“You’re sure? I didn’t mean to lead you on, or be a cocktease or anything. It’s not like me to back out like this.”
He shrugs. “We all have off days. It’s cool. I’ll walk you back to the elevator.”
I adjust my clothes and we walk back down the hallway. It’s a bit of a wait before the car arrives at the penthouse, and Matty’s gaze is more thoughtful than I’d have anticipated.
“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.
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.”
I groan, and wipe at my forehead with a bar napkin. “You need to wipe this bar down better, Eric,” I call. “It’s sticky.”
“It’s a dive bar. S’posed to be sticky.”
I laugh. “Can’t argue with that logic.” I sigh, taking a long drink of ice water before going back to my wine. “So. Looks like you’re moving up in the world in the breasticular region, too.”
She cackles, glancing down at her breasts and lifting them. “These puppies? Yeah, it was my thirty-sixth birthday gift to myself. After losing all the weight, my poor boobies had dwindled down to these horrible, ugly, flat, stupid little sacks of flab. So, I saved up and got some implants. Nothing crazy—this is about what they were before I had Nate and then gained all the weight after Paul and I split.”
“Well, they look damn good.”
She smiles. “Thanks.” Her eyebrow lifts. “So. What’s your deal?”
I let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Just a guy. We hooked up, there were feelings, I don’t do feelings and neither does he, so we went our separate ways, but I can’t get him out of my head and it’s messing with me hardcore. No big deal, I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you do feelings?” Laurel asks.
“Long, long, long story,” I say.
She nods, and sips at her drink. “Fair enough.” She nudges me with her shoulder. “You should try feelings sometime, though. I’ve heard they’re pretty great. Everyone’s doing it.”
I laugh, showing her the mascara-smeared napkin. “Yeah? What about this?”
She waves a hand. “Nothing’s free. You want happiness, you gotta go through some shit to get it. I was happy with Paul until that fell apart, and I was happy with Derek until he dumped me. Eventually I’ll find someone that sticks. Until then”— she shrugs—“there’ll be breakups, assholes, and more than a few nights alone with some Halo Top and my vibrator. It’s all part of the process.”
“How can you be so laissez-faire about it?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Because I’ve experienced enough of the entire cycle to know the good times are worth going through the breakups. Sex is awesome, and sex without feelings is pretty great too. Believe me—I’ve had my share of hookups both before and after Paul, Nate’s father. But sex with feelings? There’s nothing like it. The emotions, the connection, the belonging?” She shakes her head, sighing. “There’s nothing like it.”
“Even when it gets taken away?”
Laurel nods, holding my gaze. “Yep. After Paul, I went through a phase where I thought love was a sham and all men were scumbags, but that didn’t last long for me. Most people are, on the whole, decent. If you’re looking for it, you’ll find that most men are decent guys. Not perfect, and to find a really amazing one seems to require quite a search, in my experience, seeing as I haven’t found one myself yet. But are they all cheaters and liars and assholes? Nope. That’s too broad of a brush, I think. It’s also too easy to find what you’re looking for, if all you’re expecting to find are fuckboys and assholes.”
“Were you always this wise?” I asked.
She nods. “Yep.”
I laugh. “Oh, well, okay then.”
She laughs too. “It’s just that when you were my personal trainer, all of our conversations were focused on me and my health. We rarely talked about you.”
I stare into my wine—which is cheap and gives me a headache, another reason I don’t drink much. “Yeah, well, I rarely talk about me with anyone, even Imogen, my best friend of almost thirty years.”
“Daddy issues, intimacy issues, trust issues, or all of the above?”
I stare at her balefully. “Are you a nonprofit manager, or a shrink?”
She pats my arm. “Here, right now? Neither. Just your friend.”
“Oh.” I take a moment to think. “Probably all three.”
My phone rings at that moment, and I glance at it before answering—James Bod: Dad Bod Contracting.
“Sorry, I should take this,” I say to Laurel, who nods and checks her own phone. “Hello?”
“Hey, Audra. This is James.”
“So caller ID tells me,” I quip.
He snorts. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Reason I’m calling is to invite you to a little get-together I’m having this weekend. An impromptu, informal Dad Bod barbecue at my place.” He hesitates. “All the guys will be there, plus Imogen, obviously, and I think she’s bringing a friend of hers from work. If you want to bring a friend or two, the more the merrier. I’ll be making steaks and burgers and dogs, and I think everyone is planning on bringing a side or some drinks. It’ll be low-key and fun. Just wanted to give you the invite.”
I sigh. “Everyone will be there, huh?”
James’s growl is one indicating he has no patience with nonsense. “I know you and Franco had your issue, but you’re both adults. You can handle a party with mutual friends, can’t you?”
I feel chastised. “Yes, James. I can handle a party with mutual friends.”
“So you’ll be there? It’s this Saturday. I plan on firing up the grill around four, but everyone is welcome whenever till whenever. I’ll text you my address.”
“I’ll be there.” I eye Laurel. “The more the merrier, you say?”
“Yes ma’am. Bring something, or just bring yourself. There’ll be plenty of food and drink, and some to spare.”
“I may bring a friend. We’ll see. Either way, I’ll be there. Thank you for inviting me.”
“Course. See you Saturday.”
I stuff my phone back in my purse—it dings a few seconds later with James
’s address, but I ignore that. I glance at Laurel. “You busy Saturday?”
She brightens. “Actually, I’m free. My mom is taking Nate for the weekend to celebrate his birthday. I take him out the weekend of his actual birthday, and then Mom takes him that whole following weekend. It’s fun for him, and gives me a weekend free. What’s going on?”
“A barbecue at a friend’s place.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Just a barbecue, huh?”
I shrug, endeavoring to look innocent. “Yep. And, sure, there may be at least two single, good-looking, successful men there, and you may just be coming off a breakup, but that’s purely ancillary. I just want to invite you to the party. We lost touch after you fired me, and I feel like we should stay in contact this time.”
She huffs. “I didn’t fire you, I just didn’t need a personal trainer anymore.”
I laugh, elbowing her. “I know, I know—I’m teasing. I do want you at the party, though. The guy I had the weird thing with, Franco—he’ll be there, and I’ll need all the moral support I can get.”
“Single, good-looking, and successful?” she asks, rightfully skeptical.
“They’re contractors—builders. Decent, nice, salt-of-the-earth, sort of guys. And yes, seriously good-looking.”
“Names and descriptions?”
I smirk. “You’ll have to come to find out.”
She sighs. “Fine.”
“Send me your address and I’ll pick you up on the way.”
“Sounds good,” she says.
After that, we hang out at the bar and talk until much later, much later than I should stay out, considering my first client is at seven thirty in the morning. But Laurel is fun to talk to—it’s past midnight by the time we say our goodbyes. I walk home since it’s only a block down and around the corner from my condo, and Laurel takes a Lyft home.
Laurel’s words ring in my head as I trudge into my condo and flop face first onto my bed. Despite the hours of conversation in between, all I hear is her saying: Sex with feelings? There’s nothing like it. The emotions, the connection, the belonging? There’s nothing like it.