“So, then what happened? After he denied it?” Tami Lynn continues.
“He was on duty at the fire station, and wouldn’t you know, he conveniently got an emergency call and had to go.” Savannah indulges in more of the pumpkin spice latte. “He called me back about twenty minutes later, and said he made the calls, but they’re ‘just friends.’” She agitatedly accompanies the confession with air-quotes.
“Ooh,” Tami Lynn expels, her face contorting uncomfortably.
“Yeah,” Savannah protests, “because I wait until the wee hours of the morning to call all of my male friends.”
“Do you think they were
booty calls?”
“He says they weren’t. But they may as well have been…it’s all the same to me.” Savannah pauses. “And to think I was dumb enough to agree to his terms, ‘I don’t want to see other people. And I don’t want you to see other people.’”
“Just like a man to think he can have his cake and eat it too,” Tami Lynn says, her tone hardening as she begins to relate. “I had a man like that once. I told him, how about I bake you up a big ol’ slice of
my booty in some other man’s face
cake. See how well you like that!”
“Shh,” Savannah giggles with Tami Lynn’s animation, promptly petitioning her to keep her voice down.
“What did they talk about? Did you even ask?” Tami Lynn returns to Jack and his
friendly
conversations.
“Oh yeah, I asked,” Savannah huffs. “He said I have been so busy with work and aversive to talking to him. Which is true,” she agrees. “I’ll own that. I was tired of talking. We had
talked
about it long enough. That was one of our problems. He always wanted to talk about things, as if that would take the place of the action required to fix it.” Her mind spins with the endless hours spent talking about their issues. “Anyway, he said he just needed someone to talk to, about us.”
Tami Lynn groans. “Just what every woman wants to hear…that her husband confides in other women about the intimate details of their relationship.”
“Exactly!” Savannah downs the remainder of her latte. “No matter how many times he says they’re just friends, no woman hangs out with a man on a telephone, texting and talking for hours on end, simply to lend a
supportive
ear.” She rolls her eyes yet again.
“Waiting in the wings, to swoop in and pick up handsome firefighter Jack Brigant,” Tami Lynn plays out the dramatic continuation to Savannah’s discourse.
“Yep.” Savannah shrugs, contemplating the official filing of their divorce. “Now they can have him, free and clear.”
“You think they know?” Tami Lynn carries on in Sherlock Holmes mode. “About each other?” She wags her index finger. “I wouldn’t like that. Some man blowing up my phone for a shoulder to cry on, all the while giving some other woman the same sob story.”
Savannah looks at her, her face starting to blush, a sheepish smile forming.
“What? What did you do?” Tami Lynn begs her testimony.
“I’m so bad,” Savannah begins, slightly embarrassed yet pleased. “One of those numbers I called, she actually returned my call.”
“You answered?” Tami Lynn mortifies.
“Yes, I answered. May I remind you, I was still the wife at that point, for whatever that’s worth,” Savannah huffs. “So, she says, ‘I received a call from this number, may I ask to whom I’m speaking?’” Her voice mocks a bubbly, inquiring tone. “I said, ‘This is Jack Brigant’s soon-to-be ex-wife. I’m sure you’ve heard all about me, seeing how I seem to be the topic of conversation.’”
“What did she say?” Tami Lynn watches Savannah as if she is inside her television set, a character in a soap opera.
“Nothing. Complete silence. So then, I followed up with, ‘Thank you for being so kind as to
console
Jack. However, I think you should know, you’re not the only one he’s been confiding in.’ And then the line went dead.”
“She hung up on you? The nerve,” Tami Lynn quips. “Did you call her back?”
“No. I didn’t call her back. But, I did check the phone records thereafter. Seems as though she’s not too fond of sharing either.” Savannah chuckles. “She sent him one text message and then nothing else from that point.” She pauses. “That’s hateful of me, huh? Not one of my finest moments.”
“You think they knew he was married? I wonder if he even told them?” Making a distrustful face, Tami Lynn takes another sip from her latte tumbler.
Savannah shrugs. “Either way, I’ve washed my hands of it. The whole thing was messed up, really. The separation went on far too long,” her voice takes a plunge to the painfully reflective as she gathers up her belongings from her cubicle. “Always trust your instincts, Tami Lynn. You’d think I would know that by now.”
“Where are you going?”
“For a run. And then to follow up on my next column.” Savannah hoists her handbag over her shoulder, her arms full of files and paperwork.
“Blowing off some steam, huh,” Tami Lynn says knowingly. “Well, I guess you can make a move on
gym boy,
now that you’re a free woman.” Tami Lynn grins at her provokingly.
“Oh no,” Savannah protests. “I’m not going to be
that
girl, hopping out of one relationship and right into another. I am not afraid to be alone. Unlike Jack,” she huffs, agitating over his sneaky phone calls as she briskly exits the cubicle.
“Oh, come on,” Tami Lynn calls after her, chuckling. “You know what they say…the quickest way to get
over
someone is to get
under
someone else.”
Chapter Two
Later that evening, when the working day is through, Savannah sweats it out at the local gym. Her earphones deeply lodged and blaring a mix of
pump-you-up
Hip-Hop and Rock tunes as she performs a series of clean and jerk exercises she picked up in a CrossFit class. Eyeing her image in the mirror, she takes note of the tone her figure has acquired, having taken heavily to the gym over the past year and a half.
Amazing how many revived bodies abound post separation, divorce,
her mind overpowers her music momentarily with the thought, wondering how many other hard-bodies in the gym are fighting the good fight, persistent in their attempt to preoccupy themselves with activities and busy work so as not to focus on their failed relationships. Or better yet, preparing themselves for the dating arena once again, or the occasional meet-up with an ex, the competition ensuing as to who has the better post-divorce
revenge
physique. Rendering the age-old question, ‘Why didn’t she look that good when she was with me?’
With her last rep, she stands, swiping at her face with her gym towel—an official Myron Cope
Terrible Towel
displaying the familiar logo and bold colors of the Pittsburgh Steelers. The towel, symbolism of her late father’s favorite football team, one of few pieces of memorabilia through which she can hold on to his memory.
Pulling the towel from her face, her eyes catch sight of a proverbial form in the mirror roughly five-feet behind her, the infamous
gym boy.
Standing about six-foot-four, weighing in at two-hundred-twenty-five pounds, with a chest and shoulders out to there, his waist and hips narrow, chiseling his form into a delightfully attractive V.
“Focus, Savannah,” she coaches herself, muttering under her breath, “stop staring.” Her eyes dart about the gym, attempting to find a focal point, somewhere other than his direction. This fine specimen has tortured her for the last year, working out regularly at the same time she does four nights a week. Something about the man, a perfect stranger, painfully captivating.
Every time she sees him, he serves as a reminder that she has gone without the presence of a steady man in her life—most notably without the presence of a steady man in her bed. And what a sight he must be in any bed! “Last set,” she recalls herself to the bar waiting at her feet.
Surprising herself with the power at which she performs her last set of clean and jerks, her heartbeat and overall awareness enhanced by gym boy’s presence.
Maybe there really is something to all of that pheromone talk,
she grins, thinking to herself as she racks her weight, swiping at her face again with the towel. A perfect camouflage for her eyes, she can’t help but peek at the righteous image reflected behind her in the mirror, only to find his eyes, strikingly steel blue and zoned in on her behind.
“Oh my,” she exhausts, spinning a nervous circle with his virile attention. The weight rack clamors as she clumsily bumps into it, drawing even more eyes in her direction. “Oops! Sorry,” she whispers to passersby. Gym boy flashes her a warm, audacious smile, causing her to dash for cover, out of sight, into the corner where the sit-up benches and floor-mats reside.
Ducking her head, she climbs onto an incline sit-up bench. “Good God, Savannah, pull yourself together,” she scolds, settling her breathing. Alone in the corner, she grows assured of her safety, rolling into her sit-up regimen.
One, two, three, four,
she keeps count consciously, using the bass beat of the song blaring through her earphones as momentum for each laborious sit-up. Half a minute clicks by as she exhales deeply, coming up on number twenty-five. Allowing her body to fully relax on the incline bench, her feet secure at the top, her head hanging toward the bottom, she rests between sets.
When out of her periphery who should appear, nestling against the other sit-up bench beside her: gym boy. She pulls her focus to the ceiling above, refusing to acknowledge him, his presence, his very closeness, unnerving and thoroughly titillating. Positioning himself opposite of her, he laces his hands at the top of the bench, his lower body hanging below as he performs reverse sit-ups, bringing his legs to his chest working his lower abdominals.
Don’t just lay here, do something,
she scolds internally, starting up her next set.
One, two, three, four…
Their bodies working in tandem, she sits up, his legs release below, fully exposing his face and chest to her. After a moment’s pause of silence in her earphones, the next song in the rotation comes at her, Kings of Leon—
Sex On Fire.
She huffs with the irony, powering through her set. Gym boy’s groans, escaping with his every exertion, are impeccably placed with the sexually-hyped lyrics of her song.
Each primal, deep, red-blooded battle cry causes her to react, wondering if that’s what he sounds like when he’s near climax. Images of his exquisitely sculpted frame dash through her mind like an adult bookstore peep-show.
“Ugh,” she hears a soft moan escape her mouth, subconsciously responding to him. Biting down on her lip, she quells any further unwarranted feedback. Coming up on her last sit-up, she catapults from the bench, feeling much like a dirty martini—fully shaken not simply stirred.
Kneeling down on the padded floor mat, she strategically keeps her back to gym boy as she stretches out into full military push-up form. Digging her palms into the mat with intensity, she lowers her body only centimeters away from the floor before pushing up, each push a metaphor to simultaneously push gym boy’s image from her mind.
One, two, three, four…
To her left, a random gym inhabitant appears, choosing to do his sit-ups on the floor mat a few feet down from her.
Oh, thank God,
she revels in the security and company of another in the tight space, seemingly an added barrier between her and the sexy brute on the sit-up bench.
Propping herself up on her knees, she rests between sets, grabbing up her towel and burying her face in it to relieve the accumulating perspiration. She stalls in removing the towel, feeling his presence ever-encroaching, as he whittles his way smack dab between her and the random man to her left. His bulky frame fully filling up the space, gym boy stretches, his upper body leaning forward, elongates the muscles of his legs. Savannah chucks her towel down on the mat in front of her, plunging back into push-up formation.
One, two, three, four…
Gym boy intermittently studies her flawless form while he stretches, impressed at her ability. His eyes catching sight of her
Terrible Towel,
he pulls his earphones from his ears.
Savannah, all too aware of his attention, pleads internally,
No. Don’t talk to me. You’re going to ruin it!
Convinced the real man certainly could never measure up to the one she has made him out to be in her mind.
He points at the towel as she rounds up from her last rep, sitting back on her haunches. “You a Pittsburgh Steelers fan?” the words roll off of his tongue in a rich, deep tone.
Having no other option, Savannah finally gives in, looking at him. He wears a baseball cap, pulled tight and low, his steel blue eyes peeking out from under it. His smile―that smile―warm, sexy and inviting, surfaces, causing hers to reciprocate. She slowly pulls her earphones from her ears, her eyes unable to look away from his.
“What was that?” she asks, her voice inherently soft and low, nearly purring.
“Your towel. You a Steelers fan?” he rephrases.
She nods, the lump in her throat momentarily holding hostage her reply.
He extends his hand, introducing himself. “Brody McAlister.”
Savannah’s wide green eyes hold his as her hand makes contact with his outstretched palm. A surreal moment for her, actually touching for the first time the man she has fully groped in the confines of her mind. Taking note of the girth and gentleness of his hand, contradictory to its rough, calloused texture, verifying her suspicion that he works with them. Brody gently cues her with his curious smile, awaiting her introduction.
“Savannah,” she says through a full, pouty, upturned mouth, “Savannah Bondurant.”
“You see the game last night?” He refers to the Steelers first regular season game, breaking the long, drawn-out handshake.
“Never miss a game, if I can help it,” she says. It was a longtime tradition she and her sisters once shared with their father, every Sunday.
“They’re looking pretty good,” Brody says. “If my Cowboys get their quarterback situation figured out, maybe we’ll see you at the Super Bowl.” He chuckles.