Ouch, that stung a little.
Brush it off, you wanted this. Yes, you loved him dearly, you’re just not in love with him anymore. You knew it wasn’t right, you knew you wanted more. More what though?
“But this is so calm. Aren’t breakups supposed to be full of tears and throwing bags of clothes out the window?” I asked.
“Yeah, maybe, but we’re beyond that. I’ll always love you, Pres. But this . . . this is the best for us. We owe it to each other,” he reaffirmed.
He was right. We had given each other five great memorable years. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to have shared that with, and now we both needed to see what else is out there in the world.
I wasn’t sure if it was proper breakup protocol to hug it out, but I leaned in anyway, and for the very last time I held on to Jason. His embrace was warm and familiar, and I knew that no matter what happens to me, wherever I go or whatever I do, I had a friend in Jason Hart.
We called off the wedding and parted ways.
Single. Again. At thirty-fucking-two.
Marriage, three kids, and that damn dream house just flew out the window.
What terrified me most was that maybe it wasn’t in the grand plan for Presley Malone. Maybe fate and the universe got together and said, “Hey, Miss Plan-It-Out needs to be taught a lesson in life. Let’s screw her sideways and see how she copes.”
The problem wasn’t fate or the universe—it was the biggest jerk of all time.
And unfortunately, now, I was bound to him.
Chapter Two
I am running a marathon, and beside me, others are speeding past, threatening to reach the finish line before I do. Run, Presley, run! The adrenaline is kicking in, and just at that point when my legs are about to give out and refuse to carry me any further, the black and white checkered flag comes into sight, waving proudly.
The end is within reach, only a few more minutes and you’ve crossed the finish line. Crowned first place. My heart is thumping loud, ready to burst out of my chest and collapse onto the ground. The sweat beads have formed and are dripping down my face. The time clicks over to thirty minutes and like a strike of glory, I hit stop.
My marathon was actually me running on the treadmill. My lungs hurt so much that I am this close to calling the cute personal trainer over to resuscitate me.
Okay, so I’m being a drama queen.
It’s way too early in the morning for this, and let’s not forget to highlight the fact that I am a gym virgin. I don’t mind a brisk walk or run in the park once in a blue moon, but the gym and I, we’re complete strangers.
Since Jason (my now ex-fiancé) moved out last week, I have come here almost every day hoping to relieve the anxiety and tension that consumes me. It’s not like we ended on bad terms. In fact, it was the best breakup you could have asked for. No tears, finances were divided evenly, and we decided to put the apartment on the market and split our profit.
I couldn’t have planned a more amicable breakup. That was the problem here. It was going way too smooth, and I sensed something looming on the horizon. No matter what I did I couldn’t shake it off, and so here I am today, sore and working out like I’m about to enter a real marathon.
Maybe I’m telling a little white lie. Yes, there is no doubt that the anxiety is also stemming from the fact that I feel I have no sense of order in my life, but for the most part, I find the gym surprisingly entertaining.
I have absolutely no life right now, and I’m one step away from joining a pottery class.
The treadmill has become my newfound friend. The running becomes mundane at times, which is why I zone out and pretend to run a marathon or watch others around me in amusement. Take last week, for example. A man fell off the treadmill as a ridiculously made-up gym bunny walked past.
In my first week I had learned a few things; some treated the gym like a sport, dressed head to toe in spandex, often a little too tight around the groin. The wannabe Arnies huddled in the weights area, grunting and throwing around the barbells as if they were inflatable balloons. You could smell the steroids and testosterone a mile away.
There were some cute men in the Zumba class, but I suspected that those men were eyeing the cute Zumba teacher and his perfectly sculpted ass. Boy, does he know how to shake his bonbon.
Today’s entertainment consists of the two ladies attempting to do yoga on the mats in front of me. I grab my towel and wipe myself down before I sit on the floor beside them. Trina works at a marketing firm on level ten. We run into each other often and got to talking one day. She’s a nice enough gal, a little naïve, which is expected since she’s in her early twenties.
“Be honest, I’m hot right?” Trina asks, looking at both me and the woman beside her. “Oh, Presley, this is Sarah, she works on six.”
I smile at Sarah, and she smiles in return. We then look at each other awkwardly; are we meant to answer Trina? Or was it a rhetorical question?
Sarah rolls her eyes at Trina, yet indulges her with a response. “Look, Trina, of course you’re hot. Get over him, sounds like a douche to me.”
“But . . . but we had a connection,” she says innocently.