Page 44 of Bittersweet

He pulls out of the lot and after an uncomfortable few minutes’ drive, during which some very bad techno music blares through the speakers, we finally pull up in front of myapartment.

I give myself a mental pat on the back. I did it. I went on a date.Go me. And while it wasn't amazing, it wasn’t terrible either. It was just new. Not exactly exciting, and not like walking into Bittersweet every day and seeing those gorgeous eyes, those expert hands, and that incredible smile.God, Romy, enough of the torture already.He’smarried.

I need to get him out of myhead.

I glance at Marc as we sit curbside, but he’s not looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the storefront behind me. “Hey, you live rightabove—”

I kiss him.It’s terrible. An all-out, open-mouthed, tongue-flailing-while-seeking-his kind of kiss. It’s truly awful. The worst kissever.

I pull away before I can embarrass myself any further, and beat a hasty retreat, throwing an awkward goodbye over my shoulder before I slam the car door. “Thanks for dinner.Bye.”

He doesn’t wait until I’ve made it safely inside before zooming off, and that irks me because I’m hit with the memory of Elio walking me to my door and waiting until I was in my apartment before he walked away.Without a proper good nightkiss.

I guess I should be grateful. I feel bad enough that I’ve spent the year flirting with a married man. Kissing him and then finding out about his beautiful family would have destroyedme.

Thoughts of that lying, almost-cheating bastard put me in a funk, or maybe I’m already there thanks to the lack of spark I felt with Marc. Either way, I head straight to the only two men I’ve relied on for most of my adult life—and some of my childhood—Ben & Jerry. I open the freezer, grab a spoon from the dish rack and dig in. It isn’t until I’m halfway through the pint that the remorse and guilt set in. My stomach twists, and I set the carton down on the coffee table and pat my distended belly. Even my old pals Ben and Jerry have forsaken me. This is a truly sad day, but on the plus side, at least I’ll have one less item to write on my list forMarc.

18

Romy

“Romy!I need your head in the game, kid. Focus. Determination.” Marc snaps his fingers in front of myface.

All the fantasies I had conjured about donuts and non-diet cola evaporate into fatair.

How did he know I wasn’t thinking gymlythoughts?

I study his face as I run. From up here on the treadmill, it almost looks as if he’s a villainous cartoon character, his eyes dark under his thickbrows.

“Romy!” hesnaps.

“Yes, Marc,” I say, my hands still tight fists as my feet pump up and down, racing to nowhere in thisgym.

Marc glances at the dial on the treadmill in front of me, then presses the button to increase the incline alittle.

I feelit.

I feel it in my thighs, my calf muscles—I swear, even my brain takes on some of the load. The familiar ache of physical activity washes over my body. Pain in my side. Air tight and choking in mythroat.

“Keep pushing for another two minutes. Come on, team. You. Can. Do it!” Marc raises a hand in the air, cheering on thegroup.

Around me, some of his trainees manage weak cheers, while others keep their eyes fixed straight ahead, as if they’re only on these treadmills due to the force of sheerwillpower.

“One more.” Marc hits the increase buttonagain.

“Marc,” I breathe, shaking my head. My feet race to keep up. This—this is too much. Too fast. Toosoon.

“Come on, kid. Push, push, push!” heyells.

“Trying,” I breathe, but I can’t. My feet slip farther back on the ramp. My body is tooweak.

I stab at the machine, searching for the button to slow it all down. I need out. I can’t keep doing thisanymore.

“No!” he yells. His hands cover the dials on mymachine.

“I—”

“Keep on keepingon!”

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