Page 7 of Sweet Caroline
So, for now, celebration feels too far off. For the next month, I’ll have to keep my emotions in check, stuffed down under every fake smile for the cameras.
Pleasant. I’ll be vaguely pleasant.
And vaguely dying on the inside.
2
MILES
Iswear to God: some people shouldn’t be let out of the house. Especially this fuckstick doing lat pulldowns beside me.
We’ve all let out a grunt or two at the gym, but this guy’s sounds are… I mean, I’m no pearl clutcher, but let’s just say there’s a time and a place for sex noises and a busy gym on a Tuesday morning ain’t it. Not even the music in my headphones can drown this dude out.
A glance at the clock on the wall reveals it’s a few minutes past six.
For fuck’s sake.
When I catch Gus’ eye across the gym, he grimaces—and not just from the pair of eighty-pound dumbbells he’s shoulder pressing. He sets them down and gives the moaner a long side-eye, then mouthswhat the fuckmy way.
I shrug and shake my head, then set up for my next set of squats at the rack.
It’s not only me and my best friend who’ve noticed this morning’s human train wreck; everyone within a twenty-foot radiushas the same awkward look on their face. I can’t tell if the guy’s doing it on purpose or if he’s straight up oblivious but, either way, it’s uncomfortable as fuck—like making eye contact with a dog while it’s shitting.
But I try not to judge. It’s not like I’ve always been on my best behavior in public.
I know what it’s like to be stared at. Whispered about. Hell, probably pitied.
But, even at my messiest, I never pulled this kind of shit.
At least, I fucking hope not.
I readjust my headphones and wipe my forehead with the hem of my T-shirt. It tugs at my nose as I let it drop, and my eyes flit to the TV screen in the corner. Some politics shit on the news, as usual. No fucking thank you. They couldn’t put on sports highlights or something? Hell, I’d settle for golf, and golf makes me want to poke out my eyeballs.
Gus walks over as I finish my set and rack the weight. I pull my headphones down to my neck and the din of the gym whooshes around my skull.
He jerks his chin at the TV. “What’s this dickhead yappin’ about now?”
“Fuck if I know.” I lift my gaze to the screen again, where red-nosed Senator Pete Brennan drones on about urban density regulations and preserving the character of town centers. “Probably a bunch of whiny boomer shit.”
“So fucking oblivious,” Gus sighs, smoothing over his mustache. “Can’t believe this guy is running for governor.”
“Yeah, more like Gover-no-thank-you.”
He smirks at the weak joke—admittedly, not my best work. “You almost done?”
“Uh, I was gonna do a bit more, actually. They need you at the station early?”
He rolls his shoulders. “Yeah. Nothing major. Just some linesdown and shit after last night. More overnight calls than usual. Figure the crew could use a hand unloading.”
Typical October in this small town. Rain, windstorms, power failures. Keeps Gus and the rest of the Lennox Valley Fire Department busy, though.
“Shay’s gonna stop by too. Pick up the last of her things.”
I pause, spray bottle and towel in hand. “She didn’t change her mind about Lumpy, did she?”
I’ve gotten quite attached to Gus’ long-suffering black cat. Officially named Coal—but unofficially Lump of Coal, Mr. Lumps, Lumpy, Sir Lumps-a-lot, or any variation on the theme—he’s my favorite fuzzball, next to my brother’s golden retriever, Murphy.
Gus cracks a smile. “Nah, you’re good. I got Lumps in the divorce.”
