“Ugh. Fine,” she says while doing her best to catch her breath.
My jaw dropped one morning about six months ago when Victoria Chastain, wife of Colt Chastain, walked into my gym. He’s a forward for the Manhattan Mischiefs, and despite not being a fan of basketball, I still know who he is. Everyone knows who he is, and I knew who she was immediately when she walked in and took one of my strength training classes. She liked it so much, she signed up for a membership. It’s a women-only gym, and I cater to Manhattan’s elite, so she’s the type of customer I want to attract.
After working out there for a month, she approached me to be her personal trainer. I accepted, and now I train her sister too. Even though my gym was doing well before she became a member, she’s gotten me so many clients that I had to hire two other trainers.
After stretching, I follow her out of her home gym and into the kitchen, where she gets both of us bottled water. I sit on one of the chairs at the kitchen island like I always do after one of her sessions.
“Don’t forget I have a family thing on Wednesday and will miss our session,” she reminds me.
“We won’t. I moved some things around, and I can see you at the gym at nine. I have our private room reservedfor you.”
She sticks her tongue out at me but nods in resignation as her husband comes into the kitchen and plants a kiss on her sweaty neck. She pretends to push him away, but he wraps his long arms around her. I grin at their playfulness before looking away and checking my phone. There are no missed calls and the one text I have is from my sister, asking me for a lunch or dinner date. I ignore it. I don’t know what that’s about because we are not the type of sisters who spend time together outside of mandatory family holidays and our mother’s birthday. We haven’t been those types of sisters for almost six years now, and I’m fine with the status quo.
“The boys are waiting so you can come watch the baseball game with us,” Colt says to Vickie.
I put my phone away and start to drink my bottle of water.
“Why?” she asks. “Everyone in this house knows that outside of Evan’s games, I hate baseball. It’s even more boring than the sport you play.”
“Baseball is way more boring than basketball,” I say to Vickie. It’s almost tied with golf and tennis in the boring department.
“Thank you, Violet,” Colt says before turning back to his wife. “Now, go tell that to our sons, darlin’.” I almost fall over at the endearment. Just as he kisses her neck again, the adorable one-year-old comes wobbling into the kitchen. He has a head full of dark curls and is the spitting image of his daddy, if only darker. He comes in on shaky legs and holds his hands up.
“Mama,” he says. She picks him up and kisses him. “TV.” He points toward the living room. “Bayball.”
“We paused it for you, Mom!” the six-year-old yells, and Vickie groans.
“I guess I must surrender. Give me ten minutes to shower.” She hands Colt the baby, and I decide it’s time for me to make my exit.
After saying goodnight to everyone, Vickie walks me to the door, and I leave. I hear happy giggles from their apartment as I walk to the elevator. It’s only seven-thirty on a Friday night in the middle of the summer in one of the world’s most vibrant cities, and all I have to look forward to is an empty apartment. At least it looks over Central Park.
My dad helped me find the apartment. It’s owned by one of his business partners, and because of that, I get a huge discount on the rent. My gym is on the first floor of the building, and that rent is a nominal amount too.
My parents divorced when I was thirteen and they shared custody of me, but when I turned fourteen, the equity firm Dad worked for transferred him to London. He lived there for the next eight years, and even though I visited every summer and most winter breaks, I missed seeing him whenever I wanted. Things got worse when I turned fifteen and my mother married her husband Wade. Wade was also her ex and my older sister’s father. I blamed them for the breakdown of my parents’ marriage, even though Wade was not the reason they divorced. His presence in my life made my teenage years miserable and turned me into a combative adolescent. Things got even worse when I dropped out of college during my junior year. I wasn’t getting anything out of it, and I didn’t want to be there. My mom was not pleased, but my father invited me to London to stay for a couple of months.
My mother was upset about that and blamed my father for my actions. She said he was deliberately choosing not to have a united front with her. Before he'd hung up the phone, he had reminded her that I was an adult capable of making decisions for myself and that she could kiss his ass.
From that time on, I worked various dead-end jobs because my father supported me. He let me live in his apartment whilehe was abroad, but when he came back to the States, he told me I had to get my life in order. He said he’d help me, but I had to do something other than waiting tables and teaching exercise classes at a local gym.
When I told him I wanted to work for myself and to own my own gym, he sat down with me, and we made a business plan. It was his idea that I should cater only to women, and rich women at that. He invested in the business and helped me find the space.
All the capital to start my gym came from him. He gave advice and listened. He helped me design the gym and set up a marketing plan. Now, the business has exceeded my expectations, and Dad’s been encouraging me to open a second location.
Despite all of the success, though, it’s always a disappointment to go home to an empty apartment.
You run a thriving business that you’ve worked your ass off for. You have family. You have so much.
Yes, but what I want is a big, protective boyfriend who will set my body on fire and make me breakfast in the morning. One who will rub my achy muscles and tell me that I’m pretty, even when I’m a sweaty mess. Someone who will hold me in his strong arms and kiss my forehead just because.
For tonight, I will have to settle for finding that in the form of a romcom on TV. Thankfully, I only live a block away from the Chastains. As I walk out of their building, I see a familiar figure standing on the corner, looking down at the ground. His shoulders are drooped almost as if he’s resigned himself to a horrible fate.
He’s built just like his brother, Colt, if just a bit taller, but out of the two brothers, Charlie is the most handsome. With dark curly hair, long eyelashes, and eyes almost the color of midnight, he’s a wet dream walking on two long sexy ass legs.
I’ve never said anything other than hello to him. I’ve only seen him a handful of times, but he seems to visit often. He’s always polite. Every member of that family is, including those adorable little boys.
When he looks up and sees me standing there watching him, he raises his hand, and I expect him to wave, but the wave never happens. He puts it down and looks away. He looks embarrassed, but I have no idea why he’d be embarrassed to see me.
There’s something about him that I recognize. There’s loneliness lurking behind those dark eyes. He never visits with a girlfriend, and a man that fine should never be alone. When we’ve been there at the same time, he’s always playing with the boys. A couple of times, Vickie mentioned how he was going to babysit so she could have a date night with her husband. One time he came into the house with the baby strapped to his chest in a baby carrier and the older boy on his back.