“I’m saying you need a reality check.”
“That’s really fucking screwed up, Amy.” Screwed up. Insulting. And evidence she doesn’t feel the same way about me that I feel about her. I tilt my face toward the sky and squeeze my eyes shut. At least I tried before giving up. “I guess this is goodbye for good, then.”
Her hand is warm on my arm, and I wonder at how a gentle touch can hurt so much. “I’m sorry, Dean.”
“Me too.” I turn back into the bar before I weaken and ask her to reconsider. I did everything I could to prove myself. She’s right. It is time for a reality check. If I was what she wanted, we’d still be together now. We wouldn’t have broken it off. It’s time for me to let it go.
Chapter Five
Abbi
I’m in a terrible mood. I’m the storm clouds that are so dark they blot out the sun.
I check my phone for the twentieth time and blow out an aggravated breath when I see nothing. Again.
I’m an idiot. One, to think I could just jump into dating without changing anything else about myself, and two, to have agreed to meet Austin, a.k.a. RimsandRepos, at Smithy’s, where all my friends can see me get stood up on my first attempt at dating in nine months.
I open the Random app on my phone and tap out a message to RimsandRepos.
BrownEyedGirl25: I hope you’re okay. I’m going to head out. Maybe another time.
I send the message and immediately cringe. Someone who stands me up and doesn’t even bother to message me with an explanation doesn’t deserve “another time,” but it seems bitchy to just assume he stood me up.
RimsandRepos: Sorry. Something came up. I don’t think we’d work anyway.
Something came up or he got one look at me and didn’t think we’d “work” because of my appearance? My stomach turns sour, and hot tears prick the back of my eyes. I push away my martini. I type and delete a reply four different times.
Wow. Okay. Delete.
Whatever you say. Delete.
You could’ve messaged instead of leaving me waiting for an hour. Delete.
Whatever. You do you. Delete.
Nope. Sometimes the best reply is no reply at all.
But what if I’m right? What if he came in here, saw me, and ran the other way? It’s not like I hide myself on my Random account. My avatar is a selfie of my face, and while I’ll admit it’s a flattering angle, it doesn’t not look like me. I don’t advertise I’m a big girl on there either, though. Maybe I should. Maybe it should be the first line of my bio.
If you’re not man enough for a big girl, don’t waste my time.
I wish I had that kind of confidence.
I’m staring at my phone when someone slides into the booth across from me. Not my failed attempt at a date but someone I’m equally uninterested in seeing tonight.
“Hey, Abster!” he says, grinning at me.
I frown at him. Hudson is twenty-two, fresh out of college with an exercise science degree and a new personal training certification. He’s a sweet guy, but I’m not in the mood to be proselytized to by someone trying to convert me to the Church of Health and Fitness.
“Haven’t seen you at the gym lately,” he says, predictably.
“That’s because I’m not a member?” I say, but it comes out sounding like a question.
“Whaaaaat?” He shakes his head and presses his palm to his chest dramatically. “Don’t tell me you work out at my competitor’s gym.”
Since the day spa that houses my restaurant has the most popular fitness classes in town, I technically work for his competitor, but I don’t point that out. “Nope.” I force a smile. He means well, Abbi. Don’t tear into the boy. “I’m not much of a gym rat, to be honest.”
“You don’t have to be a gym rat to enjoy health and fitness.” He props one elbow on the table and leans forward. “Listen, I know the whole group-class scene isn’t for everyone. Neither is coming in and grinding on a cardio machine. But if you sign up for a series of sessions with me, I can put together a program for you. Workouts and an eating plan—the whole bit.”
Quick. Someone kill me now. I glance toward the bar, hoping to catch Smithy’s eye and get him to save me, but he’s oblivious as always, flirting with one of his servers.
“I couldn’t help but notice you ordered the lemon drop martini,” Hudson says, nodding at the barely touched drink. “Now, I know girls like their frou-frou drinks, but there’s a good twenty grams of sugar in one of those—and that’s assuming the bartender didn’t go heavy on the simple syrup. I could teach you how to make better choices without completely eliminating the occasional drink. After a couple of weeks, you’ll feel like a new woman.”