Page 41 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
The doors to the barn are wide open, and a Megadeath song blares. James is in one slot of the rack, squatting three sets of forty-five-pound plates with ease; Jesse spots Ryder as he benches in the second slot, straining to finish a rep with two forty-fives and a thirty-five; Franco is out front of the last slot, doing cleans with a single forty-five on each side, every rep smooth, fluid, and practiced.
I hop down from my truck, and focus on acting like I’m not intimidated by the amount of weight the guys are pushing. Even more importantly, I focus on acting like I’m not self-conscious about what I’m wearing: short, tight, black running shorts and a red sports bra under a baggy muscle shirt. The shorts cover my butt, so it’s not like I’m wearing anything revealing, but still. I don’t dress to impress at the gym, so the shorts are a little old, a little faded, fraying and ripping at the hems, and I know for a fact they ride up pretty high when I squat. The bra and muscle shirt are also both old—the bra is my favorite workout bra, with great support and super comfortable, strong enough to keep the girls well-contained even during sprints or cleans but without being so constrictive that they hurt. But, it’s also faded and fraying, with loose threads and permanent boob sweat stains. The shirt is a Harvard Powerlifting Club shirt, with sleeves I cut off myself with a pair of kitchen scissors.
Even my shoes are old and ratty—well-worn, well-loved, never untied New Balance cross trainers I’ve had since college.
Face to face with a man who I can only describe as my crush, I feel…underdressed.
Which is stupid, because the men are all shirtless, wearing even rattier shorts and shoes than mine. Objectively, I fit in pretty well. It’s just that, if I’d known I’d be lifting with James today, I’d have worn a more flattering outfit.
Which is stupid.
I suck in a breath, let it out slowly, and enter the barn. “Hey, guys,” I say.
Ryder, Jesse, and Franco all stare at me, and then at the truck, and then back at me. Jesse’s eyes narrow, and he helps Ryder rack the bar before turning on James, who in turn racks his bar.
“You gave her the truck?” Jesse growls. He sounds…pissed.
James shrugs. “Yeah.”
“You said you sold it,” Jesse says.
“I did sell it,” James growls. “What’s the deal?”
Jesse trades places with Ryder, sliding on the bench under the bar, stretching his arms as he scoots and wiggles into position. “That was Renée’s truck.”
“Actually, it was my truck. She ended up driving it, but it was my truck. You didn’t say shit when I sold her CR-V.”
“Because…” Jesse snarls wordlessly, gripping the bar hard, adjusting his position slightly, and then sucking in a deep breath—he grunts in exertion as he un-racks the bar and knocks out five slow, smooth reps before racking it again, Ryder guiding the bar into place without actually helping too much. “Because she was my sister, goddammit. I don’t know. It’s just different, I guess.”
I stand in the barn, unsure of how to handle this. “I—I’m sorry—I didn’t realize it would be an issue for you, Jesse.”
He shakes his head as he slips off the bench and takes his place as spotter for Ryder; Franco is still methodically knocking out cleans, doing at least twenty reps, studiously not addressing the current drama.
“Nah,” Jesse grumbles. “It’s not about you. I’m sorry, Nova. I’m being a dick.”
“Would you rather I sell it to some random dude on Craigslist?” James asks. “At least this way, it’s around.”
Jesse doesn’t answer until Ryder is done with his reps, and then they both step away from the rack. “No, you’re right. I guess it was just weird seeing Nova get out of what I think of as Renée’s truck. You said you sold it and I didn’t think much about it—it was odd walking in and the truck not being here, but it didn’t register. And then I see it rolling up, and for a second, I…I half expected to see her climbing down out of it.”
James nods, head hanging. “I know, Jess.”
“It was just weird for a second.”
James looks at him, their eyes meeting, exchanging a long, deep, significant stare that only lifelong friends could interpret. “I know, Jess.”
Jesse looks at me again. “I am sorry, Nova. I’m not usually like that. I’m glad you’re driving Ruby. I really am.”
I glance at James. “You didn’t tell me she had a name.”
“Slipped my mind,” James mumbles.
“Bullshit,” Ryder coughs into his fist.
James glares. “Something to say, Ry?”
Ryder shakes his head, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Nope.” He coughs again, this time a normal cough, rather than a cough meant to disguise snark. “Just got some dust in my throat.”
