot. With her eyes. And her teeth. And her forehead. Even her ears look like they’re smiling. So it’s not an emergency.
I should be relieved, but I just felt a new tension knot form in my back.
