Page 25 of Bittersweet

He flirted with me. He flirted with me, and the whole thing was probably some sick game to him because, at the end of the day, he went home tothis.

“I have to go.” I flee, but the doors aren’t close enough. Outside and away from here isn’t closeenough.

“Romy—”

“Where is she going,Daddy?”

“Who was that?” Elio’s wifeasks.

I burst out into the cool fall afternoon and gulp back several deep breaths, but I’m too aware of their eyes on me. I push through the gate and take the stairs to my apartment two at a time, then stumble inside and fall onto the couch, where I’m finallyalone.

Where I can breakapart.

10

Romy

The following eveningI’ve fallen so far into a shame spiral that I’m living in two-day-old sweats, and I’ve eaten more than half the contents of my fridge. I start on a new box of candy and pick one up, biting into it.Praline. Gross. I put it back in the tray and take another, stuffing it in mymouth.

It’s late, well after midnight, and I should go to bed, but the people who turn Nicholas Sparks’s books into multimillion-dollar movies all covered in lies and fairy dust have ruined me so I Netflixed the shit out of Stephen King’sIT. . . and now I’m too sad and too scared tosleep.

An infomercial comes on. Some guy is yelling about diet shakes and boot camp. I pick up the remote, intending to change the channel and shut him up, because even though he’s cute, I’ve already had several helpings of guilttoday.

“I’ve been where you are: fat, unhappy, sitting on your damn couch surrounded by candy wrappers and Cheetos,” he shouts. I glance at the discarded Cheeto package beside me and stealthily throw it over the back of the couch as if he can see into my living room. “I was you, until I took action. Until I made the hard choice to put away the food and fill my body and mind with awesome. Do you want to be alone forever? Doyou?”

“No,” I mutter around another piece of candy.Ooh,caramel.

“If you answered no, then join us. Get off your couch, pick up your phone, and sign up to Get More with Moretti now. Call 555-U-GET-FIT. Don’t wait. DO ITNOW!”

I glance at my phone on the coffee table, at the strangely cute but ridiculously buff guy on my television, and then back at my phone again. Then I surprise myself by upending my candy all over the floor as I snatch my phone up. With shaking fingers, I dial the number. Then I hang up and stare at my screen, resolved to chalk this up to too much sugar, but the image of Elio kissing his beautiful wife slams into my mind’s eye and my heartsqueezes.

I don’t want to be alone. Obviously, the man I’ve lusted over for the last year is out of the question. I can’t have him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have anybody. I need to do this; it might be my last shot at a future, at love, at gliding my way down the aisle toward my own happily ever after. I dial the number again, and this time, I don’t hang up, not until I’ve signed up as the newest recruit to the Get More with Moretti BootCamp.

After I’ve paid the equivalent of an entire month’s rent, I write down the address for the gym and hang up the phone. Then I glance around my apartment at the empty junk food packets, and I feel sick.No wonder I’m single. Who could love a food-obsessed fatty likeme?

I shove those thoughts out of my head and clean up my apartment. Then I shower and climb into bed. Before I’m even asleep, I’m dreaming of the body I’ll have after this boot camp is done with me—assuming I live past the firstday.

11

Romy

With nervous energyjumping along the length of my spine, I enter the gym and skulk around corners until I see a group of people gathered in the far room. As I get closer, I notice they’re all in various stages of undress. I frown, uncertain if I’ve accidentally walked in to one of those private swingers parties I’ve heard so much about, when a tall and extremely intimidating black man tosses me a tank top that readsGet More withMoretti.

“Put it on,” he says in a deep baritone, and I hurry to comply with the order before he decides I’d make a good proteinsnack.

Marc Moretti enters the room surrounded by two other ridiculously built men. He’s shorter than I realized, and somehow bigger too, not in height necessarily, but stocky. He’s like a bull, and he seems just asangry.

“All right, new recruits, listen up. I’m Marc Moretti. I own this gym, and for the next six weeks, I own your assestoo.”

There are moans and laughter from the rest of the group, but I move forward, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Not because he’s cute, but because, well, I don’t mind the idea of this man owning my ass for six weeks if he can reduce it to half thesize.

“We’re starting with a weigh-in. Yes, ladies and gents, you’re gonna feel the burn. Not just the burn of your pathetic muscles protesting their misuse, but of shame. You’re gonna feel every last Dorito you ate, and then you’re gonna thank me, because what we do here today and tomorrow will set you up for life.” He levels his gaze at each one of us in turn. “You follow my lead and keep up, and we’ll have no damn problem. You wanna whine and tell me you can’t? You may as well go home now. I’m not your mother. I’m not here to make you feel good. I’m here to make you work, and I demand the best. Are weclear?”

“Yes,” I mumble along with a handful ofothers.

Marc puts his hand to his ear. “I can’t hearyou.”

“YES!” we shout in unison, except for the guy at the very back. He looks like he’s just here on adare.

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