Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend (10 page)

“It was a big move, Em. Maybe he's still settling in,” Alyssa
replied, though her expression said she was not convinced by her own words.

“Settled in? He could be
married
by now.”

“Somehow I doubt it.”

“Well, I wouldn't put it past him. He's not that far from Vegas. And you know how men are after they get out of a long relationship. Sometimes they're feeling so bereft, they're suddenly willing to shackle themselves to any willing female just to get through it.” As the horror of this fact sank in, I suddenly envisioned Derrick lying on some cot in a dingy apartment, desperately dialing my phone number out of sheer loneliness, prepared to demand that I move to L.A. and marry him. At the sound of my answering machine clicking, he becomes frustrated, disillusioned. He heads to his local watering hole to drown his sorrows, and within hours he's off to Vegas for a quickie wedding with some leggy stranger who smiled at him too long.

“I've got to go home.”

“What?” Alyssa said, holding the gym door open for me with a look of disbelief on her face.

“I just have this strange feeling he's going to call tonight and that my not being there could have huge ramifications. Maybe he's decided to come home for Memorial Day. I mean, there's still time for me to get out of my mother's Memorial Day shindig, which, by the way, will not only be featuring my married younger brother, Shaun, but the latest blushing bride in the family—my mother. Besides, I don't really need this gym thing anyway. Derrick always liked me with a little meat on my bones.”

“Forget it, Emma. You're not getting out of this one,” Alyssa said, grabbing my arm and pulling me after her into the gym's entrance. “C'mon.”

Beaten, I followed her reluctantly, though the thought of Derrick standing before an Elvis Impersonator and gazing into the eyes of some equally besotted stranger still ate at me.

Down in the locker room, I found myself surrounded by women in various modes of undress that seemed directly proportional to how toned and slender their bodies were.

Now, I had been to the gym before precisely twice in my life:
once when I had been persuaded by a zealot from my college days—one of those girls who were born with enough elasticity to do a split with little effort and lots of smugness. And once with Derrick, when a friend of his got us free passes to the Y, and we spent the whole time in the shallow end of the facility's pool, seeing who could squirt water better from between their teeth. On both occasions I was slightly aghast at how the locker room, with its bevy of scantily clad women doing everything from blow-drying to hamstring stretches, seemed designed to make you feel self-conscious if you happened to have, God forbid, a little cellulite here or there. Where were my fellow flabby girls hiding? I wondered, turning toward the wall and reluctantly beginning to unbutton my blouse. More than likely they were home with their Hostess cakes, and feeling quite happy with themselves.

While managing to reveal little more than a roll or two, I quickly slid my oldest—and only—pair of gym shorts on, along with one of the few T-shirts I owned that I didn't consider office attire. At first I had packed an old concert jersey with the sleeves cut off in my bag, but as the soft fabric slid through my fingers I suddenly remembered that it was Derrick's jersey—and one of the few remaining articles of his clothing I had left. So I had carefully tucked the T-shirt in a bottom drawer, along with a printout of every e-mail he'd ever sent me, a dried-up rose—a momento from one of our early dates, a cartoon he drew of us watching a movie—written and directed, as the screen happened to reveal, by Derrick Holt, and various other tokens of our ill-fated two years together.

Once dressed, I turned to find Alyssa, who had donned a well-shaped sports bra and a pair of color-coordinated running shorts, waiting for me. “Ready?” she asked, a determined smile on her face.

“Be gentle,” I said, following her meekly to the stairs after my request to take the elevator was firmly denied.

When we got to the third floor, ominously labeled Cardiovascular Training, I was greeted with rows and rows of gleaming machines manned by rows and rows of sweating-and-motivated-by-God-knows-what men and women.

“We should stretch first, then do a little cardio warm-up before
we hit the weight room,” Alyssa said, heading for some mats in the far corner of the room.

“Isn't that a lot for my first workout? I don't want to overdo it. I mean if I ache
too
badly, I won't be able to come back to the gym for a while, and that will sort of defeat the purpose, won't it?”

She just rolled her eyes at me and sat down on the mat. “Come on, Emma. You'll like this part.”

And I did, I realized, as I sat beside her, legs outstretched as I pulled my upper body from side to side. I almost fell asleep during the lower back stretch, until Alyssa prodded me into action. I got up and followed her to those dreadful-looking machines. “Jade told me she's going out with that waiter guy,” I began, hoping to distract her.

“She
is?
” Alyssa asked. Even though I encouraged her to get his number, I thought it was all a joke. “I mean, he seemed a bit young, didn't he?”

“I guess. But he works in a bar. Don't you have to be at least eighteen to serve alcohol? Jade doesn't mind them young, as long as they're legal. I mean, she doesn't want to get arrested or anything.”

Alyssa laughed. “When Jade first started hitting on him, I didn't think he even knew English, the way he was stammering.”

“Just barely,” I said. “His name is Enrico, and I don't think he's been in this country too long.”

Despite my efforts to detain or distract her, Alyssa stopped right in front of the most torturous-looking machine in the room. The StairMaster. Not that I'd ever tried it, but I'd heard scary stories from the few people in my office who had attempted it in the past.

“You know, I think this one might be redundant for me,” I said, “seeing as I live in a fourth floor walk-up. Maybe I should try something I don't normally do.” I glanced around frantically and, spying a girl on a stationary bike with a book propped in front of her on a reading stand and not a bead of perspiration on her brow, I said, “Like that one.”

“Just try this, Em,” Alyssa said. “It gets you the most results. My butt lifted at least an inch when I first started doing it.”

Eyeing Alyssa's butt, which I'd always thought was rather perfect and probably a key factor in her year-round girlfriend status, I stepped on the machine and waited while Alyssa punched in a few keys to start up my workout. Once she was done, I started moving, legs going up and down in the kind of rhythm I normally dreaded whenever I came home and faced the four flights up to my apartment. I smiled meekly at Alyssa, who had stepped onto the machine next to me.

Before five minutes was up, I was so winded that any hope for an irresistible rear end was replaced by the fear that I would surely die of a heart attack at the tender age of thirty-one. I let my stairs sink to the floor and stepped off. “I can't…go—” I puffed out to Alyssa, who was still stepping away, not even a tiny bit breathless.

She looked down at my reddened face with concern. “The pace of this one is hard to get at first. Why don't you try something else for now?”

Something else? Like the shower maybe?

“The treadmill is also good,” she said, gesturing behind her to a row of people running on what looked like some sort of conveyer belt. I suddenly thought of the hamster I had growing up. “Do they have a pool?” I asked, thinking I might be able to brush up on my water-squirting skills. Because if Derrick ever did return, I was going to douse him good for putting me through this particular hell.

“No. Not at this location,” Alyssa replied. “Try the treadmill. You'll
like
it.”

Yeah, right, I thought, walking past the treadmills and discovering, much to my delight, that they were all occupied. For Lys's benefit, I gave an ostentatious sigh. Then I headed for my novel-reading, sweatless role model who was still pedaling away effortlessly next to a fortuitously empty bike. I grabbed a women's magazine from the magazine rack conveniently located on the wall next to the bike machines. Once seated comfortably, I opened to the article that had beckoned to me from the cover as I made my selection, “Ten Sure Signs that He Is In Love With You.” Choosing a preset workout course of rolling hills that seemed leisurely enough, I began to pedal and read.

Hoping his heart is in the right place?
the article began perkily.
Read on to discover if your man is exhibiting signs that he is hopelessly devoted to one special woman—you!
Pedaling ruthlessly, I scanned the list, which was bullet-pointed with little red hearts.

He buys you flowers, for no particular reason.

I smiled as the memory of that dried-up rose in the Derrick Drawer came back to me.

His friends like you—more than likely because he's always telling them how wonderful you are!

A vision of Ed Riley, Derrick's best friend, popped into my head, filling me with disgust. Ed had a way of always inviting Derrick out for events that suspiciously never included me. Hmm…

You are the first person he calls when he gets the big promotion.

Well, I
was
at Derrick's apartment the night his agent called with the news that he'd sold the screenplay. The moment Derrick hung up the phone, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me soundly. Hugged me like he'd never let me go.

He thinks you look beautiful, morning, noon, or night—and even without a hint of makeup!

My mind rolled over a memory of Derrick and me, lying in bed on a Sunday morning,
The New York Times
laid out before us on the rumpled bedding. I remember feeling suddenly aware of my tangled mop of uncombed hair and my makeup-free face when Derrick reached over to graze my bare leg with his long fingers. I also remember the wolfish smile he gave me before he proceeded to pull off my ratty T-shirt as if it were some gossamer gown, stroking my face, and then my body, as I were the most desirable woman in the world.