She dumps the whole glass of liquid on my head, drops the glass—which I’m not fast enough to catch before it hits the ground at my feet and splinters into a million pieces—and grabs her shit and starts to leave.
When I make a move to rise, to follow her, to ask her if she has the right person, she holds her hand up like a stop sign. “If you follow me, I’ll call the cops.” She spins on her heel in a blur of curves and fury. The urge to go after her is strong, but last thing I need is to be arrested for harassment.
A hand appears in front of me with a stack of napkins. “What the fuck did you say?” Tate asks with a wide smirk.
The sticky liquid trickles down the back of my neck, all over my face, and onto my lap from my nose and chin. “I asked if I could buy her a drink.”
“Guess she had one of her own.”
“Guess so.”
Who is that woman, and what the fuck just happened?
CHAPTER 12
Victoria
If I stand here for just a couple minutes longer, I’m going to be late for my appointment with Phil. That’s the name of the owner guy the moms from Wyatt’s daycare recommended I go to for personal training sessions.
Phil.
He doesn’t sound like an asshole drill sergeant who’s going to make me cry, or puke, or dislike myself more than I already do. And yet I can’t convince my legs to carry me through the front doors of The Fit Factory.
Two different moms recommended I come talk to him. But when you’re a big girl stepping into a new fitness place, and when you’ve been made to feel like shit about your size so many times over the years… It’s hard walking through the doors of a new gym to meet a new, fit person you secretly hope will somehow change your life without being a judgy prick.
Stepping into the building, I suck in a steadying breath. My hands shake, my stomach hurts, and I might puke—before I’ve even met the guy.
There’s a huge chalkboard facing the main entrance to the gym with brightly colored messages of gratitude andencouragement in numerous handwriting styles. Clearly the people who come to the gym are happy here, or at least they’re not miserable enough to write horrible messages on the chalkboard like “save me” and “Phil sucks.” Hopefully that means he doesn’t actually suck.
The walls are covered in photographs, smiling faces both inside and out of the gym. It sets a welcoming tone, and the terror clutched in a heavy knot in my stomach relaxes just a tad.
A sign over a doorframe says,“You don’t have to see the whole staircase to take the first step.”It’s a Martin Luther King, Jr. quote that makes me roll my eyes. Phil’s a funny fucker. I know this already because there’s a staircase through the doorway, and you can’t see all of it, just the first few steps.
It leads to his torture chamber. I’m going to be out of breath by the time I get to the top.
Ugh. What am I doing here?
Stepping through the doorway I’m met with a bright light in a small alcove. Giant yellow letters on the wall tell me this is the selfie spot, and I can see why.
If I were big into social media, this would be the perfect setting for a selfie. Maybe in the future.
A winding staircase lined with yet more smiling photos of people in various stages of fitness leads me up to a black door.
Once I open it, there’s no real turning back. If I try to flee, I’ll likely fall down the stairs and won’t ever be able to show my face again due to overwhelming embarrassment.
Hey, wait a sec, there might be something to that.
Every now and then, Wyatt needs a pep talk. When he’s trying new food, or going somewhere for the first time, using the potty, or even going back to daycare for the first time after a break.
Today, I need the pep talk, and my little cheerleader is at school.
It’s just me, pep talking me.
Not sure how this is going to go to be honest. I’m not good at pep talking myself at all. But at the end of the day Phil’s just a human being like I am. Sure, he might have perfectly chiseled abs, and can probably lift a fucking car off the ground—I honestly have no clue since I’ve never seen the man before—but he had to start somewhere, right? Doesn’t everyone?
He can’t have been born able to lift cars, fully equipped with bulging biceps. And surely the moms from school aren’t pranking me. He’s got to be decent enough for a couple of them to recommend him as being down to earth and not a dick.
Not a dick, that’s where the bar is. That’s what we’re aiming for, and poor buff-as-fuck Phil on the other side of this door has no idea.
