“You can talk to me,” he replied after what felt like an hour. “Or Chrissie. Davi- Nah, not David.”
I laughed, because I agreed. Chrissie had banged David more times than a snooze button, but she still wouldn’t let him take her on an actual date because he was basically an idiot wrapped in the body of Magic Mike. “Cheers, Zac,” I said, appreciating the gesture while taking it for exactly what it was - a gesture. Although, I figured I could try and offload some of my shit onto Chrissie. She was the closest thing I had to a best friend and I needed to do something before I committed a drastic and stupid act to take my mind off my whininess, like sleep with an idiot of my own. Or get a puppy.
It was almost a relief to reach the gym. My chest had felt full with embarrassment since I’d decided to treat my PT like the agony aunt from the Sunday paper. Outside my own car, I threw a wave to Zac as he headed back into the building and released the heavy pressure in my lungs.
“Fucking hell,” I whispered into the empty air as I settled into my silver Corsa. The queasiness had returned to my stomach, though I couldn’t decide if my hangover had come back for seconds or regret had started chewing through my intestines. After belting up, the radio came alive along with the engine and, of course, I’d hit the ignition at the exact moment an ad for McDonald’s was flying through the airwaves. It felt like a beacon. Nausea forgotten, I could almost taste the Quarter Pounder, the tang of salt on my tongue from a crisp fry, feel the side of Chicken McNuggets slipping through my lips. Was there really much point starting afresh today, given that I hadn’t weighed myself that morning? I’d already ruined the week and hadn’t assessed the damage. That’s what I told myself. That’s what I always told myself. Eating well today would’ve felt like a waste without being able to see the results in numbers on the scales. Pure bullshit, that’s what that was, an excuse and I knew it, but one I’d probably stick with.
I would pass two drive-thrus on my way home. Would I actually pass them? In that moment, I didn’t know. All I knew was that I felt like shit and wanted food, but food made me feel like shit too. I needed to choose my shit but, either way, the day was going to be a write-off on the emotional scale.
After changing the station, I cranked up the radio before setting off in the hope noise would drown out my thoughts. Music healed most moods. Always had. There were songs that spurred motivation, others that stirred my creative side, some which injected pure energy into my body on the weariest of days…and some that could send me crashing into hopelessness before the first lyric had passed the artist’s lips. I could only hope the latter weren’t lined up on the DJ’s playlist today.
The music helped, as did the late spring breeze fanning through the window, cooling my skin and cleansing my mind. I’d successfully passed the first drive-thru, though the cravings hadn’t perished altogether. I was, however, considering only ordering a Happy Meal. Slow progress is still progress after all, according to a meme on Instagram.
“Move it along, arsehole.” I rolled my eyes at the driver in front of me, who hadn’t moved an inch despite the traffic light switching to green a good ten seconds ago. He couldn’t hear me, obviously, but insulting him made me feel better. Road rage was a familiar friend, but only from the safe distance of my own car. If the arsehole Astra driver had come to my window I’d have probably smiled and thanked him for the inconvenience. “You a driver or a goddamn sloth?” I added, grateful for the person behind me who was brave enough to blast their horn, which woke Mr Arsehole from whatever daydream he’d fallen into.
“You’re with me, Dan Harvey, here on Surge FM this Saturday afternoon. Nice bit o’ sunshine we’ve got out there today, eh?” I only half-listened to the radio DJ, my thoughts drifting elsewhere. Perhaps I would call Chrissie this afternoon, invite her over. I thought about my mum, pondered what advice she’d give. I imagined she’d have told me to stop thinking so hard and get the hell on with it before someone died. She had a point; one she’d proved herself.
“Coming up now, one of our favourites here at Surge. We’ve got some Hugo Hayes for ya; here’s Broken…”
With two words, the radio had garnered my undivided attention. The mellow piano notes flooded the car, the tune I’d heard tens of times seizing my breath.