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  “Nope. Firmer, rounder, and more toned, but not bigger, exactly. Just…an athletic butt versus a jiggly donuts-and-soda butt.”

  “So, the difference between your butt and my butt.”

  “Yeah, pretty much. Although I didn’t mean you have a jiggly donuts-and-soda butt, just that—”

  “My butt is pretty jiggly,” she interrupted.

  “Your ass is perfect,” Jesse’s voice rumbles distantly.

  “I know you think so, but it could be tighter and firmer,” Imogen replies.

  “Sure, and I’d love that,” I hear Jesse say. “My point is, I’ll enjoy spanking your beautiful ass till it’s pink either way, baby.”

  “OKAY,” I cut in, loudly. “On that note I really seriously, truly have to hang up now. Bye, Imogen. No more donuts.”

  “Yes, Evil Diet Overlord.”

  “It’s not about dieting, it’s about changing your lifestyle,” I say. “And I’m not an evil diet overlord, I just want you to be the best version of you.”

  “I thought you had to go?” Imogen says.

  “I do, I do. Bye!” I hang up and drink my coffee—it’s hot, and I burn my mouth, but that’s a small price to pay for the caffeine hit which, at the moment, is my lifeblood and my sanity.

  Right on the dot, I toss back the last of my coffee and leave the break room, finding my client by the squat rack, loading plates onto the bar in preparation for our workout of the day—which, she correctly assumes, will include heavy barbell back squats because, if anyone needs to squat away a jiggly donuts-and-soda ass, it’s this client. The workout will also include high volume HIIT work: burpees, high knees, band-assisted chin-ups, and mountain climbers. Oh yeah, she’ll hate me by the end of the session, but I figure if my client can breathe without wheezing, and doesn’t hate me at the end of our hour together, I haven’t done my job right.

  The hour goes fast, and my client requires my full, undivided attention to keep her motivated to make it through the workout without giving up, especially when we get to the burpees. I’m grateful for this distraction, because it means I’m not thinking about anything or anyone else.

  When I get to my own scheduled hour of workout, I go heavy on the upper body and light on the legs because I’m so sore that certain movements would be torture. I refuse to think about anything but my workout, using the movements as a kind of moving meditation, a way of focusing on just my workout, just the push and pull of my breath. The rest of my day goes just as fast, thankfully, since I’m totally booked through five thirty.

  After my five thirty client, I’m mentally fried, physically exhausted, and cranky as hell. I also feel crusty and gross because I’ve been wearing the same outfit for two days, which is just icky even though I did take a shower in between. I know, rationally, that I just need to go home and take another shower and put on my PJs and binge-watch Netflix until I fall asleep, but that’s not where I end up.

  I end up at Imogen’s house. Because she promised me dinner, and she’s a better cook than I am, and I’m way too done-for to even think of making real food. Plus, if I’m with Imogen, I’m less likely to obsess and overthink myself into a tizzy.

  I enter without knocking—she has Debbie Gibson playing so loud you can hear it from the street, and I hear her singing along in the kitchen. I watch from the doorway into the kitchen as my best friend dances like a lunatic, bopping her head and shaking her butt as she chops something on a cutting board. I wait until she’s done chopping to announce my presence, because knowing Imogen, if I were to startle her now there’s a good chance she’ll lop off a finger or something.

  She swipes the garlic she minced into a bowl and sets the knife down.

  “Imogen!” I shout over the music.

  She jumps a foot into the air, and I’m glad I waited until she put down the knife, because she’d have stabbed herself in the eye.

  “Holy shit, Audra! You scared the crap out of me!” Imogen lowers the volume on the sound system installed under a cabinet—we are now able to hear each other without shouting, which is nice. “I wasn’t expecting you till later.”

  “I was going to go home and shower and change, but if I did that I’d never leave the house again, so I came right here.” I indicate the food. “Can I help?”

  Imogen laughs. “Oh no, no way. I remember what happened the last time you tried to help me cook.”

  “That was an accident!”

  “You almost burned my house down!”

  I huff. “It could’ve happened to anyone.”

  She laughs, eyeing me skeptically. “You set my oven on fire.”

  “I don’t bake my chicken, I grill it on my George Foreman. I forgot it was in there. Sue me.”

  She waves a hand. “Fine, whatever. Just pour us some wine and tell me about Franco.”

  I uncork a bottle and pour us each a glass. “Nope, not talking about that. I’m here to NOT think about or talk about that situation.”

  Imogen takes a sip of her wine and goes back to cooking—she’s making something fancy and Italian, it looks like, and the minced garlic goes into a pan filled with tomato sauce. “A-void-ing!” she says in a singsong, stirring the sauce.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Which is unhealthy.”

  I roll my eyes, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Whatever. You eat donuts, I avoid things. We all have our vices.”

  Imogen laughs. “Well, if avoidance is the emotional version of carbohydrates, then you have the biggest ass on the planet.”

  I flip her off. “You can go to hell.”

  Imogen stirs the sauce and then checks on the pasta. “You’re just mad because you know I’m right.”

  I’m about to clap back with something biting and witty when Jesse clomps in through the front door.

  “FOOD,” he growls. “Donger need food.”

  Imogen turns from the stove with a red sauce-smeared wooden spoon. “Hi, babe,” she says. “Yeah, my day was great, how about you?” She answers herself in a funny impersonation of Jesse’s growl. “My day was awesome too, I spent it thinking about how much I love my girlfriend.”

  Jesse is dressed for work in dusty, faded blue jeans, heavy work boots, and a Metallica concert T-shirt with the sleeves cut off; he grabs her wrist, tastes the sauce on the spoon, and then curls his arm around her waist, yanking her up against him. “Don’t be petulant. I did spend my day thinking about much I love my girlfriend, but I’m fucking hungry and it smells good in here.”

  “I’m not petulant,” Imogen says, between kisses. “I’m just irritated that you went to work when you were supposed to be off.”

  “Hey, if the boss calls, I go.”

  “Your boss is also your best friend, and you haven’t had a full day off like, ever.” She wiggles out of his arms. “I was just looking forward to spending the day with you watching Netflix.”

  “Yeah,” I say, sarcastically, “Netflix and chill, heavy on the chill.”

  Jesse’s gaze slides over to me. “Hey, Audra.”

  “Hi, Jesse.” I nudge the bottle of wine. “Want a glass?”

  He shakes his head. “I drink wine with her when that’s what she wants, but if it’s up to me, I’ll opt for beer or whiskey every time.” He goes into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of something locally brewed. “So I’ll leave that for you two.”

  “Yay, more for us.” I want to ask about Franco, but I don’t.

  “By the way, Jesse, Audra is joining us for dinner,” Imogen says.

  Jesse laughs into the bottle. “I figured. Fine by me.” He slumps tiredly into the chair across from me, setting the bottle onto the table and unlacing his boots. “The bastard owes me,” he says, groaning.

  “Who, James?” Imogen asks. “Yeah, he does. He swore you’d have at least today off.”

  Jesse thumbs off his socks, stuffs them into his boots, and then tosses the boots out into the back patio. “Nah, not James, Franco.” He sighs, wiggling his toes as he sits back down and swigs fr
om the bottle of beer. “James is paying me overtime and a half for today, so I’m fine with that, and you and I can make up for lost time tomorrow.”

  “What does Franco owe you for?” Imogen asks, eying me warily.

  I sit and keep quiet and hope this doesn’t come back to me.

  “He was a real tool at work today,” Jesse says. “He was cranky all damn day. Barely said two words, and when he did speak, he was a dick. By the time we were ready to knock off for the day, he was dragging ass. I tried to haul him out for a quick beer before coming home, but he pussed out and wouldn’t go.”

  “Huh,” Imogen says. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

  Jesse’s eyes slide to me—he knows Franco and I left together last night. “Yeah, well, I think someone kept him up past his bedtime.”

  “Who, me?” I say, and then try to look busy drinking too much wine too fast.

  “Yeah, you.” He quirks an eyebrow. “You guys hooked up last night, yeah?”

  I shrug. “Um. We hung out for a while.”

  He snorts. “Hung out. Right. Which is why he had circles under his eyes and was wearing the same thing as yesterday, and was acting like someone pissed in his Wheaties.”

  I frown. “I can cop to us staying up late, but the rest is on him.”

  “Staying up late, or not going to bed at all?” Jesse says.

  I sigh. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable having this conversation with you, Jesse.”

  “Well, if hooking up with you is gonna make him act like this all the time, I’m not sure I’m down with it.”

  I roll my eyes at that. “We don’t need your permission, Jesse.” I shrug again. “But it’s a moot point. We won’t be seeing each other again.”

  “Why not? Didn’t go well?”

  “Actually, according to the emergency call this morning, it went too well,” Imogen says, in a betrayal of my confidence. “Which is why they won’t be seeing each other again.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “That was between you and me, Imogen,” I say through gritted teeth. “Not cool.”

  She frowns. “You have to know I share everything with Jesse at this point, Audra.”

  “Even confidential girl talk?”

  She shrugs. “Well, I don’t tell him everything, but the big stuff I share with him, yeah.”

  Jesse holds up his hands palms out. “What Imogen shares with me stays with me, so don’t, like, get all upset thinking I’m gonna go relaying everything straight to Franco.”

  “There’s nothing to relay,” I say, going for light and carefree. “We hooked up, it was good, there won’t be a second time, the end.”

  Jesse shrugs. “Whatever. None of my business.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “So.” Imogen brings over the pot of spaghetti, now mixed with the sauce; she dumps a monster portion onto a plate for Jesse, and a more rational portion for me, and the same for herself. “Anything interesting happen with your clients today, Audra?”

  I shrug. “Not really.” I laugh. “Well, there was this one thing. One of my clients is new, not just to me as a trainer, but to working out in general. She just had her first kid and is all gung-ho about not just losing the baby weight but getting into better shape than before. Which is great, right? She’s super motivated, great attitude, gives it a hundred percent, never complains when I say one more rep or ten more reps or whatever. So, I’ve got her doing burpees as a warm-up, and she’s rocking it, right? I’m encouraging her, telling her to get one more, blah blah blah, the usual. She’s got, like, maybe three more left in the set, she does the jump, the drop down, the push-up, and she’s getting ready to jump to her feet. Instead of finishing the jump up, though, she makes a weird squeak noise and drops down to her belly. And I’m like, Kelly, what the fuck? You’ve got three reps, let’s go, let’s knock them out.” I suppress a laugh. “And she’s just like, no. Nope. I’m staying down here.”

  “What, did she poop herself or something?” Jesse asks.

  I laugh. “Not quite that bad, but almost. She peed herself.”

  Imogen laughs, covering her mouth with one hand, and then groans in sympathy. “I’ve done a few rotations in the maternity ward,” she says. “Apparently that’s a thing after you have kids.”

  “What, you just pee yourself?”

  I nod. “I don’t mean, like, oops a few drops leaked out. Everyone’s had that happen at some point.”

  “If you’re a guy, it happens a lot,” Jesse says. “I call it the post-shake dribble. It’s annoying as hell.”

  I bite my lower lip. “No, you don’t understand. The poor lady just…whoosh. Peed everywhere. Like, I’m talking her bladder just gave out.”

  Imogen is sympathy-laughing. “Oh god, the poor thing. That had to have been mortifying.”

  “She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.” I shrug. “Fortunately for her, all the sweat towels were gone when I got there today, so I was using one of the full-size shower towels. She wrapped that around her waist and just claimed she’d had a female problem.”

  “Which is true enough,” Imogen says.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  “Glad I’m not a chick,” Jesse says.

  I laugh. “Me too! Well, I mean, I’m a chick, but I’ve never had kids, so I won’t be peeing myself anytime soon.”

  Imogen just quirks an eyebrow at me. “Do I have to remind you of freshman year of college?”

  I glare at her. “No. You most certainly do not have to bring that up. EVER.”

  Jesse’s interest is piqued, now. “Do tell, do tell.”

  “If you tell him, I’ll divorce you,” I say. “Best friend divorce. We’ll have to share custody of our Mexican place.”

  Imogen snickers. “She got hammered at a sorority party, passed out in a flower bed, and woke up having peed herself.”

  Jesse frowns. “You were in a sorority? I didn’t take you for the type.”

  I blow a raspberry. “Hell no I wasn’t in a sorority. I just went their parties because those crazy bitches knew how to put on a bash.”

  “Ah, that makes more sense.” He shrugs, laughing. “Hey, we’ve all done that. In fact, I can do one better. I went to a party in college, got hammered, and also got food poisoning. So yeah, I woke up in some random dude’s spare bedroom and I’d had food poisoning diarrhea everywhere. I barely made it to the bathroom before I blew chunks. It was…god, that was awful. Being drunk and having food poisoning is basically the worst combination on the planet.”

  I wince. “Oof, that sucks.”

  He laughs. “Fortunately, the party was at a college I didn’t go to, so I didn’t know anyone. I managed to get myself cleaned up, stripped the bedding off the bed and shoved it in a trash can outside, and went home.”

  Imogen shakes her head. “You guys are crazy. I’ve never done anything like that.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, because you’ve always been a goody-goody.” I eye her with a mischievous twinkle. “Although…”

  Imogen’s eyes widen. “No! Don’t you dare!”

  Jesse eyes us both. “What?”

  I shrug. “Oh, nothing. Just…she’s not exactly telling the truth when she says she’s never done anything like that. Her bachelorette party was…um, a little out of hand.”

  “Audra Donovan, don’t you dare tell him that story!”

  “Tell him the story!” Jesse says, grinning. “It can’t be any worse than me shitting the bed.”

  I grin back. “She was stupid enough to let me be in charge of her bachelorette party.”

  Jesse’s eyes widen. “Oh boy. Big mistake.”

  I laugh. “Right? You’d think she’d have known better by then. I rented a giant bus with blackout windows and a stripper pole in the middle, and hired a male dancer…we may or may not have gone through a case of vodka that night. And your girl, here, little miss Goody Two-Shoes, she was the drunkest of all.”

  “It was my bachelorette party.”

  “Yeah, to a raging cockh
ead you had no business marrying, and I told you as much several times that night, but we won’t talk about that. So yeah, she was hammered. I’m talking quintessential white girl wasted. When she was sober, and even just mostly drunk, she wasn’t super into the stripper. Who was, let me add, super sexy. But she was all, no I love Nicholas, blah blah fucking blah. Asshole. Anyway, she finally reached super drunk status and finally showed interest in the stripper. Who was, by that point, more of a, um, gentleman of the night, shall we say. Which was part of the reason I hired him, specifically, because I’d heard he was willing to go beyond the mere removal of clothing, if sufficiently financially recompensed.”

  Jesse rolls his eyes. “So he was a whore, you’re saying.”

  I laugh. “My point is, I convinced Imogen to let him give her a lap dance, and she was really into it. And I was, honestly, hoping something hinky would happen just so she’d call off the wedding. But alas, instead of getting all up on his jock, she blew chunks all over him and peed herself.”

  Jesse laughs. “The truth comes out!”

  Imogen is blushing, covering her face with her hands. “I don’t even remember it.” She points at me. “You promised you’d keep that a secret, you slut!”

  “You said you share everything with Jesse! I figure if he knows the worst, most embarrassing moment of your life, then your relationship is solid. I’m doing you a favor.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Imogen deadpans. “How kind of you.”

  I pretend to not realize she’s being sarcastic. “You’re welcome. I just want you and Jesse to succeed as a couple.”

  Jesse laughs, rubbing Imogen’s back. “Like I said, everyone’s done it at least once. It’s basically a rite of passage to adulthood. Neither of us thinks any less of you for it.”

  “When she told me the next day what had happened, I swore I’d never get that drunk again,” Imogen says. “And, honestly, I haven’t.”

  Jesse nods. “Do that once or twice, and you’re basically cured. It’s not really all that fun waking up and having to ask what you did the night before.”

  The conversation veers, then, and I stay at Imogen’s well past when I should, especially considering how little sleep I got last night and that I have a client pretty early tomorrow, but it’s better to be here with them talking and reminiscing instead of letting my doubts, fears, insecurities, and desires keep me stuck in a cycle of anger, lust, and self-doubt.