Chapter 20
Jonathan
The Grand Ballroom of the Manhattan Fitness Expo gleams with chrome and mirrors, thousands of bodies moving in synchronized chaos. I'm here for a sponsored panel about sustainable fitness approaches, my YouTube channel's latest collaboration with a major supplement brand.
The energy is electric—music pounding, vendors hawking protein powders and resistance bands, influencers posing for photos every three feet.
I should be focused on my presentation notes, but my mind keeps drifting to Claire. She's home with Stuart, who insisted she stay off her feet after yesterday's scare. The image of her doubled over in pain, my terror that we were losing the baby, still makes my hands shake.
"Jonathan Hayes?" A voice cuts through my thoughts, smooth and familiar in a way that makes my stomach drop.
I turn, already knowing who I'll see. Ainslee McNair stands before me in head-to-toe athleisure from one of those stupid-expensive brands.
Her highlighted blonde hair is pulled into a high ponytail, makeup flawless.
Three million Instagram followers have made her a fitness empire, and she knows exactly how powerful that makes her.
"Ainslee." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "Didn't know you'd be here."
"Last-minute addition to the lineup." Her smile is predatory, calculated. "When I heard you were speaking, I couldn't resist. It's been what, two years?"
"Three." Since she'd cheated on me with a CrossFit dickhead, then tried to blame it on my "emotional unavailability" when I'd caught them in my apartment. The same apartment I'd been paying for while she "built her brand."
"Has it been that long?" She steps closer, her hand finding my forearm with practiced ease. "You look amazing. Better than ever, actually. What's your secret?"
Love, I think. Real love with people who actually see me. But I don't say it. Not here, not to her.
"Just training consistently. You know how it is."
"I do." Her fingers trace up my arm, a touch that once would have affected me but now just feels invasive. "We should catch up. Maybe dinner after the expo? I'm staying at the Peninsula. We could order room service, like old times."
"I'm involved with someone," I say firmly, stepping back. "Several someones, actually."
Her perfectly microbladed eyebrows rise. "Several? My, my. Jonathan Hayes went from serial monogamist to polyamorous? That's quite the transformation."
"It's not a transformation. Just a way of life that makes me very happy."
"Well, I'd love to hear all about it." She pulls out her phone, already angling for a photo. "For my followers. They'd die to know what Jonathan Hayes is up to these days."
Before I can refuse, she's pressed against my side, phone extended, capturing us together. Her three million followers will see this within minutes, I know. The caption will be carefully crafted to suggest the possibility that we're reconnecting.
"Ainslee, don't—"
"Too late." She's already posting, fingers flying across the screen. "There. Now everyone knows the famous Jonathan Hayes is back in my orbit."
The rest of the morning is torture. Ainslee appears everywhere—at my panel, where she asks pointed questions designed to fluster me; at one of the supplement booths, where she casually touches my arm while speaking to the rep about his product; in the hallway between sessions, where she corners me with increasingly aggressive flirtation.
"I made a mistake," she says during one ambush, her voice dropping to that breathy whisper she thinks is sexy. "Letting you go. I was young, stupid. But I know what I want now."
"Good for you. I hope you find it."
"I already did. I'm looking at him."
"Ainslee, I'm serious about my partners. This isn't happening."
"Partners plural… god, that's hot." She leans closer, her perfume overwhelming. "You always were adventurous in bed. I bet you've learned some new tricks. Maybe you could teach me?"
She doesn’t need to know the nitty gritty, that I share the woman I love with my two best friends.
My phone buzzes with a text from Claire:
How's the expo? Saw Ainslee’s Instagram. You okay?
The fact that she's checking social media, seeing these photos of Ainslee draped over me, makes my chest tight with guilt even though I've done nothing wrong.
Fine. She's being pushy. Can't wait to get home to you.
Take your time. I'm good here. Stuart's making me eat every two hours.
Good. Love you.
Love you too. Don't let Ainslee make you forget you have a hot pregnant girlfriend at home.
The fact that she's joking about it makes me love her more, but I can hear the insecurity underneath.
Claire's body is changing, growing our child, becoming softer and rounder.
She's never been more beautiful to me, but I know she struggles with it—with feeling desirable when she's exhausted and nauseous and her jeans don't fit anymore.
The afternoon charity event is supposed to be simple—a fitness demonstration for underprivileged youth, raising money for community gym programs. I'm demonstrating basic bodyweight exercises when Ainslee appears, claiming she's been asked to assist.
"We make such a good team," she purrs, positioning herself beside me for the demo. Her hand finds my waist, supposedly for balance, but lingers too long, too intimately. "Just like old times, right?"
The kids don't notice what’s going on, but the other adults do. I can see phones out, recording, capturing every moment of her increasingly bold touches.
"Ainslee, stop," I say quietly between demonstrations.
"Stop what? I'm just helping." But her smile says otherwise.
When I demonstrate partner exercises, she volunteers immediately, pressing her body against mine in ways that have nothing to do with proper form and everything to do with an audience.
"See how we move together?" she says quietly to me. "Chemistry like this can't be faked. It's natural, instinctive. The body knows what it wants."
I'm about to pull away, to publicly shut this down, when I see her. Claire, standing at the back of the crowd. Stuart's beside her, his face thunderous. Dane's on her other side, his expression unreadable but his body language protective.
They came. To support me. And instead they're watching Ainslee drape herself over me like she owns me.
Claire's face is carefully neutral, but I know her well enough now to see the hurt beneath the mask. The way her hand tightens on her stomach, the slight tremor in her chin before she controls it, the way she won't quite meet my eyes.
Something in me snaps.
I step away from Ainslee so abruptly she stumbles. "That's enough," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We're done here."
"Jonathan, we still have—"
"No, we don't have anything. We never did, not really. And we certainly don't now."
I walk past her, past the confused children, past the adults with their phones still recording. Straight to Claire.
"Hi," I say softly, reaching for her hand.
"Hi." Her voice is small, uncertain. "We didn't mean to interrupt. Stuart wanted to check on you after seeing—"
"I'm glad you came." I pull her closer. "I'm glad you're here."
"Jonathan!" Ainslee’s voice cuts through the moment. She's followed me, her influencer instincts sensing a dramatic moment worth capturing. "Who is this?"
"This is Claire," I say clearly. "The woman I love. The mother of my child. The most important person in my world."
Her eyes widen, taking in Claire's pregnant belly, her casual yoga pants and an oversized sweater, the lack of makeup or styled hair. Comparing her to Ainslee's polished influencer perfection is like comparing a warm home to a magazine spread—one's real, the other's just for show.
"You're having a baby?" Ainslee's voice rises with disbelief. "You got some random girl pregnant and now you're—what, playing house?"
"She's not some random girl," Stuart interjects, his voice cold as steel. "And you need to watch your mouth."
"And you are?" Ainslee’s eyes rake over Stuart like she might eat him up, then she notices Dane on Claire's other side. Her expression shifts to shock, then calculation. "Wait. Are you all—is this some kind of weird group thing?"
"It's a family thing," I correct.
Phones are definitely recording now. I can see the moment this will go viral, I can already imagine the headlines. But looking at Claire's eyes filling with tears—good tears, not hurt ones—I don't care.
"You're seriously choosing a pregnant nobody over me?" Ainslee’s voice is shrill now, her influencer polish cracking. "I have three million followers, Jonathan. I could make you bigger than you've ever been. And you're choosing this?"
"Every single time," I say simply. "I'd choose this over anything. Over fame, money, endorsements, all of it. Because this is real. This is love. And what we had? That was just Instagram filters and protein shake sponsorships."
"You'll regret this," she threatens, pulling out her phone. "My followers will destroy you. Your sponsors will drop you. You'll be canceled by morning."
"Then I'll be canceled." I pull Claire closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Totally worth it."
She storms off, already typing furiously on her phone. I can almost see the posts being crafted—how Jonathan Hayes deceived her, how he's in some weird cult situation, how he's throwing his career away for a nobody.
"We should go," Stuart says quietly. "Before this gets worse."
"No," Claire says suddenly, straightening. "We shouldn't run and hide like we're ashamed."
"Claire—"
"Jonathan just stood up for us publicly. The least we can do is stand with him."
She's right. Running now would validate every accusation Ainslee’s about to make. So instead, I finish the presentation. I talk about sustainable fitness for real bodies, not just Instagram perfection.
The kids don't care about the drama. They just want to learn. And by the end, I've taught them more about health and body positivity than Ainslee ever could have.
But the internet, as predicted, explodes.