Page 39 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
After that, she started pushing herself a little harder in the gym, and started buying healthier foods. The first big roadblock came six weeks in—she’d dropped four sizes in her clothing, but her weight hadn’t really gone down, and she was getting discouraged. That was when I showed her the before photos—she’d refused to weigh in, so I’d let her off by taking front and side-view photos, knowing how vital it can be for clients to see progress when they’re struggling.
By the end of a year, she was down to a healthy weight and fat percentage, was making consistently positive, healthy nutritional choices, and had been forced to buy an entirely new wardrobe—which she had been able to afford thanks to leaving her waitressing job for a position managing a local nonprofit animal rescue and shelter.
Now, almost two years later, she looked better than ever. Trim, fit, glowing…with slightly larger, firmer, perkier breasts than the last time I’d seen her. She also had mascara running down her cheeks in twin tear-tracks.
“Laurel? Wow! You look amazing.” I laughed, taking a bar napkin and wiping at her cheeks. “Running mascara notwithstanding.”
She laughed, sniffling. “Yeah, I—had a bad breakup.” She tried a tremulous smile. “How are you?”
I sighed, and realized I didn’t have the energy to pretend to be hunky-dory—Laurel had always been sharp and insightful, and would see through it anyway. “Eh, I’m here.” I snorted, gesturing at the bar. “And considering where here is, I’d say not great.”
The bartender, Eric, a burly, bearded, tattooed, potbellied older guy, poured a pair of shots of whiskey and slid them toward us both. “Hey, I resemble that remark.”
“Ha ha,” I drawled, taking the shots and passing one to Laurel. “Thanks, Eric.”
“Just don’t weep into the whiskey, that’s all I ask.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, pal. I’m straight ice, through and through, you know that.”
“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you?” He smirks at me, and then turns to pour a fresh beer for an old regular.
I turn to Laurel. “So. Bad breakup, huh?”
She sighs. “Really bad.”
I look her over. She’s put together, wearing a navy skirt and a pale coral top, with a string of pearls and an elegant updo. Her black hair is glossy and healthy, not a hair out of place, and her skin is so tanned and perfect even I’m jealous of it. Her eyes are a pale grass green, her nose petite and pointed, slightly upturned.
I shake my head. “You really do look amazing, Laurel. It’s hard to believe it’s you.”
She smiles. “Thank you. I feel great—I’m eating clean, working out regularly.”
“Looks like you’re moving up in the world, too.” I indicate the pearls and the ensemble—the skirt and top look pretty pricey.
She shrugs. “Our nonprofit got absorbed by a larger five-oh-one group, expanded, and turned into a chain of nonprofit rescues around the area. And I just got promoted to regional manager today, so yeah, that’s a pretty big step up.”
“Regional manager, huh? That’s awesome!”
She sighs. “Yeah. I was all excited, ready to bring my big news home to my boyfriend…who promptly blindsided me with a breakup announcement the second I walked in. And I’d been thinking of asking him to move in with us, too.”
I wince. “Ouch. Why did he dump you?”
She shrugs. “I have no clue. I thought we were doing good. A year and a half together, and then, bam. He just dumps me for no reason. ‘Sorry, babe, it’s not working. I’m out. See ya.’” She affects a gruff voice for this. “Whatever. Asshole.”
I hold up my shot. “To the assholes in the world—most of which have dicks.”
She snorts a laugh. “I’ll drink to that.” We do our shots, and she eyes me. “So. What’s new with you?”
I shrug. “You know—the same. Clients, seminars, working out.”
“No man in your life?”
I laugh. “I think we talked about this when we went out to celebrate you letting me go as your personal trainer.”
“Yeah, you said you don’t do relationships, you just do men.”
“Right. Like I said, same ol’, same ol’.”
She stares me down, hard. “Bullshit.”
I thunk my forehead against the sticky bar top. “GODDAMMIT! Why does everyone have to keep calling me on my bullshit?”
Laurel laughs. “I just stepped in something smelly, didn’t I?”
“Where’s Nate?” I ask, referencing her son in an attempt to change the subject.
“With my mom.” She seems like she’s taking the bait. “When Derek left, I sort of lost it, and Mom came to my rescue, told me to go out and get my shit together. Nate is nine, almost ten, loves football, hates Brussels sprouts no matter how much bacon I put in them, watches Star Wars: The Clone Wars on repeat, despite having seen the entire series at least five times through. And let’s see, what else…? Oh yeah—nice try, Audra, but you can’t bait me into avoiding the subject.”
