My phone buzzed again, though it was facedown on the desk.
“As for getting back together?” he said, looking at the pinging notification on his computer desktop. “Fuck. I gotta take care of this. I don’t know, man. Leave it alone. Maybe just . . . don’t respond.”
I sat back in my chair for a minute and stared at the messages before typing out a reply. If I were smart, I’d ignore both women. Kelsey and I had a history. We understood each other on some level, and Britta was . . . I wasn’t sure what Britta was—her smile left me confident I could do anything, but she was a client. I glanced at the protein bar she’d given me, sitting on my desk. When she’d pulled it out, an unexpected wave of emotion had hit me. When I was a kid, there wasn’t money to really celebrate birthdays, and Mom usually didn’t remember anyway. I’d been fingering the candle all day, unsure why it meant so much and not wanting to open it yet.
The office was quiet save for Cord’s furious tapping and swearing under his breath. That was familiar territory. I glanced down at my phone and tapped out a message.
Wes: Want to meet up tonight?
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3,749 VIEWS
“Hey, everyone! I’ve spent a lot of time telling you about the FitMi app—the features, the challenges, and the coaching. Today, I’ll tell you about me. When I signed up for the app, I was nervous. I downed half a bottle of wine and stood in front of my mirror half-naked. I’d thought I’d stand there and find all my flaws. Undoubtedly, I would have parroted back every outdated, problematic message I’ve ever received about my body. Why do we do that to ourselves? Instead, though, I looked at my body and found things I loved—my shoulders, my butt, my thighs. I have cute feet, but that used to be one of the few things about my body I liked. When I stood in front of that mirror, I saw a whole person who was gorgeous and THEN I signed up for FitMi. I’m sharing all that today because we don’t talk about that option enough. You can love your body as is, no matter your size and shape, and you can still want to be in the gym or eating kale (though . . . why?) or doing other things that make you feel good. What makes you feel good, readers?”
* * *
I STRETCHED OUT on the floor of my apartment. After that morning, it felt like an eighteen-wheeler had taken me out, and I’d gotten as far as putting on workout clothes before I gave up on going to the class. “Oof,” I whimpered. “I hurt.” I psyched myself up to sit but fell back. I glanced at the clock on the wall until my phone buzzed next to me.
Wes: Ready?
Britta: I am on the floor.
Wes: We have to stop meeting like this.
Britta: I’ve told you you’re not funny. Come on up.
I didn’t want to still be lying there when Wes arrived, so I hoisted myself up, a tight heat on the back of my thighs. I flipped the lock and cracked the door.
Catching my reflection in the mirror, I regretted not taking a before picture like Wes suggested. I tried to remember if my arms and chest had looked like this back in February, and I flexed my calf muscle, willing myself to remember the thousands of times I’d looked at my own legs. I pressed my palms to my breasts and squeezed. I thought they felt smaller in my hands, but I clearly hadn’t spent as much time groping myself as I should have.
“Oh!” A gravelly voice filled with surprise sounded behind me.
I yelped, whipping around.
Wes stood in front of me, his wide eyes falling to my hands and pausing there.
“You scared me.” I caught my breath, cheeks warming as his gaze paused where my hands still clutched my boobs. “Oh, God.” I dropped my arms to my sides. “Sorry.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I knocked, but the door was open.” He held up his hands, palms toward me as his gaze returned to my face. “Um . . . ?” He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck, not saying anything, though his cheeks had colored.
Wes blushes!
“I was trying to see if I’d changed here.” I motioned to my chest. “I can’t remember what I looked like before. I was curious and you walked in and . . . that’s the story of me groping myself.”
His lips tipped up in a lopsided smile. “I’ll knock louder next time in case you’re inspecting anything . . .” His gaze flicked down my body. “Else.”
I let my head fall into my hands and winced, a little from the sore muscles but also in embarrassment.
He noticed my wince and took a step toward me. “Sore?”
“Thirty minutes, mostly walking on a treadmill and lifting small weights for a few minutes, and I can hardly move. I thought I was more prepared.”
He motioned to the couch. “Here.” Wes sat next to me, the warmth from his body making goose bumps rise on my bare arms. “You’re just not used to it yet.” He dropped his large hands to my shoulders, angling me away from him. “Is this okay?” He paused, and I nodded, afraid to speak for fear of what would come out. I let my eyes fall closed with his palms on my skin as he unhurriedly kneaded. Facing away from him and with my eyes closed, it was easy to imagine this was more than it was.
His voice rumbled behind me, breath grazing my neck. “You used muscles you’re not used to pushing.” He rolled his thumbs in small circles at my shoulder blades, and his fingers worked the muscles on either side of my neck. “I should have given you some other stretches to do.”
“That feels really good.” A moan escaped my lips. “Sorry.” Awkward.
“It’s okay.” The husky quality of his voice sent my imagination spinning with fantasies of his hands elsewhere. “What’s with all those?” He pointed to my bookshelf where twenty notebooks were stacked.
“I write sometimes.” I’d jot down story ideas and poems or just sentences and descriptions. I’d been doing it since college, when I thought my writing career would go a little differently.
“Really? What do you write?” His thumbs moved across my shoulders and against my neck with a steady, even pressure.
“Oh, just this and that.” My face flushed, and it had nothing to do with the massage, because this was getting dangerously close to me having to lie more than I already had about my job. “Thank you,” I said as I pulled away, my creaking body protesting. “You’re good at that.” I faced him, backing into the corner on my couch. With a wry smile, I joked, “Foot rub next, right?”
He shrugged and pulled my leg toward him without waiting for me to answer.
“Wes! I was kidding!”
He pulled off my sneaker, revealing my clean white sock, my foot firmly in his hand. “I don’t mind.”
I held up my palms. “I’m not going to fight you. Have you always wanted to do this?”
“Be a masseur?” he said with a cheeky grin and a wink. He rolled his thumb over my arch. It felt amazing. I’d leave him a five-star review on Yelp. “I’ll admit. It’s not what I set out to do.”
“What did you want to be when you were a kid?”
He was looking at my socked foot, so I had a moment to admire his broad shoulders in his T-shirt. His jaw, covered in stubble, was just enough to scratch if it was against my skin. God, was I a sucker for a stubbled jaw. Stop it.
“I wanted to be a teacher,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I liked school.” He wrapped his warm hand around my entire foot and squeezed with a slow, steady pressure.
I laughed, remembering how excited teachers had been to see me on their rosters after having my sister. How bamboozled they must have felt once the year began. “English and writing classes were okay, but everything else was just filler.”
“Home for me was . . . chaotic, and school was always kind of predictable,” he said, looking back to my foot. “I liked that.”
He switched to my other foot, and I watched him peel my shoe off, like he was undressing me. Guess I’m glad the only working out I did in them was getting up off the floor.
My breath caught. “What changed? Or are you also an undercover preschool teacher?”
He cocked an eyebrow and met my gaze. “Undercover preschool teacher?”