“For starters, buttoning shirts. The shirt gap is real unless you keep a stash of clothing tape and safety pins handy. Also, eating. This might just be me, but rarely do I finish eating anything without needing to fish at least a few remnants out of my bra or brush them off my chest.
“Then walking through a crowd. Squeezing past other people inevitably means dragging my chest against them. Sounds sexy? It’s not. Now it’s time for me and my boobs to go to the gym. Hit me with your sports bra recommendations. I’m going to need them.”
In theory, the open-office concept meant collaboration, communication, and creating a work family. The reality was Jordan’s breakfast burrito, Kari’s designer dog podcast, and Leigh’s hacking cough invading my space. I want walls. I read through my research on independent bookstores for one of the writers and hit send. Most of my days were spent in front of my computer gathering information and fact-checking, reviewing pieces, and whatever else Maricela or the other editors needed. I glanced around the office space, the same familiar faces hunched over the keyboard or chatting at workstations. I plugged in my earbuds, opened my laptop, and pulled up the thread between me and Wes.
His avatar was a generic blank profile photo, and I wondered what he looked like. Maybe dark and brooding or perhaps more like a boy next door. Sometimes I pictured Michael B. Jordan, and others Zac Efron.
A shadow caught the corner of my vision, and I spun. Claire stood behind me, arms crossed over her svelte frame. I’d always been jealous of women who could do that without their boobs getting in the way, and Claire stood tall, her hair pulled back from her face and her clear brown skin looking somehow sun-kissed under the fluorescent lights.
“Hey, Claire,” I said, pushing my screen down and noticing an impatient Natalie standing beside her.
“I’d like to see your plan for the app project by Monday—Maricela wants us to promote the hell out of it, so we’re on a tight timeline now that Claire’s company went public with their coaching.” Natalie looked between us. “Think you can handle that?”
Claire flashed a wide smile. “I’ve already started creating content.”
I met her expression with my own grin. “That’s great. So have I.”
Our false niceties left Natalie rolling her eyes before she tapped my cubicle wall, rapping her knuckles twice on the metal endcap. “Monday,” she said before walking away.
Claire’s smile fell, and she glanced over her shoulder. “She’s such a deeply unpleasant woman.”
“Agreed.” My smile stayed put, though an awkward silence fell between us. “What do you want to call this thing? I was thinking The Body Wars.”
Claire pursed her lips in an obvious negative reaction to my idea. “I don’t think we want to frame it as a competition. Let’s think of something that’s a bit more body positive.” If she wasn’t right, I would have given her a hard time about parroting Maricela’s words.
I didn’t want to agree, but she had made a good point, and I begrudgingly returned to the desktop file where I’d been brainstorming names. I scrolled down the long list of ideas, most of which were straight-up awful. “What about The Body Project? Body Talk? Um . . . Body for the Win?”
“Body for the Win . . . I like it.” She gave me a tight smile, her praise as unfamiliar in her mouth as it would have been in mine.
“Okay. We can pitch it to Natalie.”
“There’s probably only one opening for a features writer. We’ll work together, but . . . let’s be clear, we’re competing.”
“Crystal clear.” I was unsurprised by her directness.
“You should know I have no intention of being second best in this. If there’s an opportunity to come out on top, I’ll take it.”
“Same.”
Our eyes met and held for a moment, and then she walked back to her desk.
I opened my laptop more aggressively than necessary and cranked up the volume on my phone. I punched in my password, as if each jab of my thumb on the space bar would communicate my rage to the world. The FitMi window was open, and I typed a reply, tapping out the words in time to the heavy bass of the reggaeton song from my playlist.
From: Bmoney34
To: FitMiCoachWes1
Sent: February 8, 10:22 a.m.
Coach Wes,
I never answered your question about exercise. After gym class in high school, it stopped being a regular part of my life until the last year. I like the dance class, but the group only meets a few times a month. I have access to a gym, but I’ve never made much of an effort to do anything there besides the class. I’d prefer to start with other things.
B
P.S. I’m still going to picture you in tube socks.
I clicked on another tab to research energy drinks that claimed to contain minerals. The other windows were manuscripts to review from Best Life writers. I was so tired of never being able to shape the story I wanted to tell.
A few minutes later, the FitMi notification flashed.
From: FitMiCoachWes1
To: Bmoney34
Sent: February 8, 10:25 a.m.
B,
That’s a solid start. For the coming week, plan to do 30 minutes of continuous exercise a day. You could walk, use an exercise bike or treadmill, or swim, if you like. Don’t worry about pushing yourself too hard, just get used to moving. Do you have a pedometer? A Fitbit? If not, there’s one built into FitMi. Shoot for getting in 10K steps a day as an initial milestone. It’s mostly an arbitrary number, but it will kick-start more movement. We’ll step it up next week.
You can picture me in tube socks. We’re all about individuality around here.
Talk to you soon, Wes
From: Bmoney34
To: FitMiCoachWes1
Sent: February 8, 10:31 a.m.
Coach Tube Sock,
“Step it up” was bad. You’re on joke probation.
B
P.S. My job just got monumentally more stressful, and my normal go-to is a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a rom-com. Any other suggestions?
P.P.S. Suggestions that AREN’T yoga. Don’t @ me.
I bit the corner of my lip. Talking to Wes felt like chatting with a friend, a friend whose job was to make me eat more like an adult human. I opened another browser window where I’d begun research on the company to have background for the posts. FitMi was started locally by two guys in Chicago, Christopher Lawson and Cord Matthews. So far, I had found little of interest on either, but everything from reviews on Yelp to social media mentions were overwhelmingly positive.
I was half-heartedly searching my calendar for times to plan the thirty minutes a day when the ping of a new message drew me back and a smile spread across my face.
10
I BRACED MYSELF as the call connected and Mom’s raspy voice came over the line. “I didn’t think you’d ever call me back.”
“Sorry. I was busy. How are you?” Turning my chair away from the desk, I looked out the window at nothing in particular. I struggled to connect the dissonance of it being sunny and bright outside. I wanted gray skies to match my mood.
“Oh, Chris.” Only my mom called me by my first name anymore. I’d been “Wes” to everyone else since college.
I tried to pull back my own memories and keep the conversation moving. I didn’t want to wallow with her. “What did you take today?”
“You’re always in my business.”
“You wanted me to call you back, remember?”
“Oh.” She sounded far away, her voice quiet.
“Mom?”
“Have you heard from Libby?” She sounded so hopeful, her voice brightening.
“Not in a while.” I never knew what had happened between the two of them, but it had been bad enough for Libby to bolt at seventeen. Sometimes taking care of Mom, as much as she would let me, felt like a betrayal to my sister.
“Oh.” She sighed, and I pictured her slumping down. “She might come back, Chris. Be patient with Libby. She takes her time.”