Page 45 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
What a fucking clown show I am.
When I step into the weight room, Jett and Silas are already there. Jett nods at me. “Hey, man.”
“I didn’t realize you two were going to be early,” I say. “I planned to be here to have some quiet lifting time.”
“Sucks,” Jett says, grinning. “You should know by now that Silas is almost always in the gym before anyone else.”
Silas just grunts in response to me, which is pretty much our relationship these days. “Gotta stay fit.”
Of the three Huxley brothers, Silas is the most slavishly devoted to diet and exercise. He spends all his free time either lifting weights, cycling endlessly, or running stats in his head. I can’t say the last time I’ve seen him eat anything isn’t salmon, broccoli, or rice.
Fun foods, drinking, and doing things that won’t propel his career forward just aren’t Silas’s style. I clap him on the shoulder and drop my bag by the wall.
“You look like shit,” Jett offers helpfully, curling a barbell that’s probably heavier than most people.
I shrug. “Thanks, big brother. That’s exactly the support I needed today.”
“Engaged life not treating you well?” Silas deadpans, eyes focused on his reflection in the mirror as he stacks some weights onto the leg press machine.
“Everything’sfine.” I grab a bar and load it with more weight than I probably should. “I’ve got it handled.”
Jett snorts. “Sure you do. Is that why you were brooding on the bench all last week?”
“Fuck off.” I ignore him and focus on my setup.
“Don’t forget I was there in college,” Jett says, resting his elbows on the bench press bar. “You couldn’t shut up about her back then. Every time she walked into a party with Patrick, you looked like someone kicked your puppy.”
The back of my neck heats and I grit my teeth. “I don’t remember it quite like that.”
“Christ,” Silas mutters. “You have the girl. What’s your issue?”
Before I can come up with a clever response, Moose and Shane burst into the weight room like a tornado of filthy jokes and terrible timing.
“Look who it is!” Moose hollers. “Mr. Happily Ever After!”
Shane doubles over laughing. “Yo, how’s the wife-to-be? Is she waiting at home for you in nothing but your jersey?”
The image appears before my eyes, tempting. Juliet in bed, wearing my jersey, beckoning. I swallow roughly.
“I think that means she is,” Shane jokes. “She’s so hot.”
I spin toward them, probably looking like I want to commit murder. “Do you want to get body-checked through a wall?”
The laughter dies immediately. The room goes tense, that kind of silence that happens when everyone realizes they’ve pushed too far.
I storm over to the squat rack, breathing hard and trying to remember why assault charges would be bad for my fake relationship.
That’s when Ryan walks in. He takes one look at the room and sighs as though he’s aged ten years in the last thirty seconds.
“Walk with me,” he says.
We step into the hallway. Ryan’s voice is quiet, the quiet that means he’s done playing games.
“You’re scaring the rookies, man.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re doing everything. I don’t know if it’s the road stress or this fake fiancée situation, but people are walking on eggshells around you.”
