Page 32 of The Weight Of It All

He chuckled. “Nope. Because I invited myself.”

“That’s just a technicality.”

“Maybe. But it works.”

“And just so I’m clear, when you say you don’t have to work tomorrow, were you implying you don’t have to be up early?”

He glanced around quickly, and when he was sure no one could hear him, he said, “That, or that I don’t have to leave tonight.”

I swallowed hard at the thought of him sleeping in my bed, and a warm rush of blood surged to my groin. It made me squirm. “Is that another technicality?”

He smirked like he knew the answer already. “Does it work?”

“Yes,” I answered way too quickly. I wouldn’t apologise for my excitement. He should just be grateful I didn’t answer with interpretive dance. “Yes it does.”

Reed set the weights on the machine for me. “Good. Now get these done. You’ve got fifteen minutes left. If we keep cutting into your training time, you won’t be ready for this weekend.”

I stood at the machine, feet apart, and pulled the weights in a lateral hold. “I’m pretty sure we can add cardio of some description to our plans tonight.”

He smiled mischievously. “I’m sure we can.”

Someone came over and asked him something about the rowing machine, and we never got another chance to talk alone. Not that I minded. It was his place of employment, after all, and I respected his job. I finished the reps he told me to do and waved goodbye as I left.

I got to work feeling energised. I had heard people talk about having more energy when they’d exercised, and if I was truthful, I’d always rolled my eyes while thinking it would be impossible to have more energy when it was obvious exercise, like walking up a flight of steps, would try to kill me.

But it was true. I did have more energy. I was sleeping better, I was drinking more water than ever, and I was generally feeling a hundred per cent better than I did two months ago.

At lunchtime, I made Melinda come with me to buy new work clothes.

I just couldn’t get away with cinching in my work pants anymore.

They were starting to look like pantaloons.

I had to bribe her with sushi, but it was totally worth it.

I needed an honest opinion, and if anyone wore honesty like a well-fitted suit, it was Melinda.

The pretty suit-tailor guy looked me up and down with his Judgy MacJudgerson eyes, and before I could tell him I was a better bottom than he could ever be, he clicked his fingers. “Thirty-eight.”

“I’m thirty five, fuck you very much.”

He blinked, and Melinda put her hand on my arm. “Size thirty eight, Henry.”

“Oh.” I lifted my chin. “Sorry.” Then it sunk in what he said. Size thirty-eight? No freakin’ way. I hadn’t been a size thirty-eight in years. I turned to Melinda and tried not to butt-wiggle. I might have squealed. “Thirty-eight!”

I had only intended to buy one suit, but one blue suit, one grey, and one charcoal suit later, we walked back to the office. Despite the damage to my bank account, I was still buzzing. In fact, I was too excited to wait for the elevators, so I made Melinda take the stairs with me.

She collapsed in her chair, and I held up my shopping bags and twirled. “Size thirty-eight!”

“Dying.”

“It was only four flights.”

“I hate you.”

“But size thirty-eight!”

She waved me off, mumbling under her breath something that I’m pretty sure ended with “… before I kill you.”

I pointed to my office door. “I have work to do.” She replied with a glare that could scare a cat, and I walked into my office, not scared of her at all. Much.

I sent a spray of size thirty-eight texts to Anika. I sent a selfie of me, holding the size thirty-eight suit tag smiling like an idiot to Reed, then I even sent a quick text to my mum asking how her day was going.

Anika’s response was all in shouty caps.

YOU SKINNY BASTARD. I WANNA BE SKINNY TOO BUT I LOVE FRAPPES. DID I MENTION SKINNY BASTARD? AND NOW I WANT A FRAPPE.

Reed’s response was much more subdued.

So proud of you. I’ll be at yours at seven. That okay?

I quickly typed out a reply.

I’ll be home by five thirty…

See you at six.

I might have hugged my phone.

Then my mother replied with a voice message.

“Henry, dear, you know I don’t know how these phones work.

Is this being made into a text? How does it know what I’m saying?

Anyway, how’s your new beau doing? He was very handsome.

And tall. When will you be coming over for dinner?

You will bring him, yes? Oh, and you know Marilyn from bingo?

Well, her daughter said that George Clooney―” The phone beeped in my ear, cutting off her message, and I could imagine my mother sitting there still talking, telling me all about her friends until she realised the voice mail had ended God knows how long ago.

I made a mental note to write down, in point form this time, how to reply to a text.

And it might be time to recap on the whole “Mum, George Clooney is married now” conversation we had just six months ago.

I spent my afternoon buried in financial statistics, and even that couldn’t dampen my mood.

And I spent the car trip home wondering what on earth I should cook for dinner tonight.

When I got home and changed my clothes, I rifled through my fridge and pantry for ideas on what to cook, but came up uninspired.

There was a knock on the door, right on six o’clock. I opened the door to find Reed smiling at me, and I had to wonder if this day could possibly get any better. “Why yes, I do believe I’ll have whatever it is you’re selling,” I joked.

I didn’t even realise he had one hand behind his back, but with a grin, he revealed a single rose. “I’m not selling it. It’s a gift. From me to you.”

“Oh.” I think my heart melted into a bubble of useless goo. “Thank you. No one has ever given me a flower before.”

I took the rose and he stepped inside, giving me a kiss on the lips. “You’re welcome. I figured if I invited myself for dinner, it was the least I could do.”

“I’m glad you invited yourself for dinner, but I have a confession.”

“What’s that?”

“I have no idea what to cook.”

“We can just order in if you want?”

I shook my head. “Nope. You know what I feel like?” I didn’t give him time to answer. “Poached fish with lemongrass and ginger.”

“Okay then.”

“Fancy a trip to the supermarket with me?”

He chuckled. “I bring you a rose and you take me to Coles?”

“Romantic, huh?” I grinned at him. I held up the single most perfect rose in the world and inhaled the scent of it. “Let me just put this in some water, and I’ll grab my keys.”

Five minutes later, we walked into the supermarket. Reed grabbed a basket and we headed for the seafood section. Normally I’d go to the fish markets, but this would have to do. I selected the best red snapper fillets they had on offer, then we grabbed some fresh ginger, chilli, and limes.

“Come this way,” Reed said, nodding toward the freezer section.

By his smirk, I knew he was up to no good, and when he stopped at the ice-cream selections, I gawped at him.

“Do you know how good I’ve been? I’ve been having my weekly treat on Mondays at work, and yesterday’s morning tea was pure carbs and fat, and delicious by the way, and you want to kill me with ice cream? ”

Reed opened the freezer door and picked out a pack of two little individual tubs. “These are gelato, and they’re tiny. It’s like two mouthfuls, and they’ll be perfect after dinner.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t have some weird kink where you get off by feeding fat people, do you?”

Reed burst out laughing. “No! I swear. You don’t have to get them. I just thought it’d be nice to cleanse the palate after ginger and chilli, that’s all.”

I sighed dramatically. “Alright then. If you insist. But if my new size thirty-eight suits don’t fit me in the morning, I’ll blame you.”

He threw the gelatos into the basket. “That’s fine. I’ll just make you do a 5K run on Thursday.”

I pushed his shoulder. “Fuck you.”

He laughed some more when someone behind us spoke.

“Henry?”

I turned around and stopped cold. Graham stood there, looking at me like he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Graham,” I replied, more for Reed’s benefit than his.

Reed edged a little closer to me, which I had to admit, I really fucking liked.

I watched as Graham looked up Reed’s chest to his face then jolted his head, like he had to physically make himself look at me.

I was only wearing jeans and a sweater, but Graham would have undoubtedly recognised the jeans that hadn’t fit me in years. “You look good, Henry.”

“Thanks,” I said, disregarding the compliment because coming from him, I had to wonder about the sincerity. “You look…” exactly the same, except for the excess hair product, and wait, is that hair dye? I cleared my throat. “So do you.” I couldn’t lie for shit, and we both knew it.

Graham looked up at Reed again and gave him a sleazy smile. “The name’s Graham Martin,” he said, holding his hand out. Dear God, was he trying to come onto him? In front of me?

Reed shook Graham’s hand, and I had to wonder what it took for Graham not to flinch with how strong Reed gripped his palm. “Reed Henske,” he said flatly. It was pretty clear Reed didn’t like him. It made me smile.

“So…?” Graham hedged, looking between Reed and me. “You two are…?”

“Boyfriends,” Reed answered. “Well, we’re working on it.”

Well, I guess that took care of the label dilemma I had earlier. I had wondered what to call him or to call whatever our relationship was. Reed just answered that question, leaving no room for doubt. I had to bite the inside of my lip so I didn’t smile too much. Boyfriends. Holy shit.

Graham’s gaze shot to mine. “Right. Well, I guess that’s… Good for you, Henry.”