Page 27 of Resistance Training
CHAPTER 7
BRAD
Idon’t like this feeling I have in my chest.
This is not delayed-onset muscle soreness related to hypertrophy of the pectoralis major and minor.
This is not an inflammatory response caused by microscopic tears in the muscle fibers.
This is originating from the muscle that is no longer supposed to respond to Vivian Sparks, and there is no recovery strategy I can employ aside from not thinking about her—oronlythinking about how much caring about her hurts.
But fuck.
She still wears that thin gold chain necklace that’s so dainty you only notice it when the light hits it. I wonder if it’s the same one she wore in high school or if she got another one. I wonder if she wears it in the shower. I wonder if she’s taking a shower right now…
Nope.
Not thinking about that.
Thinking about my goals.
Thinking about what fires me up.
I can’t believe she kept calling me Brad. That’s not who I am at the gym. I don’t show up at her work calling her Sparky and telling everyone about our two-person book club and how we’d hang out on a big rock and a log in the cove by my house and once she fell asleep on my shoulder while we were readingThe Martianand I couldn’t breathe because I didn’t want to wake her up and because I thought maybe I was the one who was dreaming.
Such a turd.
Vivian, of all people, should understand why I don’t identify with the name Brad in my new life here. In my new body here. Vivian, of all people, because she’s the one who went to prom with the dickhead who dominated the Brads at school from kindergarten through senior year. The shitbag who bestowed the moniker of Fat Brad upon me when we were eight. The fuckwit who carved the wordsFat Bradinto my locker on the first day of school every year that I had a locker. The douche-ass-dickwad who shoved me into a ditch when he saw me out running junior year because I was trying to get in shape.There’s only one Hot Brad at this school, fattie.
Brad Turner.
Such a dick.
She should understand. Yes, I incorporated my origin story into my brand as a personal trainer even though I call myself Mitch here. No, I don’t talk about the Fat Brad piece of it. Yes, that’s my fire. My motivation. Ever since I moved to Portland nearly eight years ago.
But fuck.
It may be true that I didn’t tell her everything about how he treated me because I was so ashamed.
I mean, why would I tell the only girl who wanted to hang out with me that the most popular guy at our school treated me like shit because we had the same name?
Why would I waste our precious time together talking abouthim?
She knew he got all his asshat friends to call me Fat Brad all through school—that should have been enough.
Fuck.
Now I’m thinking about it.
All of it.
I wonder if she still dresses a little bit hippie-dippie and likes to walk around barefoot. I wonder if she still listens to Fleetwood Mac and picks wildflowers and places them behind her ear. I wonder if she still likes to read, and if she does I wonder if she still thinks of me when she reads a book she likes because I never stopped thinking of her.
That’s not true.
I stopped myself from thinking about her when I realized I was thinking about her.
I can still do that.
