Page 97 of Curvy Girls Can't Date Surfers
I watch her scan each item at the counter, thinking over what she said. Especially the part about who’s more difficult.
“Thanks for your help.” I mumble the words, but I mean them. I didn’t realize how much guidance I needed when I walked in, but I’ll be grateful if any of the things she picked out do something for Anton and me.
“That’s what I’m here for.” She smiles and hands me a card with her name. “Have fun, and when you’re ready for the next steps, come see me again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I shove my feet back into my shoes and yank my shirt over my head with limp arms. I might have pushed a little hard on those last four sets. I lifted heavier and completed more reps than I’ve tried in several months. My arms and chest will definitely be talking to me tomorrow, but I can’t deny I’m satisfied with the fatigued, clumsy feeling in my burned-out muscles. I drink about a gallon of water after I finish, but now my stomach is making noise, and in the back of my mind I host a debate between throwing some burgers on the grill at home or picking up Snarf’s on the way there. I grab my bag off the bench and head for the locker room door, but just as I’m fumbling for my keys, I run into Henry on his way in.
“Anton, what’s up?”
“Hey, man.”
I haven’t seen Henry since Carl and Eva’s house, at least a million years ago. Before the hotel, before I ruined everything. He stops in the door like he wants to chat, but seeing him sends me back to that night—the decisions I made, the messages I sent—never realizing Lydia was the “other woman” the whole time. My appetite disappears, and I lose interest in exchanging pleasantries. I try to just wave and push past Henry toward the door, but he keeps talking.
“Sorry we didn’t get a chance to catch up the other day.”
I force myself to look at him, managing a shrug. “How’s things with you and Annabelle?”
“Annabelle...” He flashes a wicked grin. “She was great. Ah, on the rebound, I think. But we had fun. I’m playing a round of golf with her dad tomorrow night.”
I roll my eyes. If my brother is king of the anonymous hookup, Henry rules casual business acquaintance sex. The difference being he picks up women in his work sphere rather than bars, but the “relationships” last just as long. On some level I know he does it for the connections and influence, but it seems he also just enjoys himself. I set my jaw. What would that be like, having sex whenever you want, just for fun?
“How’s business?” I ask, changing the subject. “You still doing the franchise thing?”
“Not anymore, actually.” He leans against the wall just inside the locker room door. “Went out on my own. Bought up a little restaurant chain that was floundering, rebranded, and turned it around. That went so well I’m looking for my next big thing.”
“Cool. Good for you.” I’m not sure what else to say. I’ve barely held a conversation outside of work for the past two weeks, and my ability to form casual sentences, let alone pretend to care, is deteriorating.
“Listen, I owe you a big thanks for your advice. I can’t believe I’m paying for dog daycare, but it has totally saved me from my sister’s beast.” He gives me a funny glance and scratches the back of his head. “How’s Lydia’s expansion going, by the way?”
It’s a completely innocent question. Henry’s known us both since college. He was at our wedding. He’s in business. But because my wife has buried herself in work exactly the way I expected she would since we agreed to work on our sex life, her business is pretty much the last thing I want to talk about. “Going great.”
“Listen, I wondered?—”
He stops short when somebody pushes past us both to get in the locker room, and I seize the opportunity to escape. “I gotta run, Henry.”
He looks reluctant, then nods, holding up his hand as I duck through the door. “Okay, let’s grab a squash match or something soon.”
The girl at the reception desk waves as I head for the front doors of the gym. I think her name is either Sofia or Britney. She’s young, and always a little too friendly, but this time as she leans forward, angling herself to ensure I get an eyeful of cleavage, I’m happy to slow down and drink it in. I’m not remotely interested in her flirty smile and batting eyelashes, but I haven’t laid eyes on a pair of tits in almost fourteen days—when my “hookup” at the hotel completely blew up in my face—and while my dick has remained downright monastic ever since, my brain is in take-what-you-can-get mode.
I smile back. Not at her, just at her chest. But when I finally tear my eyes away, they land directly on Caprice Phipps across the desk.
Her eyes are glacial, effectively extinguishing any flicker of arousal on its way to my brain. I curse under my breath, but manage a polite nod. She’s my wife’s best friend, keeper of my sins. And I suppose she could still ruin me with the flick of a few words. Caprice stops, openly glaring at me, and it’s clear she saw what I was looking at. I avert my gaze to the screen of my phone, pushing through the doors to the parking lot, hoping I look properly cowed.
As I climb into my truck and start the engine, the latest Come And Get Her podcast picks up where it left off on a discussion of orgasm and the different ways it can be achieved. I hit pause, my thumb hesitating over the phone screen.
We’re nearly halfway to the thirty-day mark and Lydia still hasn’t sent any kind of signal inviting me to touch her, and she sure as hell hasn’t reached for me. I’d been so optimistic when I found the podcast, thinking I could do better—find a way to get her to want me. But it’s started to feel like a waste of time. I can’t blow her mind with orgasms if she never lets me between her legs.
I pull up an email from a lawyer I spoke to yesterday. After days of debate, I decided to have a consult just to put things in place. He explained how we’d divide our assets; that I had a right to half her businesses. But despite his strong suggestions, I said I wasn’t interested. I make good money. And Lydia’s put more effort into the Pooches than she ever has into our marriage. Why would I want a stake in the thing she’s more passionate about than me?
“You’re lucky you didn’t have kids,” the guy must have said at least five times. I couldn’t reply to that, so I just nodded.
Lydia and the dog aren’t home when I get there. No surprise. But my skin prickles when I see her empty spot in the driveway all the same. Like she’s the one out with someone else. Only we both know the other party in our relationship is her job.
I picked up a couple of sandwiches on my way home because I know she won’t have eaten. I finish mine alone in the kitchen, then leave hers on the table where she’ll see it. I’m just settling in on the couch for the evening when I hear the front screen door creak open and her key in the lock. My pulse spikes. It’s too late to sprint for the bathroom, so I search around for another way to occupy myself. To make it look like I don’t care that she’d rather spend her evening working than connect at all with me.
Heartthrob comes to my rescue, running in the door, playful and hungry. I jump up, grab his dish by the back door, and set about preparing his concoction of dog kibble and fish oil, focusing very hard on mixing it up just the way he likes it.