My heart rate sped, and I both wanted and didn’t want her to be talking about me. The possibility taunted me like a spark in the distance. If I’d spent a moment longer weighing out potential consequences, I wouldn’t have answered so openly.
Wes: Yes. Have you?
Britta: This is probably too weird to talk about, too personal. I don’t know why I asked. I just talk to you about everything.
Wes: Are you interested in someone you shouldn’t be?
Britta: Yeah.
Wes: Just physically or more?
Britta: Both. All. I’m interested in everything.
Britta: It’s hard to describe. I absolutely can’t have him, and I can’t stop imagining what if.
What if. I swallowed, anxiety, arousal, and hope battling inside me. I wanted her to be talking about me. So many of my what-ifs were about kissing her, and bringing her home, and memorizing her body when I woke with our limbs tangled. My thumb hovered over the call icon, and I suddenly wanted to hear her voice more than anything. This felt like that moment in the park, but there was no one around to stop us, and the risk felt worth it.
A FitMi notification flashed across the screen, an automated note to check my client’s weekly summary, the simple white box an ice-water reminder why nothing had changed since the park. I pulled my thumb away from the screen. I had to be sure first.
Wes: Do you think he feels the same?
Britta: There are moments where I think maybe.
Britta: You know that feeling when you’re certain someone wants you? Like there’s this electricity? It’s like that, but then nothing happens.
I dropped my head back against the headboard, frustrated. Electricity . . . but then nothing happens. I should have kissed her. The moment was there, and I got in my own head.
Britta: Being together would break some serious rules.
Wes: Someone who really wants to be with you would be willing to move mountains, let alone break rules.
My body was on edge, muscles tensed and eyes trained on the screen. She’d cut through all my bullshit in a few texts like Britta always did. She knew exactly what was going on in my head. I’d typed, I’ll do whatever I have to to be with you, but before I hit send, her next reply popped up.
Britta: It could impact my job. It could get me fired.
She has electricity with someone else. I reread the response to be sure, because she wasn’t talking about me. It should have scared me that I’d wanted Britta in that moment more than I cared about my company, but it didn’t, and I’d been about to confess some shit to her that would have ruined everything.
Wes: Someone you work with?
Britta: Kind of.
I slumped against the bed, all that tension falling away at once, leaving this sinking disappointment in its place.
Wes: What do you think you should do?
Britta: There’s what I want to do and what I should do. But probably look out for my career, right? I mean, a guy isn’t a sure thing, and the place I work is really great . . .
Wes: That difference between “want” and “should” can be big. “Should” is probably the safer option, though.
The room felt too confined, and I walked toward my dresser, pulling on shorts.
Wes: If he doesn’t get how incredible you are, maybe he’s not worth the risk, anyway.
Britta: Maybe so.
I tossed the phone onto the bed and scrubbed my hands over my face. I yanked a T-shirt from my drawer and pulled it over my head. Damn it. Tossing the towel into my hamper with more force than needed, I glanced at the message waiting on my phone.
Britta: Thanks, Wes. I’m glad I have you.
Wes: You have me, B.
Wes: And I hope you get your what-if.
33
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“I have to admit something to you all. I wasn’t sick last month—well, I was, but it was my doing.
“Truth is, I got my heart a little broken, and I decided if I was stronger, if I pushed harder, no one could make me feel worthless again. Have you been there before? I hope not. I’m embarrassed I was.
“I exercised too much, I ate too little, and I stopped checking in with my body. I did push myself, but I pushed too far and ended up in the hospital.
“I’d love to tell you I left there having reaffirmed that I would never again worry what someone else thinks of me. I didn’t. It’s a process, but I’m working on it. I wasn’t even sure I should share this failure—even as I hit ‘post,’ I’m worried you’ll be disappointed. I’m disappointed in myself, but I promised to be honest. That was a dark moment, and it still hurts—emotionally and physically. It showed me how easy it was to fall into dangerous ways of thinking, of devaluing myself, and how maybe I was doing it in other, smaller ways. I was lucky—I got help early, and I’m trying again. I’m doing it in a way that’s right for me, and I’m getting stronger every day. I hope you are, too! Check out the links below for information on resources for disordered eating and exercise . . . Take care of yourself and take care of each other!”
* * *
I’D SHOWN MARICELA my Falling and Failing post before I released it on social media, nervous to gauge her reaction. She’d loved it and settled her hand on top of mine, eyes wet with tears, as she told me what she loved about me telling such a difficult story. She’d even asked me to expand on it to write a piece for the next print issue of Best Life. I was floored, and I came back to my text exchange with Wes the night before.
I’d left out him coming to my rescue. I’d left out him telling me about his sister and checking on me. It felt incomplete without the Wes pieces, and guilt tapped me from multiple angles. I was putting this deeply personal and painful thing in the world, and leaving him out made me almost desperate to connect with him.
Desperation was the only possible rationale for me asking him that question, but I’d been drafting my post at the time and felt so close to coming clean about my job and why I’d joined FitMi. I wondered if he’d seen through me and knew I was talking about him until he nudged me back to thinking about my job, and either way, that was probably for the best.
* * *
“I’M IMPRESSED WITH your work so far.” Maricela fingered the tablet in front of her containing the report on Body FTW.
“Thank you,” Claire and I chimed in unison in response to Maricela’s compliment. We exchanged a look that, if not friendly, was not hostile. Even though readers didn’t know we were competing, it was ever present between us. But in the month or two prior, the ice between us had thawed, and she’d even texted to check on me after my fall to ask if I needed anything.
We’d had strong readership—#TeamBritta and #TeamClaire social media were trending regularly. I’d shared my goals: to get active, look and feel good naked, and jump out of a plane. Claire left her goal as being beach ready, but the duality of our struggles and triumphs seemed to reach a wide segment of our audience. I’d hoped audiences wouldn’t relate to Claire as easily with her already lithe body, but she wrote so honestly, I couldn’t even be salty about her getting the attention from readers that she was. Okay, maybe just a little salty.
“A health spa nearby has taken an interest and wants to invite you both to join them for a couple days in hopes you can write about self-care. I think it’s a marvelous idea if you’re up for it.”
We both nodded and even exchanged a small smile. Assistants didn’t get sent to health spas, so this felt like one step closer to being on the writing staff.
“I want to talk about next steps. Is there an opportunity to up the stakes?” Natalie tapped at her screen.
“Do we need to add stakes?” I cast a sideways glance at Claire, but her expression was unreadable.