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Ethan is Fletcher, think of him as Fletcher. Fletcher is my older brother; only eighteen months separate us. We love each other deeply but we are each other’s weakest link. We also make each other absolutely nuts in seconds flat. It’s the only way I make it through the next two weeks.
Although Ethan and I have traded a few insults, none of them are as bad as it was in the first few days. I have strictly forbidden myself to think of him as anyone other than Fletcher. I always make sure to be in bed and asleep no later than ten o’clock. There have only been two nights when he was home before then.
“I didn’t realize I was paying for you to daydream. Maybe I should get cameras in here to take a look at just how much you actually work.”
“Now that would be a bad idea. I’m sure I could take your ass to court and win this condo out from under you, with your horrific employment practices caught on tape. The jury wouldn’t need to even deliberate.”
Shaking his head, he puts his plate on the countertop, “The dreams of the uneducated in law. Wouldn’t happen, we would never make it to court. I don’t do court, because when lawyers think of meeting me in a courtroom they do embarrassing things, like sweat or wet themselves.”
“You think you are so the shit.” I’m astounded by his ego.
“I don’t think, I know. This tattoo,” Despite him wearing his suit I vividly remember the knife with blood dripping off it. “When I came out of law school, the rule was if you take me on be ready to bleed for it. I’ll make sure of it in front of the client, the judge, and the jury, you won’t walk away until I’ve drawn blood.”
“Is that how you think of women? Don’t tangle with you unless you’re ready to bleed for it?” Shit, where the question comes from I have no idea.
He goes still and eyes me. “No. I don’t set out to make a woman cry or bleed over me. I make no promises, ever. They know from the beginning all I want is their body.”
“How lucky for them. They have the rainmaker of Chicago all to themselves for a few hours, better make the most of it while they can.”
“I do.” As parting words go, they make me want to punch him.
Turning to the radio as I make my own breakfast, the place always seems so quiet. Taking a page from his book, I make soft-boiled eggs, toast, and a half-slice of ham, with toast and coffee. Checking my phone while I eat, an alert goes off on my calendar. It tells me today is when the last of his monthly bills should come in. I make a note to go get his mail before I start cleaning his bathroom and bedroom. Kitchen clean, I defrost some chicken breasts for dinner. Although he’s been out every night, I still cook enough dinner for two. When he doesn’t come home, I have something for lunch the next day.
Kitchen cleaned, I go downstairs to get the mail. As I usually do, I look into the workout area and sigh. I’ve always told myself if I had access to a gym I would use it at least three times a week. After the apartment is clean and I do the bills, today is the day. I could make it for fifteen minutes on the elliptical, maybe.
As I go through his bills, I key in the balances, then click the links to make the payments. One of the bills strikes me as wrong. I go through the spreadsheet, it’s there for the last four years every month. But why? Why is there a cyber security fee every month that doesn’t pop up or show on the home laptop? Maybe it’s on his work computer? He sees me poking around and instant messages me what’s up. I ask him if the name of the cyber security program is on his computer. There’s a pause, he knows where to go and does a search, no. I respond I’m looking for something, no worries, I’ll talk to him later.
Crap, I know just enough about computers to make me dangerous. I’m not saying anything until I’m absolutely sure. Once more, I search for it on the computer and it’s not there. I search the spreadsheet to find when it started showing up. Oh, shit.
For a long minute, I don’t know what to do about what I’ve found. Of course, I need to tell Ethan but how and when? Confused, I need time. I head out of the office and into my room. Changing into sweats, old tee shirt, and a sports bra, I put on my new shoes and decide to think while working out.
Going into the exercise room is overwhelming, it’s huge. Everything is big and shiny. I have no idea where to begin.
“Hi, I’m Roseanne. Can I help you out?” The woman is tall, thin, with the kind of muscle tone and definition I would give up a pinky for. She also looks sincerely nice. Her expression isn’t one of judgement for me being fat.
Normally, I would shy away from anyone offering me help in a gym setting. “Umm, yeah, that would be great. I’m not even sure where to start really.”
“What do you want to do?”
Shrugging, “Tone up, slim down a little. I’m not a jogger or looking for anything intense.”
Her smile is reassuring. “That is a great goal. You don’t have to be a jogger. If you aren’t used to working out, then walking is really the best thing for you. Let’s go get you on a treadmill.”
“Not one of the ellipticals everyone is always on?” I eye one of them.
“No, all you need to do is walk. I promise it will be much better for you. We are going to start slow, at the pace that works for you, don’t worry about how long or fast you can go. Gradually you will build up. What we’ll do is move up and down the incline to change up your resistance. This can go all the way up to an eight, for now, let’s just go up and down to a three. A few minutes at one level, then move it down, or up to your comfort level. To start the machine, just start walking and it adjusts to your speed. Don’t push yourself too far, if you do, then you won’t want to come back. If all you can do is ten minutes then ten minutes is all, and that’s okay.
“I’m here to help you, to push you past your comfort zone but I’m not here to make you suffer. I’ll be over there with some other trainers. We’re all here to help you.” She goes to where two other male trainers are talking animatedly about what I can hear is a recent game.
I start walking and the machine lights up like something out of the future. It tells me my speed, my incline is zero, the calories I’m losing, and there is a beeping noise telling me to put on the heart rate gauge. For a few minutes, I’m simply captivated by the panel then move the incline up by one. Used to walking everywhere, I’m proud of my twenty-five minutes and moving the incline up and down several times. Then the hamstring on my left leg begins to protest. I hit the simple stop button.
Roseanne hands me a white fluffy towel. “Very good. Now is the fun part. You’re going to be losing weight without doing anything.”
Coming from a family of muscle bound brothers and father I know we’re heading to the weights. I’m insulted when she picks up the three pound free weights. She sees my look. “I believe you can lift more than three pounds. You want tone, these and the number of reps you do will tone.” Patiently, she moves me slowly through each movement, she shows me three movements. “For now, you are only doing three reps of ten. We will build up from there.”
Sitting behind me, she watches my movement carefully. “I have to tell you that I think it’s great you are making slow changes without a huge goal in mind. The problem is it isn’t easy to achieve those goals quickly enough to keep most people going. Really, the only goal should be to feel good and be healthy. I know a few people your current size who are healthier than people would assume, with a lower cholesterol than me, even. I worked a desk for years until my doctor told me I was unhealthy, with my numbers high.”
Finishing the second movement, I sigh. “I grew up with a Marine father made of muscle and a mother three inches shorter than me, who probably weighs a hundred pounds soaking wet. She portioned our food out for growing boys and a Marine. Portion control was something I had no concept of for years. Then I got annoyed with all the focus on my weight. Never mind I was doing all these other good things, my dad was constantly harping on my weight. I’m pretty sure I stayed heavy just to make him mad. I was an eighteen for years.
“When I moved to Chicago four years ago, I was forced to move. I sold my car because it was more expensive to have it than not. It helped get me down to a sixteen in only six months. Then I got a job a few years ago that started me going up and down between a eighteen and sixteen. I’ve been a sixteen now for two months and I don’t want to go back up. I’m not trying to be a size four or anything. I don’t want to freak out over the pressure. Mainly, I want to maintain and tone up. I also I started a cleaning job recently. I didn’t realize how out of shape I was until every day when I finish I want to crawl into bed and take a nap.”
“Hey, give yourself some credit. Cleaning isn’t an easy job, and a size four is overrated. I’m happy with my size eight.”
Looking at her, I’m astonished. “I thought you were smaller than an eight.”
“It’s the muscle, I have to go up. Designers don’t account for the slightest amount of muscle in their clothes. That’s important, losing weight should only ever be about making yourself happy. Okay, you have your work out for today. I hope to see you tomorrow. I’ll be off the day after tomorrow, though. Cole and Ryan will be here. I promise they are cool.”
“Thanks, I’m Holly by the way. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I go upstairs I wonder, am I working out to get attention from Ethan, or because I want to? I barely finish the thought, no, this was definitely not about Ethan. I’m sure he would never be attracted to me, even if I did make it down to a size four. What I told Roseanne was the reason. I want to tone up and I was embarrassed by how tired I am when I’m done cleaning, and I usually have to take short breaks.
Going back up to the condo, I take a quick shower then massage in some oil. During the workout I figured out what to do. I start with a text, Ethan hates to text. If he calls me it means he can talk. If he texts back it means he’s busy. Three seconds after I hit send on the simple text asking if he’s busy the phone rings in my hand. I bring up the excel file so he sees it on his computer, he clicks out of a file he’s in. “What is it?”
“I’ve gone over your expenses twice for going on three hours. It’s clear Sharon is stealing from you.”
Silence. “Show me.” His voice is steel.
I highlight the cells. “All these charges are for a security program on the computer that doesn’t exist. I’ve searched the computer a dozen times, it doesn’t come up. It didn’t start until almost a year after Sharon started working for you. I checked the address of the program, it’s a post office box. A call to the postal service got me the information that it’s in the name of Stephen January, January is Sharon’s maiden name. Probably her son or something. There are also invoices for repairs to the laptop in the name of a computer repair company with an address the same as the post office box. On one, you are signing off, on the other Cora was signing off, so neither one of you knew. They vary in charges of two hundred fifty up to five hundred dollars.”
He’s quiet for so long I check my phone to make sure the phone call didn’t drop. “I’ll handle this. Good job.” With a click, he’s gone.