Page 41 of The Comeback Summer

ADAMR:Speaking of work, I have an early morning tomorrow. I’d better run.

The word “run” sends shivers down my arms. I glance at the clock and realize it’s after midnight; tomorrow’s workout with Hannah is going to be even harder if I don’t get some sleep.

HANNAHF:Yeah, I’d better go, too

ADAMR:It’s been fun chatting with you, Hannah

HANNAHF:You too. Good night.

ADAMR:Night

I plug my phone in and turn off my lamp. There’s a giant smile on my face, and I feel the same way I do when I get caught up in the swoony part of a good romance novel.

Only this time, I’m helping to write the love story.

Crush Your Comfort Zone

THE ULTIMATE CHALLENGE COMPANION JOURNAL

WEEK 3

This week, we will explore how other people in our lives helped to create our comfort zones. Today, start by writing about a parent, or parental figure, who was a source of comfort to you in your early life.

Hannah, 6/19

It’s funny, because my first thought wasn’t my parents—I thought about Libby. Mom and Dad never seemed reliable enough for me to turn to for comfort, especially after the divorce.

Libby was, though. I remember so many nights when I couldn’t sleep because my mind was racing, or I heard a spooky sound, or Mom and Dad had fought, and I crawled into bed with Libby. She’d grumble a little but she never said no. Sometimes she’d make me sleep top-to-tail which would put my face level with her feet. Is it weird that the memory of my sister’s feet still makes me feel safe? Just the knowledge that she was there, I guess. That she would always be there.

Sixteen

HANNAH

“Oooh! I found another good one!” Libby says.

I glance up from my computer screen, where I’m running numbers on the media and spending habits of Lou’s target market, and see Libby holding out her phone, a proud smile on her face.

This is the fifth time in the last hour that she’s said this about a potential match. The fact that she’s gotten so many “good ones” so quickly seems suspicious.

“What makes him so great?” I ask.

“He wrote that his mom is his best friend. Aw.”

“Meaning he lives in her basement and she does his laundry,” Great Scott chimes in. He’s over in the corner, doing pull-ups on a bar we mounted so we can incorporate some Down & Dirty training at work, counting reps under his breath: “Nine, ten...”

I glance at Libby’s screen and see a picture of the man holding up a fish he recently caught.

“Immediately no,” I say.

She huffs. “Why?”

“Never date a man who proudly displays dead animals,” Scott says between breaths. “Fifteen... sixteen.”

He’s only slightly winded and I’m mildly annoyed that he can do these so easily. The privilege of testosterone and upper-body muscle mass. I’ve never been able to do even one.

“Exactly,” I say. “He’s like, ‘Look at this innocent fish I lured to its death. Maybe I should do the same with a woman.’ Next thing you know,you’rethe one wrapped in foil in his freezer.”

Libby makes a disgusted face and keeps swiping.

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