Also the kind who’d follow me home, key “mine” into the tank of my Harley, and post a selfie after.
I don’t need that shit.
Kevin’s voice is too loud. Too fucking chipper for a new member tour. He’s got that pathetic first-day-of-school energy he gets around pretty girls.
She’s smiling like she didn’t just crawl out of my court-mandated nightmares and into my gym like fate’s got jokes.
Then she touches him.
Just a brush of her hand against his arm. Barely anything.
But her eyes lock on me the whole time.
She knew I’d see it. She wanted me to.
I can visualize myself walking over, saying, “Hey Kevin, I’ve got this one. Why don’t you go... sort the dumbbells or whatever the fuck it is you do?” just before I throat punch him.
But I don’t. Because watching Delilah touch Kevin has my jaw locked and my fists doing the math on how many bones he can live without.
I chew slow, seconds from choking on a cashew just to keep from committing manslaughter.
Kevin laughs at something she says.
I take another bite of trail mix. Remember the group therapy bullshit.
Three deep breaths. Repeat your mantra.
I draw in breath one.
Grant me the strength to not commit a felony…
She bites her lip. That’s a real thing? That’s not just a porn move?
Breath two.
…The patience to breathe through bullshit…
Kevin’s got his hand on the small of her back. Not guiding. Not spotting. Just touching her.
Breath three.
I could kill him with one hit.
Shit… no it’s…
…and the wisdom to not fuck the menace in glitter.
Nope, that’s not it.
Just because I want to bend her over the squat rack doesn’t mean I should.
Fuck.
What the hell was the last line of my mantra?
I turn my back. Pretend I’m checking the weight racks. Anything to not watch her flip her hair like a challenge and pretend she’s not unraveling me from the inside out.
She’s too loud now. Her voice rolls across the gym in honeyed ribbons, and I know it’s for me. Not him.
