Page 8 of Resistance Training
THE 4 F’S OF GOOD FORM
FUEL:Fuck.
FIRE:Shit.
FORTRESS:Fuck!
FRACTURES:Fuck. It’s nothing but fractures this morning. Aubrey Sparks DMed me a photo attachment last night.
Here’s what she wrote: “This is Vivi after she got dumped by her asshat boyfriend. The one she moved to Portland with. I drove down to see her. She was so depressed. Like she was after you ghosted her. I managed to get a picture of her when she was laughing. I think she looks so beautiful here. It’s the first time I’d seen her laughing like that in years, and it was because I did my impression of Betty White doing that dance like in the GIF. It didn’t last, because I can only do that dancefor so long when I’m sober. The only thing that I think would make her truly happy is seeing you again. Because I think that you’re the reason she’s truly sad. And if it’s my fault that you were both hurt, then I don’t know that I’ll ever be truly happy even though I just got engaged tonight.”
I mean.
Well played, Vivian’s sister. Well played.
I might have an opening. What’s the point of building this fortress if I don’t test it against the person I’ve been building it for?
Every time that fucking Twilight movie comes up as a suggestion on Netflix my stomach seizes up. That movie will never not remind me of Vivian and everything that happened. I shouldn’t be having a response like that. I need to confront this, or else I’m a fraud.
I need to prove tomyselfthat I’m strong and in control in every way that I need to be.
But what if I get one look at her in person and forget why I’ve been building my fortress in the first place?
This is my entire life.
I can’t risk throwing it all away now.
But fuck.
Maybe this is the fire I need to take me to the next level.
CHAPTER 4
VIVIAN
Iwould have slept through the alarm if Hairy Styles hadn’t pounced on my chest. It’s a gray, overcast March morning, typical of the Pacific Northwest this time of year. But it feels dark and cloudy inside my brain and body too. It’s not a hangover. Not even half a bottle of wine was consumed last night. But I have a serious case of the Mondays and an even worse case of You’re Going to Die Alone and Hairy Styles Will Eat Your Dead, Lonely Face.
I start a one-minute timer on my phone app and allow myself sixty seconds to think negative thoughts, so I can purge them.
But also to really enjoy them.
Aubrey was right.
I might be a little depressed.
The first glorious breakup phase, wherein I could rejoice in my freedom, is now over.
Phase Two has begun.
The man I’d moved to Portland with got engaged to the woman he cheated on me with, while I was busy engaging in food orgies all by myself. The man I’d given up a great job opportunity in Seattle for so he could take a great job in Portlandhad moved back to Seattle and started a new life with Duckface. While I’ve been sitting on my gloriously ever-widening ass every night on my new cozy sofa, watching every single movie and show he didn’t think I should watch while we lived together. I take comfort in knowing that Duckface surely knows that even the worst episode ofSex and the Cityis better than the best night of sex with Jeremy Fenton.
Okay, if I’m being honest, when he brought his A-game to bed it was pretty great. I wouldn’t have moved to a new city for him if it wasn’t. I wasn’tthatdetermined to convince everyone it was a serious relationship.
And I’ve run out of time to think about why I needed to convince anyone of anything at all, because I have to get to work on time for a meeting with my boss, who I have convinced I am reliable and punctual.
I am one minute late for my meeting with my boss, but he’s five minutes late, so it doesn’t matter. Traffic in Portland isn’t nearly as bad as it is in Seattle, but that’s like saying that stubbing your big toe isn’t as bad as breaking your big toe. Nobody enjoys being stuck in traffic. Especially when you’re stuck thinking about how the asshole you moved to this city with is probably in Seattle driving to work in his Mercedes while listening to NPR and not thinking about what an asshole he is.
The tiny rental house I used to share with him is in the Alberta Arts District, and the law firm I work for as a corporate paralegal is located in the heart of downtown Portland. It’s about a twenty-minute drive at this time of day, or four repeat-listens of “So Long, London” by Taylor Swift and one “good 4 u” byOlivia Rodrigo. I bolted out of the house twenty-two minutes before the meeting because I had made the suboptimal decision to hunt for pictures of Jeremy and Duckface on Facebook—an app I had managed to stay off of for over two and a half months—instead of showering or eating.
