Chasing Love (Dark Love Series)

Present

It’s day two of my mission to create balance in my life.

I made the mistake of reading this article about living the best life possible and why our bodies need self-care. I run every second day or so, but according to this journalist, being a member of a gym motivates you to work out and increases social activity.

Two areas I’m failing at miserably.

Standing here in front of this machine with two handles side-by-side and a chair meant for sitting, I’m dumbfounded. I assume you pull the handles together which works your arms.

Placing my towel on the bench, I take a seat and latch onto the handles, reining them in. The handles don’t budge, making me look stupid for even trying this.

And this is why I don’t do machines.

Or the gym.

Frustrated and barely breaking a sweat, I step away and walk toward the cross-trainers. This can’t be too difficult. There are five cross trainers, and three of them are taken. A young guy is going hard, sweating profusely with no towel in sight to wipe his dripping forehead. A girl, attractive with cute workout wear, is beside him with a cell in hand taking selfies.

Then there’s granny beside me. Gray permed hair cut short with a white sweatband sitting on her head to hold it back. She wears an oversized sweatsuit in baby pink, made of that same material people wear when parachuting off a plane.

Her speed is slow, yet consistent, looking easy enough for me to keep up with.

Flinging my towel over the rail and nestling my earphones into my ears, I follow the instructions and press the button to start the machine. Okay, move feet like walking and swing arms. Easy.

My body unwillingly moves too fast, whacking the front and forcing me to grip tight not to fall off.

“Doll, are you all right?”

Great, granny feels sorry for me.

I hate the gym so much.

“Um, yeah. Just getting my bearings.”

“I’m Susan. I haven’t seen you around. New to the joint?”

Moving my feet slower this time, I gain momentum and try to hold this conversation.

“Charlie, but it’s short for Charlotte,” I tell her, coordinating my movements. “Yes, first time here. I read this article, and I’m trying to be nicer to my body, especially since I love anything carbs, donuts, you know… the food that kills you.”

Susan smiles, nodding her head in agreement. “Doll, you look fantastic. Let me tell you a story. I’ve got eight children and fifteen grandbabies. My body has seen it all, carried a few ten pounders, too. But nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for being seventy-two and chasing little ones around. That’s why I come here every morning.”

I have to give it to Susan, she doesn’t look in her seventies, early sixties at best.

“I also heard that gyms are great for socializing. Look, Susan, it’s not like I’m desperate to meet a guy, but you know… it’s kinda been a while, and I’m pushing thirty in a few years. I just don’t know where the time has gone. Okay, wait, I lie. I focused on my career so much and opening our small firm that I didn’t have time for anyone. Now look at me, I can’t even use a cross-trainer without almost falling off,” I ramble, oversharing way too personal information.

Susan slows down her movements until she hits a complete stop. Stepping off the machine, she grabs her towel and water bottle. “I don’t do this all the time, but you strike me as a lady who can use some help. I have a son, Jesse Junior. He’s from out of town but never settled down with a woman. I think he’d be a good match. I could pass on your number.”

The humiliation just doesn’t stop. Jesse Junior certainly doesn’t seem like my type. An out-of-towner means country boy on some isolated farm expecting me to raise his kids and bake pies every day.

“You know what?” I say, keeping a smile and the conversation amicable. “If the next time you see me, I’m still single, you pass me Jesse’s number.”

“Junior, doll, Jesse Junior,” she corrects me. “Jesse is my husband, and Lord knows he’d eat you up like a hungry wolf.” Susan waves goodbye, and walks toward the restroom, disappearing behind the red door marked Ladies.

I manage to use the cross trainer for another twenty minutes, listening to Olivia Newton-John’s ‘Let’s Get Physical’ in hopes of inspiring my newfound hobby. All I can think of for twenty minutes is whether or not anyone will judge me if I wear spandex to the gym.

Slowing down my pace, I hit stop and step off the machine, knees shaking and unbalanced. I wonder how many Hershey bars I just worked off. God, I need chocolate so bad.

In an effort to forget about my sweet tooth, I decide to try another workout, casually walking past a man sitting at the machine I previously attempted to use. He’s lifting his arms, making grunts, then I realize how stupid I look since I didn’t use the machine that way, hence my abandonment earlier.

That’s it, I’m making the gym my bitch. I refuse to be a pawn in its sick and twisted game.

Spotting another machine by the corner, I make my way over and get comfortable, placing my towel on the chair. This one looks easy. All I have to do is pull the lever-looking thing and work on my arms.

I’m about five minutes in, and I am certain my limbs will need to be amputated tomorrow. Grabbing my towel, I stand, bumping into a man, accidentally resting my hands on his chest.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I just wasn’t looking,” I apologize, out of breath.

He rests his hands on my shoulders, pushing me away but kindly and in a non-offensive way. Baring a grin, his expression is amusing rather than annoying.

“Hey, it’s cool. My fault.” He pulls one of his earbuds out, “Lost in some Bon Jovi… you know, gym music.”

“‘Livin’ on a Prayer’?”

He laughs, cute dimples gracing his perfectly sculpted face. Gosh, he’s gorgeous. He reminds me of someone, but I can’t figure out who.

“‘Keep the Faith,’” he answers. “But I’ll do some sets to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ occasionally.”

My eyes wander toward his chest, surrounded by his toned arms. His tank is white, dripping in sweat but not in the gross way that makes you scrunch your nose. No, more like the I-want-my- milkshake-to-bring-you-to-my-yard type sweat.

He extends his hand. “I’m Julian… Julian Baker.”

“Charlie Mason.” I shake his hand, relishing in how masculine his hands are and why they do something to me I haven’t felt in a long time.

“So, the machine. Are you done?”

I turn around, unwillingly, then realize my unwarranted lust over this man is pathetic since he only wants the machine.

“Um, yeah, go for it. I’ve wiped it down and everything, so like you don’t have to worry about sweat or rashes. Wait, is a sweat rash why we’re supposed to wipe it down, or can you catch like herpes?” The words are like verbal diarrhea, and my temperature rises from sheer embarrassment. “Look, I don’t know anything about herpes, so can we forget I ever mentioned that?”

Slight creases form around Julian’s hazel-colored eyes. His smile, warm and friendly, turns into a small laugh.

“I trust you, but thanks for the lesson on body rashes.”

“I’m mortified,” I admit, laughing at my own stupidity. “It was nice meeting you. Maybe we can do this again sometime… the awkward rash talk. Have fun.”

My attempt to walk away is to pick up any dignity that’s left behind.

“Wait,” Julian calls.

I turn around to face him, waiting for him to tell me how stupid I was back then.

“Maybe we could do this again, but somewhere else like over coffee. And we could leave the rash talk behind, only if it’s okay with you?”

His flirty grin is hard to ignore, my cheeks rising slowly into a joyous smile. Maybe this gym business isn’t so bad. Kill two birds with one stone—workout and meet a gorgeous man.

“Sure.” I motion for him to follow me to the counter where I steal a pen from the receptionist. I grab Julian’s arm, writing my number across it.

“I’ll call.” He smiles, flashing that grin one more time for me. “And you better answer.”

“Oh, I will,” I respond with a flirtatious wink, letting go of his arm. “See you later, Julian.”