I run the cloth over the back of my neck and bend over, placing my hands on my knees.
The sweat drips down from my temples to my nose and drops off. My legs feel heavy, but it's a familiar sensation, now. I can still feel the ache of yesterday's run in my thighs.
It's been six weeks. I can feel what that time and all this work has done to me.
Something grilled sounds good for dinner. Maybe I can invite Paul and his wife over to join.
I slap my legs and stand up, replacing my feet on the treadmill and starting to run again, somewhere between a light jog and a competitive sprint. I have to take breaks pretty frequently, since I might get motion sick, running like this. Without any input that I'm running other than the feeling of my legs moving, it's like reading a book in a car.
I pinch the earbud cord attached to my phone, sliding my fingers along until I find the earbuds, and pushing them into my ears. Something by IDKHBTFM, I'm not sure which song.
It's a vibe, though.
Maybe chicken? No, I had chicken yesterday.
I like the thought of thick-sliced bacon and asparagus on the grill, maybe? A stir-fry or a chili to go with?
There it is. Perfect. Thick-sliced bacon, asparagus, and some stir-fry. I'll give Paul a ring once I'm done with this run and see if he and his wife want to have dinner with me.
Or maybe not.
I suddenly get a strange feeling. Maybe I'm taking up too much of Paul's time. I'm supposed to be his client, not his friend.
But he said-
People say things. They say things all the time. I said 'hi' to the receptionist when I walked in here.
People, especially, say things that they don't mean.
Quite often when they feel like there's nothing else to say. So it doesn't really matter what Paul said or when or in what context. I won't invite him to dinner. Maybe he's got plans, and if I call, he'll feel obligated to say yes, and we don't want that.
I won't invite him to dinner.
My phone beeps to tell me I can stop running, and I turn off the machine, wiping it off with a disinfectant wipe, and then move on to the weight area.
I've become much more familiar in the last weeks with the layout of this gym. I take a pair of 50-pound weights and walk them over to an empty bench along the wall, gently sliding them on and securing them with the clamps.
Then I tap my phone and switch songs, laying down on the bench and sliding underneath the bar.
This is my favorite part. I like spacing out while lifting sometimes.
My mind immediately makes a bee-line towards Arthur, but I yank it back.
If I do invite Paul over, which I'm pretty sure I decided I wouldn't, do I have anything for dessert or should I run to the store and pick something up? What's a good adult dessert?
Fuck it, who's going to turn up their nose at chocolate cake?
'I love you.'
I feel my arms falter. I quickly push the weight back onto the hook and sit up before it can fall on my throat.
Get out of my head. You aren't coming back and it's unfair of you to take up space in there if you're never going to take up the same space in my life again.
'I love you.'
His voice echoes off the inner recesses of my brain, like a tattered leaf drifting to the ground after a gust of wind plucked it from the branches of a dying tree.
It's colored dull and changed. It's not the same memory it was six weeks ago when I laid in bed all alone in the house again for the first time in months.
'I love you.'
"I love you, too," I breathe.
"What?" An unknown voice asks.
"What?" I cough, surprised to have said that out loud.
They walk away. I lay back down and start another attempt at my first set, counting from one again.
My hands protest the contrast of the sharp metal grip and the memory of his eternal, all-consuming softness. His hair, his skin, his voice when he was about to cry. My hands seek him out.
My fingers weaken up, and I put the bar back up again.
Like it always was, some days are easier than others. Some days, I don't think of him at all. Others, he's the only thing that crosses my mind.
I don't know when it clicked. Maybe it was when I discovered I could bench 100 pounds and I went home excited, only to remember that he wasn't there, and I couldn't tell him. And I realized, for the first time, how much I really enjoyed having him around.
Maybe that was when I realized I loved him.
Or maybe it was sooner than that. Maybe it was the week he left, and I woke up one day and realized that I needed to get my shit together or I'd never get another chance to love someone as amazing as Oliver or Arthur. It wasn't fair to keep breaking other people's hearts. It wasn't fair to keep breaking mine.
I wish I'd kissed him, at least. All my lips know for sure is that his cheek was soft and smooth, but I wish I'd kissed his lips. I imagine they were soft, just like the rest of him, and warm.
I stand up and walk back to the rack, taking another pair of 50 and a pair of 25 to add, and walking them over. I take off the clip and add them, evenly on both ends, then put the clip back on. What's that, then?
125 on each side?
I sit and slide underneath, testing the weight on each side by pushing it up but not bringing it out over my chest. It's not too heavy, despite being one and a half times heavier than what I was just pressing.
I wrap my fingers tight around it and push up, getting it free of the hook and starting my second set of reps.
I wish I would've kissed him.
But I guess there's nothing to be done about it, now. I'll be better next time.