Page 2 of Resistance Training

VIVIAN

I am genuinely delighted for people who get to live happily ever after with their soulmate or whatever, but why aren’t more people talking about how amazing it is to live alone?

Being able to redecorate this little house in my own brand of librarian–cottagecore–boho chic–defiantly messy teenager aesthetic that would drive my ex crazy is objectively awesome.

I don’t need all these pink Himalayan salt lamps, houseplants, antique mirrors, bohemian area rugs, Moroccan-leather poufs, framed graphic prints from Etsy, large crystals that I can’t identify, or all of the books I can afford.

Especially not the Official Taylor Swift: The Eras Tour Book I got on eBay.

But I do need to have all of these things in my living room while setting the thermometer to a balmy sixty-nine degrees because it makes me deliriously happy knowing how much my ex-boyfriend would hate it.

Being home alone on a rainy Sunday night, doing what I want to do, when I want to do it—this is the stuff my dreams were made of when I was living here with the ex.

And the whole food thing?! I get to eat whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want.

I can eat donuts while taking a bath at seven thirty on a Tuesday night.

I can eat tacos for breakfast while standing over the kitchen sink, listening to a murder podcast and doing Kegels.

I can stuff my face with a banana cream pie and then wash it down with a large glass of pinot noir that doesn’t pair well with banana cream pie. How could I possibly top this?

By wearing pajamas all day and singing along to my Fuck U Jeremy Thank U, Next breakup playlist really loudly to annoy Hairy Styles, that’s how.

Hairy Styles is my cat.

This is bliss for me.

Really.

And that’s not just the sugar high talking either.

This is the happiest I’ve been in years.

I almost feel like me again.

I have Taylor Swift breakup song lyrics coursing through my veins.

I don’t have to wear headphones to listen to my nineties-nostalgia playlists or watch every episode of Friends with my office bestie at lunch because I live with an asshole who believes grown-ups should only stream shows with educational value at home.

I can have Pride and Prejudice streaming on my iPad while listening to Stevie Nicks on my phone and rereading my paperback of The Secret History —one of the fifty or so books I had to store at my parents’ house because my ex considered physical books to be clutter.

I am free. Free to be me. As long as my cat is cool with everything.

I’m right in the middle of belting out “Stronger” by Britney Spears when the song is interrupted by a FaceTime call request from my sister.

This is not ideal. I am not mentally prepared to talk to anyone with less than four legs tonight—unless it’s one of those amputee cats or dogs.

I just want to sing the Glee Cast version of “Take a Bow” again, rearrange some of the books on my new vintage bookshelves, then get in bed with Hairy Styles and eat an apple fritter while reading a paperback.

I want to leave sugary fingerprints all over the pages and be judged by exactly no one.

Then, to relax my brain, I want to watch celebrities do their nighttime skincare routines on YouTube until I fall asleep.

And sleep all through the night, sprawled out starfish-style, taking up the entire mattress. As long as I’m not disturbing my cat.

That was the plan.

But the fact that Aubrey didn’t text me first to ask if I’m available to FaceTime leads me to believe that either there is an emergency or she’s checking on me again because she thinks I’m depressed.

If it’s an emergency, then I’m an asshole for not answering.

If this is a check-in, then she’ll keep calling until I answer and my songs will keep getting interrupted anyway.

So, I reluctantly accept the video call. “Heyyyy, girl…!?”

My sister’s freakishly symmetrical pretty face is barely recognizable because she’s smiling. A lot. With her eyes. And her teeth. And her forehead. Even her ears look like they’re smiling. So it’s not an emergency.

I should be relieved, but I just felt a new tension knot form in my back.

“Hey, Vivi!” Seriously, I have never seen her smile like this before and I have never heard her greet me so enthusiastically. It’s unnerving. She rolls her eyes. “Calm down—nobody died. What are you up to?”

Sus. Highly suspicious, I tell you. But I can’t let on that I don’t trust this casually upbeat older sister act. “Oh, you know. Sunday-night stuff. I was watching a documentary. And I’m about to start doing meal prep for the week.”

“Oh yeah?” She smirks. “By ‘meal prep’ do you mean you’re eating a pie that you were planning to eat tomorrow? And is the documentary about women who sing to their cats, starring you ?”

“Oh my God—where did you hide the camera?!”

“Hah! I knew it. It’s a rainy Sunday night. What else would you be doing?”

“You’re an actual witch. I respect it.” I set my phone up on top of the book I’ve placed on the arm of my chair and settle back into the extremely comfortable cushions. “But I can’t decide if it’s creepy or sweet of you to check what the weather’s like in other cities—who does that?!”

“Extraordinarily considerate people who have a compulsive need to know everything,” she states matter-of-factly.

“Now I can’t tell if that’s a humble brag or if you’re the most self-aware person I know.”

“It can be both. What kind of pie?”

“Banana cream with salted caramel.”

“Wow. What’s the occasion?”

“It sounded good and I wanted to eat it.”

Aubrey blinks once, but she’s still smiling. The judgment was there in the blink, I saw it.

“It’s Self-Carb Sunday,” I add.

“That does sound good,” she says, in a tone that is a subtle and elegant little soul-crushing reminder that I’m not adulting properly.

I moved to Portland a couple of years ago, and even though Aubrey still lives in Seattle where we grew up, her judgey big-sister voice accompanies me wherever I go.

Like a hypercritical tube of lip balm or a Stanley travel mug that’s supportive but also knows how to do everything better than everyone else.

This is how it’s been all my life. She’s three years older than I am, but I have no memory of my sister ever actually being a child.

Or of me not feeling childish whenever I’m around her, even in my mid-twenties.

I sigh dramatically.

Here we go.

“Don’t you care about the neighbors hearing you sing?” she asks with genuine concern.

“I only sing really loudly when it’s raining super hard. Plus Mrs. Friar is practically deaf.”

“Don’t cats have super-sensitive ears, though?”

“ Excuse me. I have the voice of an angel. Hairy is very supportive of my hobbies as long as I remember to feed him and clean his litter box and do whatever else he wants me to do for him.”

She giggles, which is weird, because Aubrey never giggles. And she never passes up an opportunity to make fun of my exceptionally wonderful singing voice. She is clearly attempting to make me drop my guard. “I thought you just said Hairy’s supportive of your bubbies . You know, like, boobies.”

“And then you remembered I’m not an adolescent boy from the Elizabethan Era? Are you a little bit drunk right now?”

“No, I’m just really happy that you seem happy.”

“I am. I’m so much stronger than yesterday. Now it’s nothing but my way.”

“Are you quoting a Britney song?”

“Am I? I don’t know. You don’t have to worry about me—I’m great.”

“I know. I’m glad.”

“Yeah, but you said I seem happy with that condescending tone.”

“Well, you just said you’re great in that defensive tone.”

“Yeah, because you have resting condescension face even when you’re smiling.”

She sighs. Her sigh is much louder and longer, more mature than the one I produced a moment ago.

“Can we start over?” She waves her hand like she’s Tom Cruise in a sci-fi action thriller, swiping the mental remnants of our prior conversation away to delete it.

“I have news.” She’s still smiling. She isn’t even annoyed that I brought up her resting condescension face. Which is highly sus.

I do some rapid mental sister math and then gasp. “Oh my God!” I pick up the phone with one hand, cover my heart with the other. My heart is genuinely racing all of a sudden. “He proposed!”

“Yes. How did you?—”

“The way you’re smiling. And I just realized this is the three-year anniversary of your first date! Aubrey—I am so happy for you!”

“Thank you. I can’t believe you remember that.” She sighs and deflates a little. “Wow. I really wanted to, like, give you the news so you’d be surprised like Mom and Dad were.”

“Oh, sorry. Tell me now. I’ll act surprised—I promise.”

“Ugh. That’s dumb.”

“Shit. I’m an asshole. I ruined your news because I didn’t want to talk about me anymore.”

“You’re the actual worst,” she says, smiling.

“Show me the ring, show me the ring! Tell me everything there is to know about everything!”

“Okay, first of all, we are not done talking about you, and secondly…ta-dahhh!” She holds her left hand up in front of the camera, and I can just tell she’s been practicing this in front of a mirror and probably already took eleven thousand selfies to post on Insta as soon as she’s told all the important people over the phone.

Aubrey has wanted to marry Eric since before their first date, over three years ago.

“Wow. Aubrey, it’s gorgeous. That is so perfect for you.”

“Right?! Mom screamed. And, you know, she’s been drinking mimosas off and on since brunch, so then she just burst into tears because she can’t believe her first baby’s finally getting married, and eventually started moaning about poor little Vivi.”

“Fantastic. Love that for me.” I do not love those two words that have been preceding my name whenever it’s uttered by family members for the past few months, but let’s move on. “What did Dad say?”