The Trainer (3 page)

Typical flake
, Chris thought to himself.

He checked his phone first thing when he got up. It was dark outside,
and the birds of paradise hadn’t even begun their dawn chorus. Warm winds blew through the palms and ferns on the hillsides, and the clouds hung, reflecting the dim orange light of the city.

Ever since his break up,
Chris got up at four a.m., even on the weekends, which was ridiculous.  However, he’d been trying to stay hyper-focused on work:  mostly because it was his best source of self-confidence, and the structure of work was the one thing that gave him reprieve from his personal dramas and his otherwise near total self-indulgence. So as long as he had a rigorous work schedule and personal hygiene acumen, he felt just a little bit dignified. It was a sad and lonely life, Chris thought; but for now, he just needed to hold on until he had regained some stability.

His morning lark energy was something that Tim used to hate, since he always wanted to sleep in. Chris didn’t particularly like the feeling of getting up early, but as soon as he was awake,
he loved the morning solitude, especially in Costa Rica. Even when it was chilly, he used to love to try to snuggle under the covers with Tim, but Tim never was the cuddling type, and used to shove his arm off of him and complain that Chris was making him hot. Looking back, he should have been paying attention.

There he was;
another morning lying alone in the cold, empty bed with no one beside him but an extra pillow where Tim’s head used to be. He sighed, and checked his phone again to see if there was a text message from Mason. Nothing. Ridiculous.

He closed his eyes and made a silent prayer, “Dear God. Or Goddess. Whatever you are. It’s been a long while. I know I’m not so good at the prayer or church thing, and maybe I’m not really that good at behaving myself either. Anyway, all that aside, I still believe you’ve got to be out there. You know what I’ve been through
, and I’m just asking. Please...give me a sign. Give me something to go on. To help me know if I should stay here or move back. I don’t want to live the rest of my life alone, but if that’s what you have in store for me...”

Chris sighed with that thought. Tears welled in his eyes. He never finished the prayer, but sprang out of bed and wiped his eyes, went into the kitchen and started the coffee machine. Washing his face in the bathroom, he looked up at the mirror. His face was rounder, fatter than it had ever been. His hairline was thinning more and more every year. Who would find anything attractive in him? Ten years ago, if he’d seen himself in a bar or a club, he would have thought
, “God, what an ancient pudge.” Maybe he should just give up and move back to the U.S. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t such a bad idea. Just as he was going to make that decision, he heard his phone chime in the bedroom.

Sup. Just got ur text. Sorry, bad reception at my house. I’m Mason, Jess' friend.

Chris sighed in relief. Finally, something was going his way. He was glad Mason got up early too.

Chris thought about calling him later on, but figured since they w
ere both up, why wait? He needed to get the ball rolling.

“Hello, Mason?” he said.

“Morning,” Mason replied.  His voice was very low, his tone casual.

“Good morning, Mason, it’s Chris Whitman. I’m sorry to call so early.”

“No, it’s cool. I’m just getting ready for school.  What’s up?”

“School?”

“Yeah, so what’s up? I heard you want to train.”

“Yeah, I really need a trainer. I used to be in much better shape
, but I’ve been dealing with a lot of ... well, let’s just say, my body became my last priority.”

“I feel you. Don’t worry. I’ll get you in shape.  Guarantee it.”

“Great,” Chris said, a broad smile breaking across his face. Mason’s tone was so
laid back and open that Chris immediately felt reassured. Some kind of mountainous stability and confidence resonated in the man’s voice.

“When do you want to start?” Mason asked
, nonchalantly.

“Right away if you can, like tomorrow.”

“Sure, I can do that. What time were you thinking?”

“I get up pretty early.”

“Me too,” Mason said. “How early?”

Chris blurted
out his next question. “Would five o’clock be okay?” His eagerness was making him a little punchy, but he felt more inspired by this three minute conversation than he had since the whole breakup started.

“Damn, five is really early,” Mason laughed.

“Well, we can do later if you want.”

“No, no, five is cool. I just...
” Mason seemed to hesitate a beat. “I have to take my daughter to school by seven-thirty every day. Did you want to do it once a week or...?”

“About three or four days a week would be great,” Chris said.

“Okay, wow. Cool. You are really serious, I like that. I don’t know if Jessica told you, but I train a little differently than probably what you’re used to. I use muscle confusion:  but we can talk about that tomorrow. I train at my house and at the park not far from you. I can text you the address. I have a little gym here I set up in the garage. ”

“Yeah,” Chris nodded, “That’d be great.”

“Now Chris, I’m a hard ass about time,” Mason said authoritatively. There was nothing sympathetic in his voice:  it was a statement, not a warning or an apology. “So you be sure to...”

“Oh, yeah, no problem. I’m like
, never late.”

“Good. ‘Cause I have a two-strikes-and-you’re-out rule,” he said flatly.

“Oh, okay. Wow.” Chris felt a little surprised that a personal trainer was that militant. Most of the trainers he’d ever heard of were often simpering, compromising, constantly having to accommodate their clients if they wanted to stay in business.

“If you’re serious, you’re serious,” Mason explained. “I don’t work with people who aren’t bought in.”

“I totally understand,” Chris said. His throat felt a little dry. Mason seemed like the kind of man who was very much accustomed to being in control, comfortable with telling other people what they needed to do, and unafraid of people’s disapproval. Exactly the type of personality that made Chris twinge with a bit of curiosity, a bit of tension, and needless to say, a bit of arousal.

“So, see you tomorrow,” Mason said. “Come stop by my place tomorrow at five. I’ll text you the address.”

“Yeah, great.” Chris said excitedly. “I’ll see you at five sharp.”

S
etting up the personal training date put Chris in a good mood all day. He sailed through the pages he was writing in the thriller and stayed off the Internet, which was always a distraction for him. Facebook was his nemesis, along with
The New York Times
and YouTube. How was it that he could be writing one minute and somehow, seconds later, found himself watching a video of cats playing the piano?

His guiltiest distraction, however, was a fake profile he
'd made on Facebook a few months back. His fake name was Luis Jose Sanchez, and all the pictures were stolen from an old college friend who had a smoking hot body and a Latin baby face that he knew Tim would fall for. He only made the profile because Tim had started acting so sketchy, and Chris wanted to see if he was flirting with other guys on Facebook or somewhere else. Of course, he was. Lots of guys. As soon as “Luis”
friended
Tim, the older man was complimenting him, making comments about his package, and asking if he ever came down to Escazu. Chris, shedding tears as he continued the bizarre deception, said ‘yes’, and asked if Tim would show him a good time.

He still remembered that cheesy, fucked
-up promise Tim made: “I’ll show you more than a good time. I’ll show you eight inches.”

Chris only replied with an “lol”
, and “I’m gonna rush down.” But he immediately went into the bathroom, ran a hot bath, and sobbed into the water for hours. He’d wondered why Tim was always so distant whenever he suggested they have sex, and now he knew why.  When Tim came home that night, he acted like he was really sick, then went to bed early, and didn’t say anything about it. As the days passed, Chris continued to act like nothing was going on, until he could found some other proof that Tim was being unfaithful. It happened soon enough. Tim carelessly left his Facebook up on the computer one night. Chris found a series of messages to a couple different boys, all flirtatious or downright sexual.

He confronted Tim about it, and Tim acted as if he was the victim. He was furious that Chris had looked at his Facebook profile, and in their argument about it
, Chris held his ground for once.  This was a deal breaker:  either Tim had to stop talking to them, or it was over. Tim just laughed and said, “so be it.”

After they broke up, Chris swore he’d erase the
"Luis" profile, but he couldn’t help himself. It was his only way of seeing Tim’s profile, and his morbid curiosity, which more often than not only left him feeling miserable afterward, kept him going back to Tim’s page every day or so. He’d spend forever sadly searching through the photos, many of which still had pictures of a much younger, much fresher, much happier looking him. He wanted to move on, but it was so hard not to drown himself in memories of the past, painful as it was.

The day wore on. He ordered lunch and dinner from a Thai place
, and spent much of his afternoon actually working through a hardcopy of the manuscript.  Marking something up with a red pen was so much more satisfying than working with a document lost in the ghost-world of the Internet; words and text trapped forever in a glowing screen, untouchable and distant. With the paper copy, Chris could spread the chapters out on the living room floor, see every single section’s markups at once, then rearrange them. Things were very close to being finished: just a few more revisions, a month or so of work, and his agent would be ready to start bargaining with the publisher who had already expressed interest in the story.

Around eight, the sun was setting and Chris finally sheafed all the pages back together. He had to go online to do some research on particular streets and buildings in Portland,
as there was this whole chapter in which the protagonist was hunting down the villain at night, but Chris couldn’t remember the neighborhood well enough to do it from memory. After virtually wandering the streets of his hometown on Google earth for a minute, then writing notes on the hardcopy, he found himself in front of a cafe where Tim used to take him for lunch. Memories of the rare sunny days and moss-covered succulents of Portland made his heart sting. Back onto Facebook. He just had to find the picture of the two of them by that bridge:  the one in which Denny and Alison were with them. God, that was such a wonderful day.

A second later
, and he was once again “Luis.” He told himself he’d do this quickly since he had to get up so early and start training, and the last thing he wanted to do was wake up late on his first day. Mason did say he had a two-strikes-you’re-out-rule, and Chris had a feeling he wasn’t joking at all.

Don’t do it,
he thought, but try as he may, he wandered on absentmindedly. It had become such an unconscious habit. He couldn’t help but just want to “glance” at his ex’s wall. However, Tim’s page popped up and Chris felt his heart drop.

I’m so fucking happy. It’s so great to finally meet someone who gets you--and treats you like you deserve. Thank God after years with losers, I think I’ve found my match.

He was already dating somebody? Not just dating, head-over-fucking-heels. Tim NEVER talked like that about anybody, much less a “boy bitch”, as he so often referred to Chris when talking to his friends Alec and Justin. The idea infuriated Chris. He was clenching his teeth, breathing heavily.  He searched down through the Facebook feed from his friends and found a dozen “congratulations.” comments, but it was Justin and Alec’s comment that made him see red. They had a single-joined Facebook account with obnoxious photos of the two of them kissing. So fake, so obnoxious.

So glad you got rid of pudgy Eeyore. Jase is so much sweeter--and easy on the eyes.

Chris was so angry he thought he wanted to drive over to each of their houses and throw rocks through the windows. Instead, almost uncontrollably, he wrote a comment under “Luis”.

Haha. Congrats. He couldn’t have been that bad. You were with him for years, after all. Right?

He knew he shouldn’t have written anything, but he couldn’t help himself. It only took a few seconds for Tim to reply with his own comment.

You don’t know him. He used to be great, but after a couple years, he was just god-awful, boring, and needy. Sooo needy. I wasted 3 years of my life.

That comment stung like a knife to his chest. He could feel his eyes stinging and he had to stop himself from crying.  After all those years together, he really would dog him like that in public? He noticed that Tim set the post so that Chris couldn’t see it under his own name, and here he was, saying this awful shit to this fake name, perfect stranger about the man he once said he loved.  That was some fucked-up shit.

Chris paced the floor, feeling like suspending all his Facebook accounts completely
, but not before he said one more thing:

Well, you live, you learn. There’s two sides to every story after all.

That’s when Justin and Alec jumped in.

Two sides? Trust us. That guy was such a loser. Tim, I knew you could do so much better than that. We’ve been telling you that for years.

Chris was furious. He felt like spilling all their personal business online, such as writing about how he knew Justin couldn’t get it up anymore, or that Alec always snuck off to go to the bath houses alone and Justin had no clue about it.

That is
, until Tim wrote:

Oh, my God. Everybody, this Luis guy is actually Chris. I just checked the IP address of this profile and he made this fake profile months ago to spy on me. That is so typical paranoid, obsessive, pathetic Chris. Bitch. No wonder I left you.

Chris felt his stomach tighten. It got worse with comment after comment of Tim’s catty friends from all over the place chiming in about how fucked up it was what Chris had done. Chris couldn’t sleep the whole night, tossing and turning, thinking about whether he had dug himself to the bottom of the hole. Or how he could possibly climb out.

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CHAPTER 5

T
he next morning, Chris cracked open his eyes, and it seemed unusually light outside. He felt like shit: he had a pounding headache and immediately remembered all of the stress from the drama the night before. Pain stabbed into the back of his neck from sleeping in the wrong position all evening.

“One hot mess,” he groaned, raising a finger.

His hand fished for his phone to see what time it was, and his blurred vision became instantly clear as his eyelids peeled back in horror.

5:17 AM

Shit. He hoped that Mason was still there, as he grabbed some sweat pants and a t-shirt from the dirty clothes hamper and scrambled to put them and his sneakers on the way out the door. He even left his shoes untied as he leaped and hopped his way down the stairs of his condo and out the front gate.

As he jumped into his car, h
e looked at his text messages for the address, and he squealed out of the parking lot, rounding the corner down to Mason’s street. Thank God he didn’t live that far away: in fact, he was clearly just on the backside of Chris’s own development; probably within hearing distance of his own back yard.  He tried to call him several times on the way there, but he figured it was bad reception as usual.

Chris’s car squealed to a stop, the sides of his tires squeaking against the curb in front of Mason’s little house. As he scrambled to get
out, he noticed the garage, full of gym equipment and open to the cool, humid air, but the door was beginning to close.

“Hello?” Chris called.

“I’ll be out in a second,” answered a low, disgruntled voice inside. As the door finished closing, Chris stood waiting in his sweats, feeling awkward. Dogs barked down the street. The thrum of tropical insects, omnipresent even amid the roar of traffic in downtown Escazu, filled the morning air, cool and dewy. The house was a modest stucco split-level with a red-tiled roof. Ferns and small palms were planted all around it, and the lawn was meticulously mowed.

Sudden
ly, Chris realized:  oh my God. Those big picture windows on the side of the house? This was his favorite exhibitionist’s house. He almost ran - mortified that the neighbor would recognize him - but at that moment, the front door opened.

Out stepped the man: it could be none other than his sexy stranger. About six foot even, with broad shoulders, a cut-billed camouflage cap, sunglasses,
and a black tank top. Chocolate brown hair fell to his shoulders. He turned, locked the door, and then stood there with one hand in his pocket and the other flipping his keys in his hand.

Mason may have looked like he was appraising Chris through his aviators, but in fact
, he was just trying to suppress his irritation. It had been a chaotic mess for him to negotiate a new morning schedule with his ex-girlfriend (who was rigid and intractable at best, and downright malevolent at worst), especially when it came to their daughter. Normally, Mason helped her get ready for school and out the door so that his ex could have a little more time to get ready for her job in the morning, but now he had Chris to work with immediately before that. She knew Mason needed the money, but didn’t really care. Now the best he could do to pacify her anger was to run an errand for her before he had to take their daughter to school; she only needed a few things at the grocery store, and if Chris was going to show up late, he was going to cancel the rest of the session.

He finally walked toward Chris and sized him up: he was a handsome, friendly-looking kid, late twenties at most, but
he stood there looking as out of place and awkward as a lost little boy. His long, red-blonde hair and rosy-apple cheeks added to his youthful, almost pretty-boy appearance.

“Mason?” Chris said, “Hey
, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey man,” Mason sighed.

Then, Mason realized he recognized him: this was the pervy boy who was always watching him shower. The trainer felt his mood shift drastically.  His anger subsided for a moment, and instead he felt a mixture of embarrassment and irritation, but also a little bit of arousal: Chris was undeniably cute. Not that Mason was interested in men. Mason quickly pushed these thoughts out of his mind. He wouldn’t say anything about the shower.

They shook hands, but Mason quickly broke his grasp.

Chris looked at his watch, “I know I’m almost a half an hour late but...”

“Thirty five minutes
, actually. I told you how important punctuality is to me,” Mason said flatly, and walked around to open the door of his Toyota truck. He climbed into the seat and, to his further irritation, Chris came to the open passenger window and leaned on it like a hooker.

“I know, I really apolo
gize. It’s just that last night...” Chris began.

“Look, man. I’m not interested in excuses,” Mason said impatiently. He was doing his best to control his temper, but the entitlement of expat gringos like Chris was something that was a perpetual irritation to him the longer he lived in Costa Rica. Even though he was half-Anglo himself, his years abroad had given him a fresh perspective on how entitled and inconsiderate they could be. He felt hot, angry words burst from his
lips.