Page 7 of Resistance Training

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V ivian Elizabeth Sparks.

I see this woman sitting before me, this gorgeous mess of a woman.

This woman with a face that’s so beautiful I want to punch a wall.

This woman with a body that curves and sways and entices, even in that horrible lime-green workout gear.

I watched her walk in, saw her reflection in the mirror.

I watched her smile and take in the space.

My space. I saw the men check her out, and I see that she has no idea, absolutely no clue how stunning she is.

And that pisses me off.

Because her sister told me what her ex did to her and I wanted to throat-punch that motherfucker.

But I’m also not going to let on that she’s still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.

Because I’m a motherfucker too. Because she no longer has the power to bring me to my knees.

I have spent the last eight years building up my resistance to Vivian Sparks.

Eight years forgetting the way she made me laugh like no one else ever could, before I met her or since I last spoke to her.

Eight years forgetting she was the only person at our school that I actually liked.

Eight years reading so many books I knew she’d love but never reaching out to her.

Eight years watching TV and film adaptations of books we read together and physically stopping myself from emailing her.

Eight years becoming strong enough to stare into her big brown eyes and give exactly zero fucks that she broke my heart.

And then she’s standing there looking at me like she’s so happy to see me.

And I did it. I refrained from dropping to my knees.

I refrained from wrapping my arms around her and telling her how good it was to see her too.

How right it felt to look at her. I refrained from telling her that the instinct to share every single thing I like in this world with her is still there, it never went away, no matter how much I wanted it to.

That the emails she sent me went straight to an archived folder and I never even checked to see how many there were in there, but I wondered.

I wondered, and the wondering nearly derailed me. But it didn’t.

Restraint. That’s the kind of strength I care about. That’s my fortress.

I anchor my feet to the floor and grip the armrests even harder to physically prevent my consciousness, my entire being, from rearranging itself around her.

But fuck.

She still looks like the hot British actress from The Mummy , only she’s filled out in all the magnificent ways a woman can fill out when she moves from her teens into her twenties.

I can only imagine how gorgeous she’s going to be five, ten years from now.

Twenty years. But I still see the girl I knew in those eyes, hear it in her voice.

Something is happening. Some kind of emotional time travel.

One minute I was in my gym telling Larry to keep his elbows bent at a forty-five degree angle to protect his shoulders and then…

and then I saw her and I was seventeen again.

As in love as a guy can be with a girl that he refuses to admit to being in love with.

Eighteen again, heartbroken and angry. Fourteen again and seeing her for the first time.

The shock and awe of a beautiful new girl walking over to me on the way to school, smiling, asking about the book I was holding.

Forcing myself not to say out loud the question that was always running through my mind: Why are you even talking to me?

You could hang out with anyone at this school and you’re choosing to hang out with me—why?

But also, don’t ever stop.

She probably wouldn’t have.

Thank God I did.

Except where are all the zero fucks I was supposed to give after all these years of forgetting about her? Because it feels like I have nothing but fucks to give her. I definitely want to give Vivian Sparks all my fucks.

God dammit. This was a terrible idea. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me that my face and body language and voice are doing exactly what I want them to do.

Keeping her at a distance. Holding up the wall between us.

But every square inch of the entire surface of my skin, every vein and muscle, every cell in my body, and the energetic frequency of my aching soul is pulsating with desire for this woman.

I have never felt this with anyone else.

Not even when I wanted to. Not even close.

Which is crazy. Right? I don’t know her anymore.

I only knew her for a handful of years. This is just an inherent human need to connect with something.

It’s just my mind telling me I need to reconnect with her .

Every self-help book I’ve ever read has taught me that what I really have to do is let myself feel lonely.

Move through it. Sit with it. She’s a mirror. A lesson. Not the answer.

But fuck.

She stops writing, looks up at me, and hands the clipboard and pen back to me. “All done. Sir. ” She gives me a saucy little smirk. “Do I call you sir in this situation? I’ve never had a personal trainer before.”

Yes. God, yes, I want you to call me sir.

I want to push you up against the wall, wrap that ponytail around my fist, make you gasp, and then spank that ass when you call me Bradley instead of sir.

“I’m not your drill sergeant. As long as you don’t call me Brad or Bradley when we’re at the gym, we’re good. ”

She leans forward. “Does that mean we’ll be seeing each other outside of the gym, Mitch?”

This familiarity, the way she’s talking to me, these spanking thoughts—they won’t do. The way she’s leaning in and not wearing a bra—that really won’t do. “That is not what it means, no.”

“And this is your gym? You own it? You started this business?”

“I did.”

“That’s amazing. I really love what I’ve seen so far. I mean—the parking situation isn’t great, but that’s true for ninety percent of Portland. Your parents must be so proud of you.”

“They are.”

“How are they? I’ve missed them.”

“They’re good—thanks.” She doesn’t need to know how often they’ve asked me about her. How anguished my mom was when I made her change her number and promise to cut ties with everyone from the Sparks family after we left Mercer Island.

“Do you make your parents call you Mitch too?”

“No.”

“And your wife, or girlfriend? Do you make her call you Mitch?”

I look her straight in the eye and say “I’m unattached, Vivian” as I flip the clipboard around so I can read her answers on the form. “Let’s see how you’re feeling about things, Ms. Sparks.”

Shit. It sounds like I’m flirting with her. Fuck.

I clear my throat and frown at the paper.

Her handwriting hasn’t changed. I used to always tease her about her girly handwriting, which was dumb, because she was a girl.

And she teased me about my excellent penmanship, which was also dumb, because why shouldn’t a guy have excellent penmanship?

And now I’m just mad because she didn’t take the questions on my form seriously. Of course she didn’t.

What is your ultimate goal for these personal-training sessions? To get you and the lady at the front desk to smile at me.

Why? Because I’m awesome and it’s polite to smile at people who are being awesome to you.

How much water did you drink today? Not enough, thanks! How much water did you drink today?

What are your strengths? I am determined.

Organized. Efficient. A clear communicator.

Reliable. Not at all tone deaf. Very good at writing and responding to texts and emails.

Forgiving. Highly forgivable. Hilarious.

Enthusiastic reader. Sensational cat mom.

Healthy head of hair. Excellent consumer of pastries.

I tap at the words cat mom . I want to ask. I also don’t want to know. But I have to know. “How’s Hairy Styles?” I hold my breath and brace myself for news of his death.

Vivian’s face lights up. “He’s still alive! He’s great.”

I exhale. Thank God. That cat hated me, but I was with her when she adopted him. “Good.”

She pouts and makes that girly awww sound. I refuse to look at her protruding lower lip. “You remembered.”

“Give him my best,” I mutter, staring down at the paper. She doesn’t need to know that every time I hear a Harry Styles or One Direction song I think about that damn cat. “Weaknesses,” I grunt, reading aloud.

What are your weaknesses? Possibly too good at consuming pastries lately.

Sometimes excessively hilarious. Overly likable, which can be frustrating for people who don’t want to forgive me for being human.

Pie. Pie is a weakness. My hair is occasionally a little too soft and shiny.

Too punctual, even when traffic is terrible.

How do you rate your body on a scale of 1 to 10? Depends on what I’m doing with my body at the time.

How do you rate your energy level on a scale of 1 to 10? 7.2567

How do you rate your sleep quality on a scale of 1 to 10? I don’t.

How many hours did you sleep last night? Not as many as the night before.

How do you rate your stress level on a scale of 1 to 10? Top-tier stress level.

How do you rate your confidence level on a scale of 1 to 10? Yes.

How do you rate your sense of well-being on a scale of 1 to 10? I don’t understand this question.

I stare up at her.

She is grinning at me. So smug. This won’t do. This dynamic will not do. “How do you rate my answers, sir?”

“1.2748. Do you not want to do this? Because I have a very long waiting list for one-on-one sessions. I did your sister a favor, but if you aren’t going to take this seriously?—”

“I want to do this, Brad—Mitch. Sir. I’m just not sure what this is.”

“This is a personal fitness-training session. That’s all it is. That’s all it’s ever going to be. You’re meant to be here so I can help you reach your fitness goals. What are your fitness goals?”