Page 38 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“You know, I know I come across as a douchey fitness bro, sometimes. But I’m not, not really.”
I eye him warily. “Okay.”
“I just couldn’t help thinking you seemed a little…sad. That’s why I came over to talk to you. A sexy woman like you shouldn’t be sad.”
I snort. “Even good-looking people get sad sometimes, Matty. And I wasn’t sad, anyway.”
He frowns. “No? I mean, I could be wrong, but that’s the impression I got.” He shrugs. “Point is I got the sense you were…lonely. Like you were waiting for someone you knew wasn’t going to show up.”
The elevator dings, and the doors open. I step on, pushing the button for the lobby. “I’m not lonely, and I wasn’t waiting for anyone.”
He sticks his foot across the track so the doors don’t close. “Since we’ll probably never see each other again, I’ll just say it.” He meets my eyes. “You know what’s not sexy? Self-deception.”
And with that, he lets the door close and strides with a loose swagger back to his penthouse. The last I see of him is his back, emblazoned with his Shred-90 logo, and his impossibly wedge-shaped physique. When the doors close and the car begins its downward journey, I thunk my head back against the wall.
“Goddamn you, Franco Morrissey.”
I make it another month without seeing Franco. And, let me tell you, it’s the longest month of my life—preceded by the longest two months of my life. It’s been over ninety days since I’ve had sex—Franco being the last. I tried again with a guy at a bar near my house, but the same thing happened—I saw Franco in my mind’s eye, felt him, smelled him, heard him, and couldn’t follow through. That guy wasn’t as gracious as Matty Corcoran had been, but whatever…he was a businessman on a work trip from Minnesota, so it’s not like I’d see him again either.
I’m going through the motions at this point, just trying to maintain the status quo.
I meet with Imogen every Friday, and we talk about everything, but we don’t talk about Franco.
One evening I went to dinner with Jesse, Imogen, James, and Ryder, and it was fun. Franco was out of town, delivering a dining room set he made for an online customer an hour west of Skokie, and without Franco, the group wasn’t quite the same, and no one seemed to know what to say to me for fear of making things even more awkward, which only made it all the worse. I ended up faking period cramps and went home. Imogen knew better, of course—we’ve been synched to the same cycle since high school, so she knew I wasn’t on my period but, bless her heart, she didn’t say anything.
It’s been ninety-four days since the last time I saw Franco, and I’m alone in my favorite drink-alone dive bar. It’s a tiny, dirty, dingy hole in the wall walking distance from my condo, and by now the closing bartender knows me by name, and he also knows my beverage of choice.
I’m scrubbing it this evening—my comfiest capri sweatpants, a sports bra, and a thin zip-up hoodie, with a Rogue Fitness ball cap. I’m two glasses in—going slow, because I refuse to let myself devolve into binge drinking to avoid my problems. Regular drinking, sure. But not to the point of drunkenness. Just enough to let me think about anything besides Franco.
And how resolutely I refuse to miss him.
Or want him.
Or need him.
Gah—it’s not working. But I’m far too stubborn to quit.
I’m scrolling through the news app on my phone when I feel a body sit down on the seat beside me. Expecting it to be either a regular intent on chatting me up, or a newcomer intent on picking me up, I ignore the person.
“Audra? Is that you?” It’s a female voice.
I look up, and see Laurel Madison.
She’s a former client of mine, and probably one of my greatest success stories—which is due entirely to her, and not me. When we met, Laurel was a thirty-four-year-old single mother to a hellion of a six-year-old boy. Overweight by at least fifty pounds, unhappy, lonely, stressed, prediabetic, she had a muffin top even the most aggressive compression Spanx couldn’t hide. Her breasts were big but flat, her belly wobbled and bulged, her thighs jiggled, and her butt waggled. She came to me in tears, refusing to weigh in, admitting to eating mostly garbage at work—which was waitressing at a chain restaurant—drinking too much when she got home, and bingeing on ice cream.
But, under all that, she was a beautiful woman, with gloriously long hair as glossy and black as a raven’s wing, perfectly natural tan skin with an amazing complexion despite a garbage diet, and a warm, kind, funny, loving personality. At first, she was subdued in our sessions, unwilling to push herself, and painfully reserved. It wasn’t until I got her out of the gym setting that she started to open up a little bit: I took her grocery shopping, showed her how to pick healthy foods, and made suggestions for things even her picky son would eat. I showed her stevia-sweetened soda at the local health food store. When we were at her house unloading the groceries, her son asked if I was going to “train Mommy to be happy again,” which made Laurel cry.
