I mean something to him. And god damn it I will get him to admit it.
Done licking my wounds and wallowing in my sorrows I set forth to his home gym. It’s six o’clock in the evening. Everyday, minus Tuesdays and Thursdays, Rico spends exactly one hour in his gym. This evening I’m joining him. And I’m determined for him to acknowledge me.
His home gym is sophisticated in style but practical in effectiveness. It reflects the man Rico is.
The cardio equipment of a stair master, stationary bike and treadmill face the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. And while I miss the charm, cobblestone streets and mountains there is a beauty to the city that never sleeps.
Followed by the cardio is a section specifically for free weights with a mirrored wall to watch one’s form. On the opposite side of the room is the lower body equipment. Finally, a fair enough space in the middle to do no equipment activity.
I spot him running on the treadmill with his soundproof headphones on and wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts.
Sweat glistens from his skin. The sheen of it pronounces his muscles, making him appear more of a god than a mere mortal. His broadened shoulders taper to a narrower waist. He’s deliciously sculpted with defined muscles rather than hulking. The sinews and cords of muscles are impressive throughout his whole body. And I can’t help but not only gawk but also appreciate the view.
But behind the sheen of sweat I’m tempted to drag my tongue across I see what he’s possibly never allowed anyone to see before.
Scars.
Rough and reddened. Raised and jagged.
Too many to count.
While others seem to have been treated with care most of them appear to be as if they were neglected.
And they don’t just cover his back.
They’re on the back of his arms and legs, too. I’m led to believe if he is to turn around I would only see more.
A heaviness sits upon my chest as my heart flares with a visceral pain.
As if he can feel my presence the machine comes to a sudden stop. I feel like we will always be that way with one another. Always aware. Always sensitive to the other even if we are to be oceans apart.
He turns to look at me then, removing his headphones to rest around his neck. My heart breaks into millions of pieces. From his collarbone down are more scars.
I understand the men in this life acquire scars along the way but these ones. . .
These ones are different.
“Who did this to you?” I breathe. My heart bleeds in every word.
His chest heaves. And it could be from physical exertion but something tells me it’s more than just that.
“What are you doing here?” He deflects the question with another. So very unlike him.
I take a step closer and when I see him not retreat I don’t stop until I close the distance between us.
My hand hovers over his chest. I ache to comfort him. Just as I’m about to gently caress the scar on his left pectoral he snatches my wrist in his hand.
“Don’t,” he warns tightly. There’s a dark edge to his voice. One I’ve never heard from him before.
I swallow. Not because I’m afraid of him. Never afraid of him. I swallow the ball of emotions sitting at the back of my throat.
“Rico.” My voice shakes. Tears of anger and sorrow burn at the back of my eyes. I want to avenge him. Hunt down the man responsible and make him feel all of my wrath.
“Don’t, Imogen.” I look up at him through my lashes. His eyes are impenetrable. “Don’t pity me.”
“I don’t pity you, Rico.” His jaw tightens. “I sympathize.” Tears threaten but I blink them away. “How could someone do this to you?”
“You don’t think I deserved it?” He challenges. Except within that challenge I hear the underlying message. Someone made him believe he did.
