Set on You Page 3

  “Do you really need it for work?” I challenge him, taking his irritated expression as a personal life achievement.

  He nods curtly.

  “Is it life or death?”

  Surprisingly, he actually says “Yes” with little effort. Now I’m dying to know what he does. But I’ll never ask.

  “Prove it.”

  “How?”

  “Stop stealing things from me. Workout machines, floor space, my place in line at the water fountain.” I wave a vague hand around the gym.

  He scoffs. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might need the equipment or the space too? This isn’t your gym.” We hold mutual stares for a couple breaths before he finally relents. “Okay, I’ll give your phone back. If you give me mine. At the same time.”

  I nod, standing to unearth his device from the shelf a couple feet away. “For the record, I was going to give it back before you left.”

  His eyes widen upon seeing his phone. I suppose he’s just thankful I haven’t flushed it down the toilet, which, to be fair, crossed my mind.

  I dangle his phone at chest level, snapping it back before he has a chance to swipe it from my death grip. “On the count of three?”

  He dips his chin.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  He swiftly reclaims his phone from my fingers while simultaneously holding mine out of reach.

  Traitor. He would be the type to break the sanctity of a pact. The man has zero morals.

  I growl. “Seriously? We had a deal.”

  His lips curl into a closed-mouth grin. “Tell me your name.”

  “I don’t reveal my true name to strangers at the gym.”

  When he steps forward, closing the gap between us, my ears pound as the blood rushes to my head.

  He holds my phone low, graciously permitting me a quick visual of the screen. It’s still on the record video setting, which is interrupted by a flurry of Instagram notifications. He grins like a Cheshire cat when my username pops up. “Crystal.”

  When he says my name in that deep, smooth, sultry voice, my knees weaken. I nearly dissolve into the floor.

  Despite being five foot eight, inches above being considered short, any frantic attempt I make at reclaiming my phone is a complete failure. With his arm outstretched, he holds it many feet out of reach.

  I groan. “Okay, you know my name is Crystal. Happy? Now give it back.” I can see the screen enough to recognize that a Tinder message has just popped up.

  His eyes light up as he reads it aloud. “Zayn wants to know if you’re up for Netflix and chill . . .” He pauses, squinting at the screen, as if confirming the words. “Chillaxing.”

  “Do not respond!” I lunge for my phone again, but he snaps it farther back.

  I’m desperate to preserve what little dignity and control I have left. It’s not like I know Zayn. He’s a random Tinder match whom I swiped right on for the sole reason that he resembled Dev Patel in his photos (swoon). But given his use of the word chillaxing, he’s probably an automatic No.

  Squat Rack Thief looks like a Marvel villain on the brink of annihilating Earth and all its inhabitants. “I’m gonna ask him to define ‘Netflix and chill-axing.’ ”

  It occurs to me that he revels in my desperation, like the sicko he is. In fact, it probably encourages him, gives him some sort of high. So I switch my tactic. “Go right ahead. I dare you.” My tone is unwavering. It channels confidence, even though the absolute last thing I want is a vengeful stranger sending embarrassing messages on my behalf.

  Unfortunately, my challenge backfires. He types the message and triumphantly hits Send, tilting my phone to prove he sent the message.

  “I assume you’re pretty familiar with the Netflix-and-chill routine?” I say.

  “You think so, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. And I’d come up with a better pickup line than that.”

  I half-scoff. “Hit me with your best shot.”

  He smiles and strokes his defined jaw, pretending to be pensive. “Well, GIF wars always work. Or maybe I’d use a classic joke.”

  “A classic joke? Like what?”

  He leans his elbow on the machine beside us. “Okay . . . Are you ready to be wowed?”

  I give him a deadpan look.

  He softens his entire face, his demeanor transitioning from Squat Rack Thief to fake-charming-man-with-mesmerizing-smile before my eyes. His teeth are brilliantly white, although one is marginally crooked in the front, which makes him slightly more human. His ears also stick out a smidge, but it just adds to his faux charm. “Are you a bank loan? Because you have my interest.”

  My expression is one of stone, so as to not give him an ounce of satisfaction. The joke is lame. But the way he says it so earnestly, it’s borderline adorable. The moment that thought registers, I mentally smack myself.

  He goes for it again. “Are you my appendix? This feeling in my stomach makes me want to take you out.”

  My abdominals ache from suppressing my laugh. This is an ab workout all on its own. “Okay, these are next-level horrible. I hope you haven’t actually used these on a real, live woman.”

  He feigns offense, holding his palm to his chest. “Those were my best ones.” Taking one last glance at my screen, he dangles my phone at chest level. “Zayn responded . . . with a wink face,” he says flatly, handing my phone back.

  With ninja speed, I snatch it before he changes his mind and holds it hostage forever.

  “What’s your name?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I even register what I’m saying. Why do I care to know his legal name? Squat Rack Thief suits him just fine.

  I hold my breath, awaiting his answer.

  Amused, he opens his mouth, but no words come out. Instead, he just strides away.

  chapter three

  THANKS FOR LETTING me crash tonight,” Mel says gratefully, bundled on the living room floor next to me in a bougie silk Ted Baker pajama set that probably cost more than my couch.

  Tara dive-bombs us on the air mattress, clad in her homemade iron-on Team Peter Kavinsky T-shirt. “Okay, put on To All the Boys. My body is primed and ready.” She tosses a full-size canister of Pringles at us.

  “Really, Tara? Plain?” I take this as a personal affront. This is why I don’t let my sister choose the snacks.

  She scowls at me, reclaiming the Pringles, holding them snugly to her chest, as if protecting them from harsh words. “Original flavor is the best, thank you very much.”

  “Sure, if you like the taste of salty cardboard,” I say.

  Tara scoffs. “Coming from the girl who thinks pretzels are remotely in the same league as chips.” She turns to Mel, her French braid whipping me in the cheek in the process. “She’s one of those pretzel people,” she whispers conspiratorially, eyeing me as if I’m a rare race of mole people rumored to dwell in the sewers.

  Mel nods gravely, like she understands.

  I give Tara a swift kick in the shin. “I refuse to abide by such slander.”

  Tara pretends to yelp in pain for all of two seconds before launching into a long-winded tale about the latest rando she supposedly “fell in love with.” She met this one in the elevator of the hospital where she works. Allegedly, he had soul mate potential. She knows this because he gave her a Werther’s Original and told her he liked her floral-print nursing scrubs before getting off at his floor.

  “A butterscotch candy? Are you sure he wasn’t a toothless senior citizen?” Mel asks.

  “No, he was no older than thirty,” she chirps back defensively.

  “Jesus, I’m shocked you didn’t get roofied,” I lament.

  Our girls’ night turned into a slumber party after Mel’s nineteen-year-old brother insisted on hosting a raging keg party at her apa
rtment. I quiver at the thought of college students staining her crisp white couch, a staple in most of her Instagram photos.

  Unlike Mel’s place, my apartment isn’t white and modern. It’s a converted firehouse, clad with exposed redbrick walls and vibrant, boldly patterned furniture, predominantly refurbished by Mom and me. Repainting and reupholstering antique pieces became an obsession of ours during the summer before I graduated from college. To this day, I still scour yard sales, flea markets, and home décor stores, hunting for items I definitely don’t need.

  The best thing about my apartment is the literal firepole, extending from the open loft that doubles as Tara’s room down to the spacious living area. With my coffee table pushed against the television stand, we’ve managed to cram an entire queen-size air mattress in here.

  We’re barely paying attention to the movie, despite our love for Lara Jean and Peter Kavinsky. Instead, we’re highly distracted by food, wine, and conversation. I wasn’t sure how Mel would gel with my sister, given her up-front, boss bitch personality and Tara’s tenderhearted, sensitive nature. But they seem to be getting along like a house on fire. Things start off with group brainstorming for my self-love campaign, but after a few glasses of wine and random aww-ing at Peter’s dopey adorableness, the conversation shifts.

  “Did you have any more interactions with Squat Rack Thief after I left today?” Mel asks. She pulls her thick hair into a perfectly sleek high ponytail. I envy girls like her who can put their hair back so effortlessly, without a million baby hairs sticking up on end. When I attempt it, I resemble a juvenile orangutan with bedhead, unless I hairspray my flyaways down.

  Tara groans. “Is she still complaining about this guy?” I’d told her about the initial squat rack thievery, and she called me “petty,” which is ironic. She’s the girl who spitefully planned her now-canceled wedding for August, the month her former mother-in-law-to-be was planning a trip to Iceland.

  “They have this sexual tension thing going on,” Mel explains.

  “Not true.” I wrangle two broken Pringles from the can.

  Mel rolls her eyes dismissively. “You guys full-out stare at each other from across the gym.”

  “Hate-stare. And I’m ignoring him from here on out.”

  “Oh, come on. He seems like a really nice guy. He’s always holding doors for people. The other day I saw him help that man who looks like Dr. Phil with his deadlift form.”

  I sigh, reaching to tuck the protruding tag into the back of Tara’s T-shirt. “Okay, but why should he get a gold star for being a half-decent person? My standards aren’t that low.”

  Tara pulls her braid over her bony shoulder and examines her split ends. “I need to see a picture of this guy before I can make any judgments.”

  If only I didn’t have a mental picture of him and his smug smirk permanently etched into my memory. “You’re out of luck. I don’t even know his name.” I conveniently omit the fact that I did ask him, and he walked away from me. Truthfully, it stung a bit, like the dull ache of a tiny papercut you desperately refrain from whining about every time you wash your hands.

  Mel sits upright to sip her wine. “He’s hot. Like, really hot. Super tall. Muscles for days. Lifts heavy, which means he has a lot of endurance . . .” she adds, suggestively waggling her brows.

  Tara nods appreciatively while painting her toenails a hideous plum color. “Why aren’t you hopping on his bandwagon?”

  “This so-called sexual tension is a myth. We’re nemeses, if anything.”

  Tara clasps her chest, nearly dripping nail polish on my carpet. “Seth and I didn’t like each other at first either,” she starts, her expression darkening as she turns to Mel to explain. “Seth was my fiancé. We met at the hospital. I proposed to him . . . but we called off the wedding a couple months ago.”

  Her ex-fiancé is the reason she’s been occupying my loft/den. Seven months before their elaborate one-hundred-fifty-person wedding at the Sheraton, Seth broke things off out of nowhere.

  Tara showed up at my door at two in the morning in her pajamas with only a suitcase full of books, in desperate need of junk food and a place to stay. One night swiftly turned into two months, with no sign of her leaving.

  Given her fragile state, which involved sobbing and listening to Taylor Swift on repeat, I’ve been reluctant to suggest she move out. Only in the past few weeks has she resumed wearing actual pants and filling in her eyebrows. Mom and I suspect she’ll be back on the dating scene soon. Tara loves love, preferring Valentine’s Day to Christmas.

  “Any plans to start dating again soon? Even just casually?” I ask.

  Tara shivers as she crunches another Pringle. “I don’t do casual. If I don’t even know a dude’s middle name, I’m not about to touch their penis.”

  Mel cringes. “The dating world is terrifying. I’ve seen the specimens on the market.”

  “I’d rather pluck my pubes out one by one than resort to online dating. Tinder looks like a barren wasteland,” Tara adds, eyeing me to confirm. “You’ve been Neil-free for what, a few months now?”

  My stomach clenches at the mere mention of Neil’s name. “Yup.”

  Mel shifts onto her stomach, propping her chin up with her hands. “What happened with this Neil guy?”

  “He’s my ex.” I shoot Tara a warning glance. The last thing I want to do is muddy our night with talk of Neil. He never fails to dull my mood.

  “He’s like the Justin Bieber to her Selena Gomez,” Tara tells Mel, as if that explains the entire dynamic between Neil and me. “Except he’s a greasy failed musician who thinks he’s God’s gift to womankind. Crystal’s his chronic second choice when things go south with his ex.”

  I shrug when Mel looks at me. Tara’s depiction is fully accurate. Neil and I met at a Halloween party. I’d been coerced by a college friend to go out at the last minute. I didn’t have a costume, so I haphazardly grabbed a random flower crown, threw on some iridescent makeup, and went as a Snapchat filter. Neil was a monk. I asked him if he was celibate, and he slapped the wall, wheezing with laughter, before sinking a beer pong point. That probably should have been my first clue.

  Even though he’d just gotten out of a relationship, he seemed entirely into me. He laughed at everything I said and mimicked my mannerisms. He flirted shamelessly, touching my arm and squeezing my waist.

  “You’re so different than my ex,” he’d said, chugging back the remainder of his red Solo cup. I found out later his ex, Cammie, was a literal model. A taller version of Daenerys from Game of Thrones with her silver-blond hair and slender figure. The opposite of me. Half Asian and curvy.

  I blushed. “I don’t know how to take that.”

  He smiled, tugging a strand of my hair, leaning closer to me. “It’s a good thing. Trust me.”

  And I did. I ate up all his words, reassuring me that I was special. That we had some sort of unparalleled connection. We dated casually for almost a year despite my whole family hating him after he showed up wasted at Dad’s birthday party and decided it was the appropriate occasion to debate controversial world issues. After that, I no longer brought him around my family or friends for fear he would offend someone. He never bothered to introduce me to his people either. It was like we existed in our own little bubble, just the two of us holed up in my apartment for days on end. Then, without warning, he dumped me to go back to Cammie.

  “I’m over him now,” I reassure Mel and Tara, even though the words come out stiff and robotic. Truthfully, I still miss him sometimes. And the hurt triples every time he pops back into my life like a bad zit, asking for relationship advice.

  Mel shifts onto her knees to face me. “Well, if you’re over Neil, maybe you should hook up with someone who looks like Squat Rack Thief.”

  “Agreed.” Tara fans herself for unknown reasons, since she has no clue what he looks like.

  I stif
le a laugh. “I’m not trying to be the thirst police here, but it’s not going to happen. No more random hookups for me.”

  Immediately after Neil broke up with me, hookups filled the void. They were fun and empowering. I may have gotten what I wanted physically. But in the light of morning, the reality of waking up beside a drooling rando who doesn’t even own a bed frame and a fitted sheet is all too bleak, followed by that gnawing feeling. That fleeting tease of affection, being connected with someone, anyone, for a brief time. Remembering how good it feels. How wonderful it is to be touched, embraced. And then just gray. Bleak. Nothingness. Overwhelming loneliness.

  And so, for the past two weeks since Tinder Joe, I’ve sworn off random hookups in favor of waiting for something real.

  Despite Mel and Tara’s hopes, this war between me and my gym nemesis has to cease. There will be no fireworks and random hookups, especially not with him. In fact, there will be nothing but two enemies going their separate ways.

  10:00 A.M.—INSTAGRAM POST: “SIZE POSITIVE CAMPAIGN” BY CURVYFITNESSCRYSTAL:

  Take out your scales and tape measures and throw them in the trash! You won’t be needing them.

  You might be thinking: Crystal, sit down. Pour a glass of wine. Why are you asking me to throw out my $200 fancy-schmancy scale?

  Okay, I got a little dramatic. What I mean to say is, stop relying on your scales and tape measures to make you feel good about yourself. Today is the official launch of my spring/summer campaign, SIZE POSITIVE. It’s my challenge to track your fitness progress based on HOW YOU FEEL, without the constraint of numbers that studies show actually cause anxiety and discourage people.

  As most of you know, I struggled with my weight for years. In the gym changing room in middle school, I started to recognize that all the other girls were tiny compared to me. I loved gym class, but I grew self-conscious of changing in front of everyone else, so I’d go into the bathroom stalls. To hide. One day, my gym teacher told me I couldn’t change in the stall anymore, and I went home and cried.