“Then go ruin that by reminding her she’s getting married in less than an hour.” I winked, and she laughed, hurrying back inside.
I found the DJ exactly where I expected, standing five feet from a clearly labeled outlet, looking lost. Some people needed their hands held through everything.
I pointed to the outlet. “Right here, and once you’re set up, I need a sound check. Ceremony starts at four-thirty sharp.”
“Got it, boss.”
Boss. Not bad. I’d worked for that word. Built the client list. Wore down the vendors who didn’t want to work with someone my age until they did. Figured out how to handle bridezillas and demanding mothers-in-law without losing my charm or my spine, which had taken longer than I wanted to admit. Twenty-four was young for this industry. I was good at it, anyway.
The work suited me. Creating moments, curating beauty, holding the whole thing together while everything threatened to fall apart behind the curtain.
My phone buzzed. A text from the caterer:Running 10 min late. Traffic on Brooklyn Bridge.
Of course. There was always something.
I fired back a response, No problem, just hustle when you get here, and made a mental note to stall the cocktail hour by five minutes if needed.Guests would be too busy drinking and taking selfies with the skyline to notice.
By the time the ceremony started, everything held. Arch centered. DJ levels right. The bride walked down the aisle to a string quartet doing the acoustic version of some pop song I should’ve recognized and didn’t. She looked the way brides look when the day is finally happening; even my cynical ass had to give her that.
Love. People kept believing in it. Enough to drop thirty grand. Enough to cry in front of a hundred and fifty people. Enough to promise forever to someone they’d met on Hinge three years ago.
I stood at the back of the venue and took it all in. A job running smooth. Nothing more than that.
When the couple kissed and everyone applauded, I was already three beats into the reception timeline. Cocktail hour, first dance, toasts, dinner, cake. Mapped to the minute.
The trick was making moments for other people and staying outside of them.
It was almost midnight when I got home. The wedding had gone well. No drama, no disasters, a happy couple, drunk guests dancing to “September” for the third time. The bride hugged me at the end with tears in her eyes and told me I’d made her dream come true.
I’d smiled, accepted it, and started running the math on what I could charge for my next wedding off another glowing review.
Black slacks. White button-down. The tie I’d loosened around nine. I peeled all of it off in the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror underthe spillover of warm light from the living room.
Two hundred and five pounds of deliberate construction. Broad shoulders. The arms. Abs earned across more hours at Foundation Fitness than I could honestly count. Silver hoops in both ears. The tattoo on my ribs barely showing in the half-light.
I looked good, and I knew it.
Eight years ago, I would have killed to look like this. The body, the confidence, the whole life.
Something itched at me, fast and uncomfortable, and I shoved it down before it could settle into anything. Tired. Long day, successful event. Time for sleep.
I brushed my teeth, set my alarm for 7 A.M., and climbed into bed.
Alone.
Exactly how I wanted it.
Sunday morning at Foundation Fitness was my favorite time to work out.
The gym was quieter than on weeknight evenings. Mostly serious lifters and early risers, none of the post-work crowd hogged equipment while they scrolled. I liked the quiet. The way my body already knew what to do.
Six years I’d been coming here. Started at eighteen, scrawny and stubborn about never feeling small again. The first few months had been bad in ways I didn’t have words for then. My form was wrong on everything. I could barely bench the bar without my arms shaking. The guy who worked the desk had asked me, gently, after my second week if I needed a session with a trainer, and I’d said no because I couldn’t afford one.
Even when I wanted to quit, I kept showing up. Especially then.
Now this place felt like mine. I knew the equipment, the weekend regulars by sight if not by name, exactly what I could push.
Bench press first, the way I always started. Two forty-fives on each side. The metal cool against my palms. Off the rack, down to my chest, press. One. Two. Three. The burn arriving on the fifth rep.
