Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Vivian
Three days. That was how long it had been since Quinton sat across from me in the break room, with his absurd “marriage trap” theory laid out like some kind of scientific breakthrough.
I remember laughing so hard I almost choked on my banana, all while I made a bet I was certain I’d win.
Three days of rolling my eyes at his nonsense, convinced my relationship with Colton was just hitting a rough patch—nothing major.
Each day since that conversation, my confidence chipped away, bit by bit, until now, when things felt less certain and Quinton’s theory started to sound almost plausible.
Day one: Colton completely forgot about our dinner plans and opted for some networking event instead.
Day two: he “lost track of time” at the gym and showed up two hours late, smelling like protein powder and offering zero apology.
And tonight? Tonight, he didn’t show up at all. No call. No text. Just radio silence.
When I finally texted him, demanding to know where he was, his answer was as casual as ever:
Colton: Oh shit, babe, totally forgot. Still at the gym. Rain check?
Like he was rescheduling a dentist appointment.
I mean, seriously—Rain check?
RAIN CHECK! As if I were nothing more than an inconvenient blip on his calendar, something he could just shuffle around whenever it suited him.
So now? Now I was starting to wonder if maybe Quinton was onto something after all. And, yes, I know how it sounds—me, the skeptic, actually considering that ridiculous theory. But here we are.
Fuming didn’t even begin to cover it. My hands shook as I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, trying to steady my breath before I stormed out.
The chill in the air hit me as I slammed my car door shut—so hard that the Honda parked next to me beeped in protest. My phone was clenched in one hand, my purse swinging violently from my shoulder as I marched across the parking lot toward Iron Haven Gym. Every step echoed my frustration.
Why, you ask? Because my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend had stood me up—again. Again!
Honestly, I was starting to think my patience had a gym membership at this point, given how often it got exercised.
I shoved through the gym’s front doors with enough force to make them bang against the walls. The guy at the front desk looked up, startled, and I gave him my best “don’t even think about asking for my membership card” glare as I stalked past.
He wisely said nothing.
Iron Haven was one of those aggressively masculine gyms that smelled like rubber, sweat, and protein powder, with motivational posters on every wall featuring people who looked like they could bench press a car.
The music was too loud, the lights were too bright, and every surface seemed to be made of either chrome or black rubber.
I hated it here.
But Colton loved it, which meant he was here approximately six days a week, lifting things up and putting them down while staring at himself in the mirror.
I found him in the free weights section, lying on a bench press with his eyes closed, a barbell loaded with what looked like an obscene amount of weight hovering above his chest. His tank top was soaked with sweat.
His perfectly styled hair was somehow still perfectly styled, and he had his AirPods in, completely oblivious to the world around him.
Completely oblivious to the fact that he’d just ruined my entire evening.
I stood there for a moment, watching him lower the barbell, press it back up, and then rack it with a satisfied grunt. He sat up, pulled out one AirPod, and reached for his water bottle.
That was when he saw me.
“Viv!” Colton’s voice rang out, his face breaking into that trademark megawatt smile—the very one that had rescued him from countless sticky situations. “Hey, babe! What are you doing here?” he called, clearly surprised but already hoping his charm would smooth things over.
I didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, I walked purposefully over to the rack of dumbbells, scanning for the one that would perfectly suit my needs.
My hand closed around a compact five-pound weight.
Without a word, I carried it back to where Colton sat, making my intentions clear through my deliberate movements.
“Uh, babe?” Colton’s smile faltered, uncertainty creeping into his voice as he watched me approach with the weight. “What’s with the weight?” He tried to keep it light, but the anxiety was obvious in his eyes.
“Now lie back down on the bench,” I instructed, my tone leaving no room for argument.
“Viv, I don’t think—” He started, the uncertainty in his voice growing.
“Lie. Down.” My command was sharp, and he must have heard the finality in it.
There must have been something in my voice—a warning that even Colton, in all his obliviousness, couldn’t ignore.
He slowly lay back down on the bench, his eyes wide and locked on mine, nerves splayed across his face.
“Babe, what’s going on?” he asked, suddenly very aware that this was not the time to push his luck.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I carefully and deliberately placed the five-pound dumbbell directly on his crotch.
Colton’s entire body went rigid. “Vivian!”
“Don’t move,” I said sweetly, applying a smidge of pressure. “Unless you want me to pop your tiny balls like little grapes.”
Colton’s eyes widened even further, panic etched across his face. “Okay. Okay, I’m not moving. But can we talk about this?” he pleaded, desperate for a conversation that might diffuse the tension.
“We had dinner plans tonight,” I replied, my tone calm and pleasant—so much so that anyone who truly knew me would recognize it as a warning. “At seven. Remember?”
Colton swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the dumbbell resting atop his gym shorts. “I forgot?” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You forgot,” I echoed, letting the words hang in the air. “For the third time this month.”
“It’s been a crazy few weeks,” Colton quickly said, searching for any excuse that might lessen the disappointment in my eyes.
I continued, ignoring his attempt at justification. “You forgot our anniversary dinner,” I said. “You forgot my birthday dinner. And now you forgot our regular, normal, Thursday night dinner that we planned three days ago.”
“Babe, I’m sorry, I just...” Colton began, his apology faltering as he realized the gravity of his repeated mistakes.
Leaning closer, with my hands braced on either side of the bench and my face just inches from his, I pressed on.
The dumbbell shifted slightly, causing Colton to emit a strangled, anxious sound.
“Do you know what I did tonight, Colton?” I asked pointedly.
“I left work early. I went home. I showered. I put on that dress you like—the blue one. I did my makeup. I even wore the perfume you bought me for Christmas.”
“The Chanel?” he asked weakly.
“The Chanel,” I confirmed. “And then I sat in the restaurant for forty-five minutes, Colton. Forty-five minutes. Alone. At a table for two. While the waiter kept asking if I wanted to order or if I was ‘still waiting for someone.’”
“Viv, I’m so sorry.”
“And do you know what I did after that?” I continued, my voice getting progressively less sweet and more sharp. “I checked your Instagram. And do you know what I found?”
Colton’s face went pale. “Babe.”
“A gym selfie,” I said. “Posted twenty minutes ago. With the caption ‘Never skip leg day’ followed by three flexing emojis.”
“I can explain.”
“You were here,” I said, straightening up and crossing my arms. The dumbbell wobbled. Colton whimpered. “You were here, taking gym selfies, while I was sitting alone in a restaurant wearing Chanel and my dignity.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like, Colton?” I asked. “Please. Explain it to me. Explain how you ‘forgot’ we had plans while you were actively posting on social media.”
“I just...” He tried to sit up, remembered the weight, and froze. “I lost track of time.”
“You lost track of time?”
“Yeah! I was in the zone, you know? And I didn’t check my phone, and—”
“Your phone that you used to post on Instagram.”
“That was... that was different.”
“Different how?”
“I just...” Colton’s charm was starting to crack around the edges. I could see him scrambling for an excuse, any excuse, that would get him out of this. “Babe, come on. You know how I get when I’m working out. I just zone out and—”
“And forget your girlfriend exists?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” I picked up the dumbbell. Colton exhaled in relief.
I held it over his crotch. He stopped exhaling.
“You want to talk about fair? Let’s talk about fair, Colton.
Is it fair that I rearrange my schedule to make time for you?
Is it fair that I sit alone in restaurants while you’re here taking selfies?
Is it fair that every time I try to talk to you about this, you smile and apologize and promise to do better, and then you do the exact same thing two weeks later? ”
“Viv, I promise, this time—”
“This time, what?” I asked. “This time you’ll actually remember? This time you’ll actually prioritize our relationship over your biceps?”
“That’s not... I do prioritize—”
“Your last three Instagram posts were gym selfies, Colton. Your last text to me was ‘rain check.’ When was the last time you asked me about my day? My work? Anything that wasn’t directly related to you and your workout schedule?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
“Babe, come on.” And there it was—the smile. The charming, disarming, “I’m-so-sorry-please-forgive-me” smile that had worked on me so many times before. “You know I care about you. I just got distracted. It won’t happen again.”
“You said that last time.”
“I mean it this time.”
“You said that last time too.”
“Viv.” He tried to sit up again, moving slowly, carefully, keeping one eye on the dumbbell in my hand. “Come on. Don’t be like this. You know I love you.”
“Do I?” I asked. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you love your reflection more than you love me.”
“That’s not true.”
“You have a gym selfie as your phone background.”
“That’s—” He paused. “Okay, that’s a really good photo.”
“It’s a photo of you flexing in a mirror.”
“A really good photo of me flexing in a mirror,” he corrected, and then seemed to realize that wasn’t helping his case. “But that doesn’t mean—look, I’ll change it. I’ll put a picture of us. Would that make you happy?”
“What would make me happy,” I said slowly, “is a boyfriend who actually shows up when he says he will. A boyfriend who remembers that I exist when I’m not standing directly in front of him. A boyfriend who values my time as much as he values his gym schedule.”
“I do value your time.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Stop standing me up,” I said. “Stop forgetting our plans. Stop treating me like I’m an optional part of your life that you can just reschedule whenever something more interesting comes along.”
“You’re not optional—”
“Then act like it,” I said. “Because right now? Right now, I’m starting to think my coworker was right.”
“Your coworker?” Colton frowned. “Which coworker?”
“The one who thinks dating is a trap and everyone should just stay single forever.”
“That’s—” Colton laughed, and it was the wrong move. “That’s ridiculous. Who thinks that?”
“Someone who’s watched all his friends get married and lose their minds,” I said. “And honestly? After tonight? I’m starting to see his point.”
“Viv, come on.”
“I’m serious, Colton.” I set the dumbbell down on the floor—not on him, just near him—and stepped back. “I’m tired. I’m tired of being forgotten. I’m tired of being stood up. I’m tired of feeling like I’m competing with your gym schedule for your attention.”
“You’re not competing—”
“Then prove it,” I said again. “Show up. Be present. Actually try.”
Colton sat up slowly, rubbing the spot where the weight had been. “Okay. Okay, I will. I promise. No more missed dinners. No more forgetting plans. I’ll be better.”
“You said that last time,” I reminded him.
“I know, but...” He reached for my hand. I stepped back. “Viv, please. Give me another chance. I’ll make it up to you. Dinner tomorrow night? Anywhere you want. My treat.”
I looked at him. At his perfect hair, his perfect smile, his perfect everything that somehow added up to someone who couldn’t remember to show up for dinner.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Viv!”
“I said I’ll think about it, Colton.” I picked up my purse from where I’d dropped it on the floor. “Right now, I’m going home. I’m going to take off this dress, eat an entire pint of ice cream, and seriously reconsider my life choices.”
“Babe.”
“And if you post another gym selfie in the next twenty-four hours,” I added, turning back to look at him, “I’m coming back here with a ten-pound weight. Understand?”
He nodded quickly. “Understood.”
“Good.”
I walked out of the gym with my head held high, my dignity mostly intact, and the growing suspicion that Quinton’s “marriage trap” theory was looking less ridiculous by the minute.
Maybe opting out of dating entirely wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.
My phone buzzed as I reached my car.
Colton: I really am sorry, babe. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.
I stared at it for a long moment, then typed back.
Me: You have one chance. Don’t waste it.
His response came immediately.
Colton: I won’t. Love you.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I got in my car, started the engine, and sat there for a moment, my hands on the steering wheel, my mind racing.
Three strikes.
That was the rule, right? Three strikes and you’re out?
Colton was definitely on strike three.
Maybe even strike four.
I pulled out of the parking lot and headed home, already mentally composing the text I was going to send to Quinton tomorrow: “Okay, I’m listening. Tell me more about this marriage trap theory.”
Because if tonight had taught me anything, it was that maybe, just maybe, Quinton Wesley wasn’t as crazy as I thought.
And that was possibly the most terrifying realization of all.