Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
SAWYER
I double-check the weights are properly secured to the barbell before swinging around to the front of the power rack.
“Never used one of these before?” I ask Fitz as he secures the weights on the other end of the barbell.
“Nope. It’s intimidating as hell,” he says with a wide smile on his face. “I’ve only ever used the ones where the bar runs up and down on a track.”
I nod. “We’ve got Smith machines too. But I prefer the power rack because it gives you a full range of motion and you’ll build better core strength for stability.”
Fitz moves into position, arranging himself with the bar across the back of his shoulders.
I tap his foot with mine. “Feet a bit wider apart.”
He adjusts. “Like that?”
“Yup. Looking good. Go ahead whenever you’re ready.”
Fitz takes a deep breath before lifting the bar off the J-hooks.
I rest my hands gently on his sides to guide him as he lowers himself.
Under the thin fabric of his t-shirt, his muscles contract and shift as he moves.
His shorts pull tight across his ass when he reaches the bottom of his squat.
There are tiny tremors in his legs as he pushes himself back to standing.
I spot him through a set of twelve before helping him rack the barbell again.
“Woo!” Fitz exclaims shaking out his legs. His face is flushed a pretty pink and his eyes are bright behind his glasses.
“Awesome job!” I hold my hand up for a high-five and do a little shimmy to the beat of Used to Know Me by Charli XCX streaming through the gym’s speakers. “How’s it feel?”
Fitz bounces on his toes. “Amazing! A little scary at first when I was finding my balance, but it helped having you right there.” He puts his hands on my sides, mimicking the way I spotted him moments ago. “I thought you said you weren’t a personal trainer.”
I rest my arms on his shoulders—they’re the perfect height—and we sway side to side to the music. “Oh you know, working at a gym, I’ve picked up things.”
Fitz sways a little closer to me. “You’re welcome to pick me up anytime you want.”
“Don’t worry. I’m planning on it.” And even as the words leave my mouth, there’s a little niggle of doubt at the back of my mind.
Preston got back late from his fundraiser thing in Boston that day. I was already in bed, trying to sleep, but mostly thinking about how Preston looked in the suit Madison picked out for him.
It surprises no one that Preston isn’t a suit-and-tie type of guy. But damn if he doesn’t wear them well. His trim physique is exactly the body type clothing designers dream of, and Madison always makes sure everything in his closet is perfectly tailored to his size.
“Alright, set two.” I take Fitz’s hand from my side, spin him around like we’re ballroom dancing, and twirl him back to the power rack. He steps into position and steadies his breathing. I place my hands lightly on his sides as he works through another twelve squats.
I was still awake that night when Preston got back from Boston.
I’d left my bedroom door cracked open as usual.
Preston’s shadow darkened the doorway for a moment before he moved down the hall to his own room.
I kept waiting for him to come back, straining to hear sounds of him moving around. But he didn’t.
A part of me had been tempted to get up and go to him—just to see how his evening had gone and make sure he was okay after seeing his parents.
Dealing with them always drains him and puts him in a bad mood.
But another part of me remembered what I’d just done with Fitz that afternoon, the cute date we’d shared, the dirty sheets still sitting in the laundry hamper.
I’m hung up on Preston, and it’s not healthy, I know. Here is the perfect opportunity for me to get over him and move on. We’ll always be best friends, but maybe it’s time we stopped being so co-dependent. Maybe it’s time I found someone who can return my feelings.
That was one of the worst nights of sleep I’ve had in a long time.
The jolt of the barbell landing on the J-hooks jerks me back to the present, to Mars and Fitz. He turns around, an amused and questioning look in his eyes. “You okay? You zoned out there for a sec.”
I shake my head, clearing away thoughts of Preston. “Sorry, got distracted.”
“Ouch, should I be offended?” Fitz crosses his arms in mock anger, a teasing smile still grazing his lips.
“No, sorry. I’m sorry.”
His expression softens, then grows reserved. “Would the distraction have anything to do with Preston?”
My attention snaps into sharp focus at the sound of Preston’s name. “Why? Is something wrong? Did something happen in the lab?”
“No,” Fitz says, a tightness appearing around the edges of his smile. “But he hasn’t been in the best mood. Or so I’ve been told. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a genuinely good mood.”
My brow furrows at Fitz’s confirmation of my worries. Preston hasn’t been the same since that trip to Boston. He’s quieter than usual, crankier than normal. He’s snapped at me a couple times, which isn’t typical for him. He hasn’t even been sleeping in my bed every night.
“Is he okay?” Fitz asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Hey, Sawyer. You guys done with the power rack?” Everest, one of our newer trainers asks me.
“We’ve got one more set. Give us a minute,” I respond as Fitz gets himself back into position.
“Sure thing.”
I spot Fitz through his last set, then grab some wet cloths to wipe everything down.
“Do you think it’s me?” Fitz asks as we move to the open mat area to wrap up our workout with stretches.
We grab onto each other’s shoulders, then kick up our heels to stretch out our quads.
“What do you mean?”
“Preston. I know he doesn’t like me, and we’ve been spending a lot of time together. Am I the reason he’s been so grouchy lately?”
I scoff even as my heart aches at the thought. The only reason Preston would be upset about Fitz spending time with me is if he’s jealous or something. But I’m still doing all the things I’ve always done for Preston, so what is there to be jealous about?
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s not you, promise.”
Fitz’s face shines with a smile, complete with the dimple on his left cheek.
We hit the showers and steam room, deliberately taking our time. When I get home, I’m loose and languid, endorphins running high.
I find Preston in the third bedroom office, hunched over his keyboard, face inches away from the screen. He doesn’t notice me right away; he’s so engrossed in whatever he’s working on.
I take a moment to watch him, the furrow in his brow, the way he chews his lip.
He doesn’t wear glasses anymore after his parents insisted he get laser eye surgery.
But if he still wore them, they’d be halfway down his nose.
His chin sticks out as if he’s trying to peer through invisible glasses as they dangle halfway off his face.
His posture is awful—like a turtle with his head stretched out too far from his shell.
He’s going to strain his neck if he keeps sitting like that.
And yet, despite everything, my heart swells at the sight of him, so much so that I have to forcefully suck in a breath around the tightness in my chest.
I push myself away from the door. “Hey.”
Preston starts, his head snapping around right before he cringes and his hand goes to his neck. “Ow.”
Called it. I always do when it comes to Preston. I have since the first day we met.
I step behind his chair and push his hands away. “You need to sit properly,” I chide him as my fingers find all the knots in his neck and gently apply pressure. “What’s the point in having this fancy gaming chair if you just hunch over in a ball?”
Preston hisses in pain when I hit a particularly tight spot.
“You need to stand up every once in a while. Walk around, change positions.”
“I do,” he mumbles, and in the reflection of his computer screen, I can see his pout.
I shake my head and resist the urge to bundle him up in a hug. Boundaries. I’m supposed to be creating boundaries. “Have you had dinner?”
Preston looks up at me with his big puppy eyes.
“Of course you haven’t.” I pull his chair away from his desk. “Come on, then. Let’s get some food in you.”
I direct him out to the kitchen with my hands on his shoulders to make sure he doesn’t slip back into the office.
Like the rest of the apartment, our kitchen has an industrial flare with dark distressed cabinets and copper hardware.
The large island in the middle also houses the sink and a big gas stove sits against the wall.
It’s not often we get to use our kitchen for actual cooking.
Our housekeeper uses it more than we do.
But every once in a while, it’s nice to putz around and make something from scratch.
“You’re going to help me make dinner,” I say.
“But I don’t know how to cook,” Preston responds, slumping against the edge of the kitchen counter.
“You don’t have to know how to cook.” I open the fridge and pull out a meal kit I ordered a couple days ago. “You only have to read the instructions to me.” I hand him the two-page recipe and he squints at it.
“It looks complicated.”
I pull ingredients out of the insulated bag the kit came in. “It’s not, promise. What’s the first step?”
Preston flips to the first page. “Bring five cups of water to a boil.”
“Five cups of water. Got it.” I pull out a pot from the cabinet and fill it at the sink.
Preston leans over to peer inside. “Shouldn’t you measure it? How do you know it’s five cups?”
I shrug. “I just eyeball it.”
His brow furrows and I know exactly what his objection will be.
“That’s not very exact,” he says, right as I counter with—
“It doesn’t have to be exact. Cooking isn’t science, Pres.”
He looks disgruntled as I set the pot on the burner and turn on the heat.
“Technically, it is. You’re adding heat to materials and thereby changing their properties. You mix acids and bases together to create compound solutions. That’s all chemistry.”
I chuckle and drag him in for a sideways one-armed hug. “Yes, okay, fine. It’s not an exact science then, it’s okay to throw in some creative flair.”
Preston twists his lips up. “I’m not very creative.”
The self-condemnation makes my heart twinge. I give him a squeeze and a shake with the arm that’s slung around his shoulder. “You’re plenty creative. Don’t ever doubt that. Now, what’s the next step?” I tap on the recipe Preston’s holding.
He scans the page before reading. “Dice the onions.”
“Dice the onions.” I pull out the chopping board and a knife. I’m by no means a chef, but I’ve learned enough in the years we’ve lived on our own to keep from cutting my fingers off.
I peel back the skin and dice the onions as uniformly as I can. A smile curls on my lips from the simple joy of standing with Preston in the kitchen. Neither of us speaks, there’s no awkward rush to fill the silence. When my chopping board gets full, Preston rushes to grab a bowl without me asking.
“Thanks,” I murmur as I scoop up the onions and slide them into the bowl.
“Welcome,” he murmurs back. Then he sniffles. And he sniffles again. “Ow, my eyes.”
I glance over to see them shimmering with tears, a few escaping down his cheek. “Oh, it must be the onions.”
He raises a hand to rub them and I grab his wrist before he makes contact.
“No, don’t rub your eyes. You’ve got onion juice on your hands.”
Preston lets out an anguished sound and holds his hands out as far as his arms will allow.
Laughter bubbles from the very core of my being, from the deepest place where all my secret longings are hidden. It tickles as it rises through my stomach, my chest, bursting out as I throw my head back with unabashed delight.
“Don’t laugh! Help!”
Only Preston would need rescuing when his eyes are watering and his hands are covered in onion juice. He wasn’t even the one chopping them!
“Oh my god, Pres, I love you.” The words slip out before I consciously think them.
My heart thuds against the inside of my ribs, but Preston doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t read into them. Instead, he whines and waves his hands in the air.
I take him by the wrist and drag him to the sink, then stick his hands under the water. “Wash, then dry.” I grab the roll of paper towels and rip one off for him.
“This is why I don’t cook,” he mutters, pressing the clean paper towel to his eyes.
“Because your eyes water at the mere mention of onions?”
“Raw ones, yes,” he pouts and peers out above the paper towels.
His eyes are such a striking blue, framed with black lashes, and my breath catches in my chest. God, they’re so pretty. So intense even when he’s being all mopey. I could stare into them for ages and never get bored. I could get lost them in and never want to be found again.
My body moves of its own accord. I step into Preston’s space, wrap my arms around him, and pull him to me.
He snakes his arms around my waist and gazes up at me.
Our faces are so close, and for a second, I let myself imagine.
What if I bent my head and pressed my lips to his?
What if he sighed and returned the kiss?
The moment ends when he presses his face into my neck, but the damage is done. My chest aches with unfulfilled longing. His cheek is cool from the recent tears, and the light scent of lavender on his laundered clothes fills my senses. I can’t help but bury my nose into his hair, breathing him in.
Preston hums softly and melts into me, his arms tightening around my waist. He fits so perfectly against me, his bumps and dips matching up with mine as if we were two puzzle pieces made for each other.
My eyes drift shut as I savor the moment, trying to imprint it in my memory. The way he feels in my arms, the weight of his body resting against me, the light puff of his breath on the sensitive skin of my neck. It feels so fucking good to hold him like this it should be illegal.
I want to stay here forever. Hit pause on time so I can keep holding him and never let go. I want it so badly, it feels like I might die. I want him. I need him. I love him. But I can’t have him—not the way I want to.
The water on the stove starts boiling and the lid on the pot rattles to life. It takes all the self-control I possess to let Preston go, to set him away from me and step back. When my hands fall away, the loss of him feels like a knife stabbing me through the chest.