Page 11 of The Weight Of It All

Six

The next two weeks passed in a blur of work meetings, reports, and deadlines.

I was home later than normal and spent my nights trying new recipes and experimenting with healthier options that suited me.

The crazy thing was, as busy as I was, my gym sessions kept me focused.

I pushed myself hard, with Reed a constant by my side, and he was right: by the third week of my exercise program, I wasn’t anywhere near as sore.

Sure, some things hurt. Like reaching right above my head to get folders from the top shelf at work or getting down on all fours to retrieve a pen that rolled under my sofa at home. But the normal, everyday stuff was fine.

And the even crazier thing was, I was actually starting to enjoy my workouts.

It wasn’t a case of making myself go, under sufferance, like I had no choice in the matter.

I was looking forward to hitting the gym, and if I was completely honest, I looked forward to seeing Reed.

His smile was always warm and wide whenever I walked through the door, and even though he probably treated all his clients with the same enthusiasm, it still felt good.

He helped me with my techniques; he encouraged me to push myself a little harder.

He had complete faith that I could achieve whatever goals he set for me.

And that kind of faith, that absolute reassurance, was everything I needed.

My Thursday morning session with him was just like normal.

We did cardio, then core strength, then some weights for my legs and arms. And although it wasn’t uncommon for him to leave me to it for a few minutes at a time, this time he didn’t.

He did the exercises with me, all the while talking about the recipes he’d made, when two guys walked past us over to the free weights.

One of them in particular was all suggestive smiles and bedroom eyes at Reed and probably couldn’t have tried much harder to get Reed’s attention.

“I think someone’s interested,” I said quietly, nodding to where the guys were.

“Hm.” Reed just kind of shrugged it off but turned and faced the opposite way from where they were setting up their weights. He spoke in a murmur that only I could hear. “He is. He asked me out.”

“Oh.” I tried to act all cool because this was apparently top secret. “When?”

“The other week. I told him I wasn’t ready.”

“And that’s fair enough.”

“Well, it’s nicer than saying I wasn’t interested.” He took a sip of his water. “He’s not my type.”

I looked back at the guy in question and had to admit I wasn’t surprised. I mean, he was buff but really over-muscled, and whereas Reed looked the picture of health and fitness, this guy could be the poster boy for “Why Not to do Steroids.”

I shrugged one shoulder. “His muscles look so fake he could pass as a balloon animal.”

Reed almost spat his water. He coughed and choked as he tried to cover his laughter.

“Please don’t die of second degree drowning. Or bubble boy might run over and give you CPR.” I wiped my face down with my towel and felt kinda bad for taking the piss out of a guy I didn’t even know. “I’m sure he’s probably a very nice guy, and I of all people shouldn’t be judging on appearances.”

“It’s not his appearance that doesn’t interest me,” he explained.

I figured as much. I mean, seriously, Reed was ripped as hell.

Of course he’d find guys like that attractive.

But not only just physical appearances. Reed would need someone who was like-minded in caring for their bodies and fitness, not an overweight guy like me who cries and wheezes his way through a five minute treadmill walk.

“I can see why,” I said, aiming for nonchalant. “I mean, if balloon animals are your thing.”

He chuckled. “No, it’s not that. I can’t even have a conversation with him.

Every time he speaks to me, he asks me what protein powder I use or what weight I bench-pressed this week.

Then tells me what he’s done, whether I ask for it or not.

Like it’s a competition or something. I don’t know. It’s just awkward.”

“Maybe he’s shy and doesn’t know what else to talk about with you,” I offered. “Maybe he’s so dazzled by your dashing good looks that he’s rendered an idiot every time he talks to you.”

Reed laughed at that and shook his head. “Not likely.”

“And anyway, all we’ve ever really talked about is food,” I countered. “Is that awkward?”

He balked. “No, no. Not at all. I love food. I love that we talk recipes and about non-work related things, and you taking me to the markets this last weekend was a highlight.”

“Good,” I said adamantly. “Because I made a citrus tart with that lemon butter. It was on some health food site I found, and I had to improvise, but it is so good. I’ll have to send you the recipe. ”

“Oh, yes please. Sounds great! I never thought about using it like that. I found a site that has great ideas. I’ll have to forward you the link.”

Someone called Reed’s name, and it was then I realised the time. “Holy shit. I’m gonna be late.”

I waved my goodbyes and raced out the door and drove home like a maniac for the quickest shower of my life.

Sure, I was running late for work, but I still had time to cut a slice of the tart and slip it into a container.

I put the rest of the tart into another container to take to work because I certainly didn’t want to eat it all.

Then because I was already going to be five minutes late, I figured I may as well be ten minutes late.

So I pulled up at the gym, dressed in my work suit, hair brushed and clean shaven, and dropped the container on the reception desk.

Reed was over at the rowing machines with another client, so I just smiled at him and called out, “For you,” before I raced back outside.

I got to work, and thankfully no one but Melinda had realised I was late. “You’re looking awfully happy this morning,” she said cautiously.

Before she could ask for details or hypothesise on any reason her imagination could come up with, I handed her the rest of the citrus tart.

“For morning tea.” She took the container like it was a dose of herpes just as my phone beeped.

It was two messages from Reed. First, a picture of the empty container I’d sent him, save a few crumbs in the bottom. And a text that followed.

Oh. My. God. I need the recipe for that.

I grinned at my phone, then at Melinda. “I am happy this morning,” I said to her.

I sat at my desk and opened emails first, then a job folder from my in tray.

It wasn’ t until about thirty minutes later that I realised I was actually happy.

For the first time in weeks, since Graham had popped my cosy bubble and I thought I’d never find a reason to smile again, I was doing okay.

I found the recipe online, sent a copy of it to Reed with a few notations of what I’d improvised on, and spent the rest of my day powering through my workload with an energy I hadn’t felt in years.

I hadn’t given my citrus tart another thought until I stopped for lunch and made my way into the lunchroom.

I ordered a salad and sat at my usual table away from everyone else when someone―Lydia, I think her name was―stopped by my table.

“That lemon tart was delicious, thank you!” she said before quickly making her way out the door.

Then someone else stopped and waited for me to look at them. A pretty girl with red hair who I’d seen before but had no clue of her name. “Did you make morning tea? Because it was divine. Thank you.”

Then Kadin. And then Lena, and then Rihanti. I’d worked with these people for years and never said more than was professionally polite. They all wanted to tell me how much they loved my cooking and how they appreciated the gesture.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” I said awkwardly. I put my fork down.

“I didn’t want to eat it all myself, but I love to cook.

And I went to a fresh produce market and got inspired, but I’m trying to lose weight, so I thought I’d bring it in here.

I actually thought Melinda would just take it home.

I didn’t know she was going to serve it up to everyone. ”

God, this is why I didn’t speak to people I worked with. I literally just sprayed them with verbal diarrhoea. They stared at me. “Oh.” Rihanti spoke first. “I’m sorry, was she not supposed to share it?”

Great Henry, the first time they ever speak to you, and you make them feel bad . “Oh! No, I don’t mind. I’m happy that she shared it, actually. And I’m really glad you liked it!”

They seemed to relax. Then Kadin said, “We should take it in turns to cook and bring something in. Like every Monday, someone brings something different in for morning tea. They do that at my father’s work, and everyone loves it.”

“Yes!” Lena chimed in. “We should! We should make sure no one has allergies or anything like that though.”

“Oh crap.” I must’ve said that out loud because the three of them looked at me. I cleared my throat. “I mean, jeez. That was something I didn’t think about before Melinda offered my citrus tart. It’d be just my luck someone would die of anaphylactic shock because of me.”

And there was my filterless brain again. They were back to staring at me, so I picked up my fork and stabbed a cherry tomato like it was its fault I was socially inept.

Then Rihanti laughed. “Or me. That type of thing usually happens to me.”

Then Lena grabbed Rihanti’s arm. “Oh my God. When I was in primary school, it was a cake day sale and I brought in some cupcakes my mum and I had made, and some little kid had an egg allergy. Wasn’t pretty.”

Then Kadin mentioned a time when he knew of some girl who served dog food on sandwiches to girls who were total bitches to her.