The Ugly Sister (3 page)

Chapter 7

Awakening

“Where am I?” I mutter groggily.

“Don’t worry,” says a voice above me.  I blink my eyes to clear the mental haze, and it’s then I realize a man is kneeling beside me and cradling my head while I lay sprawled out on the floor.  “An ambulance has been called.  Just try not to move or you could make your injuries worse.”

“An ambulance?!” I shoot up in a sitting position, horrified at the thought of being hauled out on a stretcher while everyone in the gym stares and judges me. 

I look around and realize it’s already too late.  Everyone in the vicinity has stopped working out to watch the fat chick who wiped out on the treadmill.  I hastily scramble to my feet.  “I’m fine, just embarrassed.  Actually,” I say, trying for humor, “I meant to do that.  Now if you’ll excuse me—“

“Wait.”  He holds on to my shoulder and I notice the
Total Impact
logo on his shirt marking him as a gym employee.  I take a good look at his face and every last remnant of my self esteem shrivels up and dies.

Of course it wouldn’t be an old janitor or a butch lesbian who would find me.  This is me we’re talking about, and since I’d just made an ass out of myself, of course the first responder would be an insanely hot guy. 

Large and buff with black hair and midnight blue eyes, he grips my shoulder firmly.  “You can’t go yet,” he says.  “We need to get you checked out to make sure you don’t have a concussion.  If you do, the gym could be liable.”

“No worries.” I pull away quickly.  “I won’t sue.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get going.”  I shuffle away before he can stop me and make a bee line for the front door.

He yells after me, “Call the gym later and let me know how you’re doing, okay?  The name’s Rio.”

“Sure!  Will do!” I yell as I run out of the gym for what I’m absolutely sure is the last time.

When Brian and I were in the early planning stages of the wedding, I signed up for yoga classes to get in shape for the big day.  I had visions of myself carrying a yoga mat everywhere I went, getting ridiculously fit, and then constantly extolling the virtues of yoga the same annoying way my sister did.

Trouble was, my first day of class, I had Indian food for lunch, which sometimes disagrees with me.  This was one of those instances, and with all the bending and stretching, I spent the first twenty minutes of class suppressing the most intense, painful gas of my life. 

We were instructed to do a pose that involved lying on your back and putting your knees up against your chest, and the minute I clasped my legs, I ripped one of the loudest, longest farts in human history.

I didn’t know what proper yoga etiquette was in this situation.  Do I say excuse me, apologize to those around me or make a joking comment?  And if it’s the latter, what might I say that would get a laugh?  No one acknowledged my faux pas in any way, and while I was deciding on the best course of action, too much time passed and it would have been strange if I commented at all.

For the remainder of the class, I felt conspicuous and ashamed, and when it was time to do a pose that required a partner to sit on your back during a prolonged back bend, everyone was quick to duck away from me and break eye contact until I was the only one standing in the room without a partner.  The lone yoga farter. 

While everyone milled around with their partners, I left my studio-issued mat on the floor, slipped out the side door and ran to my car, vowing never to speak of, or even think of, the incident ever again.

Now I would take the same approach with
Total Impact Fitness
, and maybe with exercise in general.  It seemed like every time I tried to get in shape, it only lead to humiliation. 

Maybe I should just give up once and for all.  Maybe some people just weren’t meant to exercise.  And I needed to embrace myself the way I was, then find a nice chubby chaser to embrace me, someone who would see my extra pounds as a positive.

I’m biting into a mozzarella stick and contemplating where I might meet a gentleman who prefers larger ladies when my cell phone rings.  “Hello?”

“Ember, it’s Rio.  From the gym.  You never called.”

“Oh, sorry,” I say through a mouthful of fried cheese. “I was going to call you later.”

“Well the gym is closed now.  How’s your head?”

“I told you, I’m fine.  No lumps, bruises, headaches—nothing.”

“Good, then come to the gym tomorrow morning at 8:00 and I’ll give you a complimentary training session.  We’ll talk about your fitness goals and begin to put a plan into action.  I’ll see you then.”

“Uh, okay.” 

Then he hangs up.  I stare at my phone in shock.  Who did this guy this he was? And what had I just agreed to? 

I’m not going back to that gym.  I’d already shamed myself in front of him and a whole room full of people.  There’s no way in hell I’m subjecting myself to that again.  What gave this guy the right to call my personal phone and bully me into doing something I have no intention of doing?  I call him back.

“Hello, Rio speaking,” he answers.

“Um…hi, it’s me again.  So…I won’t be coming in tomorrow.  I’ll be working on my fitness routine on my own, but I appreciate your offer.”

“What is your regime going to be like?  And what’s your diet plan?  Will it be high protein, low carb or calorie control?”

“Well…I’m just kind of taking it one day at a time.  Free-styling it as they say.”

“That’s not going to work.  If you’re serious about your health, you need a concrete diet and exercise plan.  Let’s talk about it tomorrow.  Eight o’ clock, you and me.  Be on time.”  And he hangs up.

“God damn it!”  I yell at the phone.  But I get off my bed, brush the crumbs off my chest, and make sure I have clean gym clothes for tomorrow.

Chapter 8

The Fighter

When I ask for Rio, the guy at the front desk tells me he’s in the boxing room and points to the back of the gym. 
Total Impact
is surprisingly busy for 8:00 in the morning.  It’s then I realize I’m probably here at the same time as the highly motivated exercise-before-going-to-work crowd.  A quick look at all the fit bodies around me confirms my theory. 

I make my way to the back of the room to find Rio, and he’s a sight to behold.

Yesterday I’d been so focused on my own embarrassment that I had little time to drink him in.  But standing in the doorway watching him, I’m completely mesmerized.

He’s wearing boxing gloves and a tank top that shows off massive biceps and shoulders.  He doesn’t notice me and continues wailing on the punching bag, relentlessly pounding on it with powerful blows that cause his muscles to flex and ripple.  There’s a sweaty sheen over his powerful arms and gorgeous face, and an intense focus in his dark blue eyes as he pummels the bag.

He’s a vision of masculine grace and power, and a jolt of pure lust shoots straight through me.  It makes me feel lightheaded, and for a second I get the urge to turn around and flee, but that’s when his eyes light on mine, and he smiles.  A gorgeous white smile that softens his face and makes my mind go blank.

“Ember, you came!  I wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

“I said I would, so…I try to keep my promises,” I say, trying to shake off my mental haze so I can carry on a normal conversation.

“So you’re okay after your fall?  I was worried about you.”

“The only thing I hurt was my pride—and maybe my ankle. It was a little sore this morning, but I could have just slept on in wrong.”

“Come on,” he says, leading me through the gym.  “Let’s stretch you out first.  When we work out, I’ll go easy on the ankle.”  He stops in front of a large mat and points to it.  “Lay down.”

“Aren’t you going to buy me a drink first?” I ask as I lie on my back.

He completely ignores my comment and instructs me to bring my leg up to my chest, not unlike the pose that ended my yoga career.  I make a special effort to ensure that no gasses are emitted.

He sits down next to me on the mat and holds my calf in his hands, then presses my leg down against my chest to stretch the muscle.  “How does that feel?” he asks.

Like heaven.
  His face is just inches from mine, and I suspect that I’m being bombarded by his pheromones, because I feel hot, cold and dizzy at the same time.

At 5’ 9’’, I always wished I was small and delicate like my sister.  But Rio’s tall, broad and loaded with muscle, and being close to him makes me feel tiny and feminine in comparison, not an easy feat. It’s all I can do not to pull him closer, bury my head in his neck and inhale the scent of him.  His warm sweaty skin and rich male potency.

“Are you okay?”  he asks.  “Your face looks red.”

“It’s nothing.”  I say, searching for an excuse. “Just a hot flash.  I get them sometimes.”

He gives me an odd look and presses down on my other leg, sending a pool of liquid heat straight to my sex.  “Okay!” I say, scootching away.  “That’s enough. I think I’m fully stretched now.  Let’s get this workout started.”

We’ve just finished a series of squats, lunges, planks, crunches and bicep curls.  I’m gulping down water and catching my breath when he says, “I noticed on your registration that your first name is listed as Ember, but on the driver’s license we have on file, it says December.”

“Yeah, my real name is December but I shortened it to Ember as a kid.”

“A nickname?  Ah,
De
cember.  I get it now.  What made you change it?”
I shrug.  “Well, my last name is Snowe, so together the whole thing sounds kind of corny.  December Snowe?  My sister’s name is April—April Snowe—and she totally rocks it. But me?”  I shake my head.  “Ember suits me better.”

“You stick with me and I’ll make you into a new woman.  You’re already a very pretty girl.  Even now you could be a plus size model.”

“Uh, thanks.  I think.”

“Or maybe not a plus size model, not yet,” he continues.  “I think you need to lose a little weight before that could happen.”

I give him a sharp look and he holds up his hands.  “I only say that because most plus size models are thin. Regular models are unnaturally thin.  No one looks like that, and most of them aren’t healthy.  Plus size models tend to look like ordinary girls—most of them don’t even look overweight, so I find it strange that they’re called plus size.  But if you lose some weight, you can look like an ordinary girl who models—a plus size model—that’s what I’m trying to say.”

“Okay,” I say, deciding to take it as a poorly worded compliment.  “I know it’s going to take some work, but what I want, what I really, really want, is to be a size four.”  I think of the tiffany blue dress my sister wore to the wedding.  When I moved into April’s apartment, I found it in her closet.  I checked the tag and saw that it was a size four, then just to torture myself, I held it against myself in the mirror.  It was so small in comparison to my body that it might as well have been a child’s size.

But now, standing in the gym in my new workout clothes, my limbs feeling like jelly after an hour of intense exercise, the thought of asking my sister to borrow her dress someday doesn’t seem completely impossible.

Rio is standing with his hands on his hips, nodding at me thoughtfully.  “I’ve trained a lot of people, and I can usually tell right away if they have what it takes to meet their goals.  And you?”  He nods.  “I believe in you—you have what it takes.  You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because just yesterday, you fell off that treadmill right over there and passed out on the floor.”

“Yeah, I really didn’t need to be reminded of that.”

“Yet you came back the very next morning and pushed yourself to the limit without one complaint.  I saw in your face how hard this was for you—especially the plank—and yet you pushed yourself all the way through it.”

I’ve seen enough episodes of
The Biggest Loser
to know that the fat people always cried when they first started working out, and it’s not attractive, so I tried to power through it without breaking down or freaking out.

Rio nods approvingly, and it makes me way happier than it should.  “Right now you’re Ember Snowe, and Ember is very beautiful and very strong.  But train with me, and I’ll turn you into
December
Snowe.  You’ll be a fitter, healthier, more confident version of yourself, and you will be a knock out.  You’ll have men eating out of your hand.”

“I just want to be a size four,” I say, thinking of my sister’s dress. “I know it’s a long shot, but that’s my goal.”

“Why is that a long shot?” he asks, and before I can answer he says, “You see that woman over there?”  He points to someone who’s tan, cut and probably 0% body fat tearing it up on a weight machine.  Her level of fitness seems completely unattainable, and I feel depressed again. 

“I think you’re losing me here Rio, you might want to go another direction with the pep talk.”

“This isn’t a pep talk, December. You listen to me.”  He puts his hands on my shoulders, his face inches from mine as looks me directly in the eyes.  “There’s only one difference between you and her, understand?  It’s up here.”  He touches my temple.  “She wasn’t born physically superior to you.  She has a different attitude—that’s the only difference.  And it makes a big difference, doesn’t it?  So you change this.”  He touches my temple again, sending a frission of energy through me.  “And you change all this.” He gives me a quick, clinical look up and down, then meets my eyes again.  “You got it?”

His closeness, intensity and belief in me are overpowering, so it’s all I can do to hold his gaze and nod my head.

“Good.”  He smiles.  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”