Page 1 of The Weight Of It All

One

Most people can’t tell you the moment their life changed.

One day they’re twenty years old with the world at their feet, then the next they’re closer to forty and wondering where the hell their life went.

There’s no Logan’s Run age qualifier that deems you’re past your use-by date.

There’s no ceremony with gowns and funny hats to say you’ve graduated from ticking one age-group box on a survey to ticking the next age-group box.

You just turn around, and wham-bam-thank-you-very-fucking-much, you’re old.

Well, old er .

I’m thirty-five. I don’t classify myself as old. Well, I didn’t.

Until Graham, my live-in boyfriend of eight years, came home and told me he was done. He didn’t want to spend his life with an overweight old man. I wasn’t fun anymore. I didn’t look after myself anymore. I wasn’t what he wanted.

And that was the moment my life changed.

Just to be clear on one thing, my now ex-boyfriend is the same age as me. And when he called me an old man, he wasn’t having a dig at my age. He was having a go at how I lived my life. I didn’t go out clubbing, I didn’t go for runs through the park, I didn’t want to go hiking on weekends.

Strolls for coffee, yes. And weekends at a log cabin reading books, doing wine tours, and cooking too much food, yes. I was more about enjoying the finer things in life, whereas he was avoiding his thirties the same way a cat avoided going to the vet. And apparently that made me old.

So the age comment I could ignore because I liked what I liked. But the overweight comment hit me hard.

After I’d gotten over the shock of his words and the shock of seeing his stuff packed in boxes and his front door key sitting on the kitchen bench, the realisation hit me that, yes, he really was leaving me.

But the biggest shock came afterwards. After two bottles of wine and sobbing with my best friend, Anika, on the now-mostly-empty living room floor, I made my way to the bathroom.

Drunk and an emotional mess, I stripped off intending to shower.

Only I saw myself in the mirror and, for the first time, saw myself.

And I saw how Graham saw me, and I saw why he left me.

I was overweight. I did look old. I was a fucking mess.

So yes, that, the very lowest point of my life, was the day my life changed.

Two days later I stood out the front of the local gym, which was ten minutes from my place, that I’d driven past a thousand times, gathering my resolve to walk inside.

With a deep breath and newfound determination, I pushed through the doors and walked up to the reception counter.

A young and fit looking woman smiled brightly at me. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. My name is Henry Beckett. And I need some help getting my boyfriend back.”

She blinked. “Pardon? ”

“My life,” I amended quickly. Great work Henry, you idiot. Announce that you have no life and you’re gay as an icebreaker. Seriously, this is why you’re single. “I meant to say, I need help getting my life back.”

I heard someone chuckle beside me, and I turned to see a gorgeous, six foot fridge-sized man smiling at me.

He had short blond hair, stunning blue eyes, and he wore a gym uniform so tight it looked like it was painted on.

He held out his hand, and I was almost scared to shake it in fear he would crush my fingers or something, but it was warm and firm.

“My name’s Reed. And you’ve come to the right place. ”