Page 9 of Clinically Awkward

I glanced at the lonely banana on the table. At least someone else had given up hope today, too.

Yeah. I was definitely going to win this.

CHAPTER THREE

Vivian

Three days. That was how long it had been since Quinton sat across from me in the break room, with his absurd “marriage trap” theory laid out like some kind of scientific breakthrough. I remember laughing so hard I almost choked on my banana, all while I made a bet I was certain I’d win. Three days of rolling my eyes at his nonsense, convinced my relationship with Colton was just hitting a rough patch—nothing major. Each day since that conversation, my confidence chipped away, bit by bit, until now, when things felt less certain and Quinton’s theory started to sound almost plausible.

Day one: Colton completely forgot about our dinner plans and opted for some networking event instead.

Day two: he “lost track of time” at the gym and showed up two hours late, smelling like protein powder and offering zero apology.

And tonight? Tonight, he didn’t show up at all. No call. No text. Just radio silence.

When I finally texted him, demanding to know where he was, his answer was as casual as ever:

Colton: Oh shit, babe, totally forgot. Still at the gym. Rain check?

Like he was rescheduling a dentist appointment.

I mean, seriously—Rain check?

RAIN CHECK! As if I were nothing more than an inconvenient blip on his calendar, something he could just shuffle around whenever it suited him.

So now? Now I was starting to wonder if maybe Quinton was onto something after all. And, yes, I know how it sounds—me, the skeptic, actually considering that ridiculous theory. But here we are.

Fuming didn’t even begin to cover it. My hands shook as I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, trying to steady my breath before I stormed out. The chill in the air hit me as I slammed my car door shut—so hard that the Honda parked next to me beeped in protest. My phone was clenched in one hand, my purse swinging violently from my shoulder as I marched across the parking lot toward Iron Haven Gym. Every step echoed my frustration.

Why, you ask? Because my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend had stood me up—again. Again!

Honestly, I was starting to think my patience had a gym membership at this point, given how often it got exercised.

I shoved through the gym’s front doors with enough force to make them bang against the walls. The guy at the front desk looked up, startled, and I gave him my best “don’t even think about asking for my membership card” glare as I stalked past.

He wisely said nothing.

Iron Haven was one of those aggressively masculine gyms that smelled like rubber, sweat, and protein powder, with motivational posters on every wall featuring people who looked like they could bench press a car. The music was too loud, the lights were too bright, and every surface seemed to be made of either chrome or black rubber.

I hated it here.

But Colton loved it, which meant he was here approximately six days a week, lifting things up and putting them down while staring at himself in the mirror.

I found him in the free weights section, lying on a bench press with his eyes closed, a barbell loaded with what looked like an obscene amount of weight hovering above his chest. His tank top was soaked with sweat. His perfectly styled hair was somehow still perfectly styled, and he had his AirPods in, completely oblivious to the world around him.

Completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just ruined my entire evening.

I stood there for a moment, watching him lower the barbell, press it back up, and then rack it with a satisfied grunt. He sat up, pulled out one AirPod, and reached for his water bottle.

That was when he saw me.

“Viv!” Colton’s voice rang out, his face breaking into that trademark megawatt smile—the very one that had rescued him from countless sticky situations. “Hey, babe! What are you doing here?” he called, clearly surprised but already hoping his charm would smooth things over.

I didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, I walked purposefully over to the rack of dumbbells, scanning for the one that would perfectly suit my needs. My hand closed around a compact five-pound weight. Without a word, I carried it back to where Colton sat, making my intentions clear through my deliberate movements.

“Uh, babe?” Colton’s smile faltered, uncertainty creeping into his voice as he watched me approach with the weight. “What’s with the weight?” He tried to keep it light, but the anxiety was obvious in his eyes.

“Now lie back down on the bench,” I instructed, my tone leaving no room for argument.