I want to tell Claire and the readers that it’s hell. That this physique comes at the cost of my sanity. But I know this is all part of a carefully curated PR plan, led by Connie, to start positioning me as a leading man in Hollywood. To move beyond the teenybopper image and grow and expand my audience, rather than letting them outgrow me.
“I’ve been working with a personal trainer called Nick Garcia for the past few years now, and he’s really helped me understandmy body frame. He created a bespoke workout that targets each body part to get the results I want.”
Then the words just fall out of my mouth, as I fill Claire in on the grueling workouts Nick puts me through. The alternating cardio to weight days. The four-one-three-one-four-one on-off schedule I adopt on a fortnightly basis. How I’ve been able to keep up the workout schedule, even though Nick headed back to LA two weeks ago for the birth of his baby.
“And is there anyone who gets to take advantage of this physique?” Claire asks slyly. A smirk rises on her face. Connie jumps in before I can say anything, telling Claire that personal questions are off the table.
My mind immediately goes to Christopher and I remember that I never responded to his message.
“Can you just give me a second? I forgot something I need to respond to.” I grab my phone from my pocket, and quickly open his message, deliberating what to say.
It needs to be light, fun, maybe even sarcastic—like him.
I can feel everyone’s gaze on me. As the silence becomes deafening, I shoot off the first thing that comes to my head.
How’s your head? You around later…
After sliding my phone back into my pocket, I return my attention to Claire.
“Sorry, where were we?”
10.Christopher
Sunday
Nothing says “Sunday tradition” in the UK quite like stuffing your face with a Sunday roast in a pub and instantly regretting it. The succulent chicken. The roast potatoes cooked in duck fat. The Yorkshire puddings, smothered in dollops of gravy. And of course, a side of vegetables, which I always assume are placed there for decorative purposes.
Kelly lets out a burp as she finishes her last bite and places her cutlery on the plate.
I’ve become so familiar with her burps over the years that I can infer what each one means. This one is satisfaction. Not to be confused with the one of regret, which Daniel lets out as he rubs his belly.
Both of us wish that we had also opted for the kids-sized meal Kelly had ordered, but then we don’t have the digestive issues that have plagued her since childhood to justify ordering it. I shove the last of my roast potatoes to the side, having already pushed my stomach to its limits, and down the last of my beer, hoping it will help the food move through my system as quickly as possible.
I guess this means another thirty minutes on the treadmill tomorrow morning.
Across from me, Kelly and Daniel look like the picture-postcard of love. Daniel gently wipes away a drop of gravy that lingers on the corner of Kelly’s mouth with his napkin, pulling at my heartstrings. Her green eyes dance at his kind gesture and she leans in to kiss him. Nothing too PDA, just a tender kiss. A token of appreciation for always looking after her.
How she’s even functioning is beyond me. But then she barely drunk last night, and love is the perfect hangover cure. Me, on the other hand—I somehow passed out on their sofa at whatever o’clock and woke up with a neck stiffer than a preacher’s dick at a whorehouse.
It doesn’t help that I’m wearing one of my future brother-in-law’s tight-fitted Abercrombie T-shirts. I pull at the collar, which is slowly cutting off the circulation to my throat.
“Fancy another one?” Daniel asks, nodding at the empty pint in front of me.
I really shouldn’t. Ideally I’d have something stronger. But this quaint old man’s pub frowns upon the vodka skinnies I’d usually be having right now.
“Go on then,” I say, reluctantly pushing the glass across the table.
I barely manage to cover my mouth as a burp tries to escape from it.
Kelly nods yes to another coke and Daniel makes his way to the bar, leaving us both at the round wooden table, tucked away by the window. Thankfully the afternoon sun is no longer shining directly on us.
“What are we going to do about you?” Kelly asks. She adjusts her chair and moves closer to me, placing her hand on top of mine.
“Probably write a tragic novel featuring my sad story and sellit for a profit,” I retort, pulling my hand away and laughing off the discomfort rising in my chest.
“Can you be serious for a moment?” Kelly shoots back, grabbing my hand. “I see the way you look at me and Daniel. I see the pain in your eyes. But you’ve got to stop living in the shadow of Dad. He’s gone now. And you’ve got to stop punishing yourself. You deserve love just like anyone else.”
Her eyes give me the look I hate more than any other: pity. A lump forms in my throat and my eyes go misty.
