Not only does my head throb, but every muscle in my body sings a chorus of aches in a key I can’t quite place—but am pretty sure could be classified astorture.
The gym is a no-go today unless Adam’s got a session called‘Gentle Weeping on a Mat’hidden in his back pocket.
I’m as likely to lift weights as I am to fly to the moon.
Instead, the highlight of my day is going to be choreographing a one-woman show titled‘The Perils of Sitting Down’every time I need the bathroom.
Because, yeah,that’sgonna suck.
I trudge my way to the bathroom, cursing my existence.
Why can’t women be the ones with dicks?
Sore muscles, you say?
Whip it out, and pee standing up.
No problem-o.
Instead, because I’m a woman, I’m in a tragicomedy that deserves a standing ovation—primarily because sitting is not an option.
It’s in the midst of this performance that I hear a key slide in my back door—a sound that’s as out of place in my locked-down fortress of solitude as a snowman in a sauna.
My grandma wouldn’t bother with the key. She’d call and demand I come downstairs to see her.
Cursing life, the universe, and my angry muscles, I pull my sweats up and hobble to the back door with a plunger in hand as my weapon of choice.
The door creaks open, and in waltzes Michael,my fucking ex,as if he’s just popping by for a cup of sugar and not like he’s the human equivalent of expired milk.
“What in the home invasion handbook are you doing here?” I gasp, leaning against the doorframe in a way that does little to support my dignity.
Where the hell is Grandma and her freakishly keen eyesight? She should have warned me here.
“I, uh—still have my key,” Michael says, holding it up light it’s the golden ticket to the kingdom.
With great effort, I push off the wall and snatch it from his hand. “Check-out time was when you decided to play ‘hide the salami’ with Sasha,” I retort, feeling a spark of the old fire that I usually reserve for sassy dialogue in my books.
Michael stands awkwardly in the doorway, the very antithesis of Adam’s confident posture.
Where Adam is all muscular certainty, Michael is leaner, his frame lacking the same intentionality. His hair, once my fingers’ favorite labyrinth, now just seems unkempt. And those dark eyes that used to twinkle for me, now just look ... well,dim.
“I came to apologize,” he says, looking like a dog caught raiding the trash.
Just as I’m about to deliver a biting retort, my ringtone—a maddeningly catchy pop tune that will be stuck in my goddamn head all day—cuts through the tension.
Holding the plunger like a scepter for the domestically challenged, I fish out my phone from my sagging sweats pocket, nearly dropping it in my limberness-lacking stupor. “Hello?”
“Carlie, it’s Adam. You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Everything okay?” His voice is warm, concerned, and it triggers a blush that creeps up my neck as memories of last night’s mental escapades flood back.
“Oh, yeah, just …” I manage, my eyes darting to Michael who seems to shrink under the scrutiny, “dealing with some unexpected housework.”
There’s a soft chuckle from Adam, and I can almost picture his half-smile. “Housework, huh? Well, don’t overdo it. Remember, rest is just as important as the workout.”
I’m smiling now, the image of Adam’s teasing grin making my heart do odd little flips. “Thanks, I’ll ... keep that in mind.”
“Tomorrow?” he prompts and I swear, I heart a hint of hopefulness in his tone.
I nod, smiling to myself. “Tomorrow.”