One

When I think of food, I think of flavors. A melting pot of flavors.

Flavors that stimulate and excite the palate. It amazes me how the
commingling of the simplest ingredients could transform itself
into a recipe so delectable, making it impossible to forget. Imagine
simmering tomatoes, garlic, and herbs into a classic marinara
sauce. Or churning cream, sugar, and eggs into ice-cream. Or
kneading flour, water, and yeast into a loaf of bread that would
tickle your nostrils as it bakes in a wood-fired oven.
Have you ever savored a concoction so divine that it’s
impossible to repress your inner emotions? Ahem. Guilty here.
Constant offender, I must add. My face would turn orgasmic,
twisting and moaning over everything that titillates my taste buds.
Escargot roasted in garlic and butter parsley. Mmm. Braised beef
short ribs in red wine atop a heaping pile of creamy polenta.
Mmm. Or better yet, a bowl of piping hot Ramen with all the
fixings. One in particular: the spicy tonkotsu Ramen—BBQ pork,
steamed cabbage, black mushroom, ginger, seasoned egg, and
sesame seed, all meticulously arranged on a bed of firm ramen
noodles, swimming in a bowl of hot and savory spicy pork broth.
Mmm. So comforting. So umami. My thoughts drifted, mentally
slurping and savoring the soupy creation on a cold wintry night
until a sneeze broke out, jerking me back to the present. I
swallowed and blinked hard, glancing to my left to see a woman a
couple of seats down dabbing her nose with a tissue.
“Ask yourself why you want to do this.” I snapped my gaze
back to the fifty-year-old co-founder of Fit20, Carl, who was
slowly pacing back and forth in front of the room before a couple
dozen of us sitting in white plastic folding chairs, which I deemed
too precarious under our respective weight. But to my surprise, it
held up well. Not like the flimsy ones you get from Walmart that
could barely support an average adult they had claimed it would.
Talk about false advertisement! I shook my head. My mind was
wandering again. Somehow the spiel Carl was making couldn’t
seem to grasp my full attention.
“Who are you doing this for?” Carl followed it with another
question. “Yourself ? Your loved ones?” I’m not quite sure, I thought
with a twist to my mouth. And how much longer was this
orientation going to last? I was bored out of my freaking mind
listening to his lectures on weight-loss. There was only so much
one could cover about diets and exercises before it became
tedious.
“So, would any of you like to share why you’d consider joining
the program?” Carl asked, sweeping his gray eyes over the entire
room. He had a caring disposition that felt truly genuine. At least
that was the vibe I got from studying him for the past forty
minutes as he educated us about the program. Or could it be a
facade to fool us into believing that he cared so he could coax us
into joining the challenge to maximize his bonus? He had claimed
that he was once a victim of obesity and almost died of a heart
attack, but I wondered if any of those stories were even true or
just plain fabricated to his advantage.
Several hands shot up in the row before me. Carl selected one
and asked the potential member to stand and face the rest of us,
so he did. The portly man was of average height, in his late thirties,
sparsely graying at the temples, and sporting an oversize green T-
shirt with black sweat shorts held up by an elastic drawstring
waistband. I roughly estimated him at two hundred and eighty
pounds.
“Hi, I’m Stan,” he began nervously, voice straining. “I plan on
joining this program because I want to become healthy and active
again.”
“Thank you, Stan,” Carl said. “Is there someone in particular
whom you’re doing this for?”
“Yes. My son, who just turned ten,” Stan answered. “He’s at
an age where he likes to spend time outdoors, playing football or
baseball, and I want to be able to do that with him someday.”
“Thank you for sharing, Stan,” Carl said appreciatively. Stan
nodded before reclaiming his seat, the chair squeaking in his wake.
While another person got up to share their story, my eyes
drifted down to the blue and yellow weight-loss pamphlet in my
hand that was passed out to us at the beginning of the orientation.
Two healthy females graced the cover, lifting dumbbells above
their heads. Fit20 was headlined at the top and below it read,
“Take the Challenge!”
I opened and pored over the pamphlet. The challenge was
straightforward. Once you’ve made a deposit of five hundred
bucks, you were required to lose twenty pounds within seven
weeks under their eating and exercise plan, which meant I would
have to go on a strict diet. Just thinking about it left a bad
aftertaste in my mouth. Shedding the required twenty pounds and
reaching a healthy body max index would guarantee every cent
back. If not, you’d have to wave your five Benjamins goodbye.
My stomach growled intrusively, causing my breath to catch
and my eyes to goggle with embarrassment. The two attendees
sitting on either side of my chair shot me a side-glance.
“Sorry,” I whispered sheepishly. I knew I should’ve snacked
on something before attending the orientation, but with me
already running late, I’d dismissed the idea completely when I
jetted out of the house this morning. A breakfast sandwich from
McDonald’s would’ve appeased my hunger for the time being.
Mmm. I could savor it right now. A warm sausage patty with egg,
on top of melted American cheese, between two slices of toasted
English muffin.
My stomach rumbled once more.
Oh, god.
Daydreaming about food didn’t help the situation; it only
exacerbated the problem. Where was the snack size Rice Krispies
Treats when I needed one? Oh, yeah. I killed the last two pieces
while streaming a horror movie last night from the convenience
of my own home.
Stop growling! I chided inwardly when my stomach refused to
cooperate, releasing another cry of hunger. Sighing, I shifted in
my seat and ignored its protest as I glanced down at the brochure
on Body Max Index (BMI). The chart would tell me base on my
height and weight where my body fat status was right now. Let’s
see…
Height? 5’3”
Weight? Hmm.
The last time I weighed myself was eight months ago, and I
was at my heaviest at 165. Like a multiplication table, I intersected
my weight and height to find my answer waiting for me.
With a BMI of 29, the chart confirmed that I was in fact
overweight, as expected. Whew! That was close. Five more
pounds would’ve rolled me over to the obese category and
destroyed what was left of my paltry ego. A semblance of relief
washed over me.
“This program takes commitment,” Carl recaptured my
attention once again, and my head shot up. “If you can’t commit
yourself to at least five days a week, one hour a day of exercise,
then this challenge isn’t for you. Getting fit takes time and effort.
There’s no easy fix.” Five days a week? That was asking too much.
Lugging my son in and out of the car took a fraction less but still
exerted enough energy to earn a power nap.
His eyes surveyed the room again. “We all have our reasons
to lose weight. The question is: why do you want to lose weight?
Why is it important to you? And are you ready for the
commitment?” He lifted a finger. “Remember, you have to be
committed in order for our program to work. This challenge will
not work if you lack the dedication and drive needed to succeed.
We will give you a hundred percent support as long as you give us
yours. If you are determined to change your lifestyle and begin a
journey towards a new you, then you are ready to join our
program. And we are ready to help you accomplish your goal. All
you have to do now is sign up with one of our trainers at the
desk.” He motioned his hand toward the corner of the room
where four of the trainers stood side by side with a wide stance,
their hands linked behind their back and silent the entire time,
giving Carl their undivided attention. Three females and one male,
intimidatingly fit and sporting their dark gray Fit20 logo T-shirt.
“They’ll happily take care of you and answer any questions
regarding our program,” Carl offered. “So, without further ado, I
just want to thank every single one of you in here for coming in
and allowing me the opportunity to share my story and hopefully
inspire you to step up and take the challenge. I look forward to
seeing you guys at our kickoff event this Sunday to jumpstart your
journey towards a healthier lifestyle. Once again, I deeply
appreciate your time. Thank you very much.” His hands clasped
as he concluded his earnest speech with a warm, encouraging
smile.
Applause and cheers from the trainers spurred everyone in
their seats to promptly give Carl a standing ovation—except for
me. I remained skeptical, wondering if Carl had paid these
wannabe models for the day to deceive us into thinking we could
possibly turn out like them someday.
 Highly doubt it.
I despised false advertisement, so I wasn’t going to have him
sucker me into joining.
People were shuffling about now, some heading toward the
sign up desk where the fab four were ready to assist with
applications, some approaching Carl for further questioning, and
some were intuitively doubtful of the program—like me—so they
quietly slipped out of the front door and spared themselves five
big ones. I too was gearing toward the third option, but I decided
to call my best friend, Brie, to give her the news first before
booking out of the room.
“Did you sign up?” she answered her phone excitedly.
“Um, not yet,” I told her, looking on from the opposite side
of the room as more people stood in line with their clipboards in
hand and signing their diet away. “I’m not sure if I wanna spend
five hundred bucks on something that’s not guaranteed.”
“Oh, come on. You squandered five hundred bucks on a
Michael Kors bag, and you’re not even getting anything in return.”
“At least he makes me happy,” I stated.
She exhaled from her end. “Just sign up, and I promise you’ll
never regret it.”
I pressed my lips and hummed with uncertainty, observing as
a woman breezily handed a credit card to one of the four trainers
to process. “I don’t know.”
“Just do it,” she urged. “Do it for yourself. Do it for Max. You
have so many reasons to do it.”
“Um. Maybe I should sleep on it first.” I was already losing
interest in the topic and picking at the lint on my blue V-neck top.
“No!” she barked, standing her ground, and I jerked my
attention back to the phone. “You promised you would join once
I lose my twenty pounds. That was the deal.”
“Well…” I drawled. “I didn’t think you were gonna follow
through with it.”
 “Yeah. Thanks to your encouragement.” I sensed her
sarcasm.
“Look. I’m happy and proud of you for achieving your goal,
but I love food. I’m thinking about food as we speak. And twenty
pounds in seven weeks is ridiculous. I don’t think I can do it. You
know how challenging that is?”
“I did it.”
“Well…” I drawled again. “You’re bigger than me.”
“Hey, watch it.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just stating a fact, that’s all.” And Brie knew
how direct I was where honesty was concerned. “It’s easier for you
to lose more weight compared to me.”
“Trust me. If I can do it, so can you. And for the record, I
lost 35.5 pounds, and I broke the record,” she shared confidently
before adding haughtily, “Most likely I’m lighter than you by now.”
My brow furrowed. “That’s impossible.”
“I’m 165.”
“So am I.”
“That was ages ago. I’m not surprised if you’re in the 170s by
now because your muffin top is much more prominent
nowadays.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. “Shut up!” It came out vehemently,
causing a dozen heads to turn in my direction. With eyes wide, I
whirled around in my strappy sandals, my chocolate brown hair
whipping across my cheek, and faced the wall like a kid on
timeout. “That is messed up,” I hissed into the phone.
Brie’s laugh subsided on the other end of the line. “I’m just
kidding.” But I knew she wasn’t, because Brie was also someone
who didn’t like sugarcoating. It took one to know one.
“That’s not funny,” I rebuked. “You know how sensitive I am
about my stomach.” After delivering my son, my belly hadn’t been
the same—soft and loose with faint stretch marks that were
unpreventable even with the use of cream or cocoa butter. Along
with the weight gain, the pooch was a constant reminder of what
I’d sacrificed to become a mother.
“Okay. I’m sorry,” she apologized sincerely. “I didn’t mean it.
But you promised. And you know I am just as sensitive about
someone breaking a promise as you are to anyone commenting on
your stomach. You feel me?” She had me ruminating, recalling
how I made the promise after she was three weeks into the
program. But she also had me at a disadvantage. I was going
through so much with my husband, Mark, that I agreed to her
onslaught of pressure just to get her off my back. I’d forgotten all
about it until she broached the subject after her final weigh-in. I
tipped my face up and sighed, wishing she hadn’t made weight just
so I wouldn’t be caught in this predicament. What to do, what to
do?
“Congratulations on taking your first step into becoming a
new you,” said one of the chirpy trainers with her mahogany hair
pulled back into a sleek ponytail, who’d just processed my
application and now extending her hand as a welcoming gesture
to my entrance into the challenge.
Baring a tight smile, I shook her hand tentatively. “Thank
you.”
Goodness gracious. Realization suddenly struck me once I
drifted out of the gym the orientation was held at. What have I
done? Did I just sign my diet away? I’d witnessed the kind of food
Brie was encouraged to eat while on the challenge and believe you
me, it was nothing worth gorging over. How was I going to survive
the next seven weeks on such limitations? I loved food. Hot food,
cold food, junk food, soul food. Anything edible with an
explosion of flavors. My life revolved around food. How could I
stick to the program if food were constantly on my mind?
Frustration clawed at me, and my diet hadn’t even started yet. Why
did I let Brie coerce me into this mess? I made one stupid promise
and she had to use it against me. It was just like making a promise
to a child—they never forget about it and would keep badgering
you until you followed through with your words. I should’ve been
assertive and told Brie that promises were meant to be broken—
just like a marriage vow—but it was too late now. I’d already
signed the form of doom. I wouldn’t be getting my money back
unless I lost enough weight to fall into the healthy BMI category.
The issue left me in a state of distress. I needed a snack. Pronto.

Pulling into the driveway of my three-bedroom bungalow style

home, I cut the engine and climbed out of my car, inhaling the
smell of freshly cut grass that had permeated the late-spring air
around me. I loved my home in Curtis Park—a quaint
neighborhood located within the city of Sacramento, California.
Properties around here consisted of vintage homes built in the
early 1900s, which I found very charming because they were
unique and had character. However, some of the dried-out lawns
could use a makeover; the watering restrictions had taken a toll on
them.
Rounding my lawn, I headed toward my neighbor’s house and
knocked on the sage green door. The succulent jade plant in the
corner of the porch held my attention until the door swung open.
“Hey, you’re back early,” chirped my sixty-three-year-old
neighbor, Fay, in her worn-out blue cotton robe, opening at the
front. The yellow T-shirt she wore against her milk chocolate skin
read, “All You Need Is Lava” meant laundry time was in session.
Heeling by her side was her white Pomsky, Posh, wagging his tail.
“Not early enough. It was a dreadful orientation,” I said and
entered casually, glancing around the eclectic living room: an oval
glass coffee table, busy floral pattern armchair, antique gilded
lamp atop a modern side table, and different styles of picture
frames masking the large wall behind the taupe color sofa.
“Where’s Max?” I asked when my little boy was nowhere to
be seen.
 “He’s napping in the bedroom,” she said, and I immediately
strode down the hall to check up on my baby.
My three-year-old son, Max, was in the guest bedroom and
lightly snoring on the mattress while gripping his crocheted,
snowy owl baby blanket that Brie had custom ordered for him
before his arrival into the world. I smiled through the crack of the
door, knowing that he was safe and sound in a pair of trusting
hands.
Fay was frying chicken when I strolled into her kitchen. The
street tacos I had after the orientation were satisfying, but the
bubbling sound of hot peanut oil and the aromatic spices (garlic
powder, cayenne pepper, paprika) wafting through the air had
effectively revved up my appetite once again.
A wisp of steam broke free as I bit into Fay’s better-than-KFC
crispy fried chicken leg. My face twisted, moaning and savoring
the piece of perfection that came fresh out of the fryer only
minutes prior.
Mmm. Orgasmic face.
Posh was docilely perching on the dining chair across from
me, witnessing while I indulged. It was a bad habit of his, always
observing closely for that glimpse of opportunity where I wasn’t
looking to leap from his seat and snag the food from my hand. I
needed to keep a vigilant eye on him while I ate.
Fay was still in the kitchen wiping down her quartz counter
when I heard the cabinet door creaking. “You want a glass of
water?” she asked.
I swallowed my food and turned my head, looking past the
peninsula to where she was standing and already reaching for a
glass tumbler. “Got any soda?”
She shook her head. “I’ve got prune juice.” The cabinet
creaked shut with a thud.
“Um, I’ll have water, thank you.” No debate needed. Fried
chicken and prune juice didn’t pair well together. But always trust
Fay to have prune juice on hand, thanks to her irregular bowel
movements that she’d claimed worsened with age.
She filled the glass under the water dispenser, then placed it
on the table before me, swatting Posh off the chair and taking his
seat as she did. His paws clicked as he strutted his fluffy butt
toward the bench below the windowsill where he would usually
do his people watching, car watching, dog watching, or just plain
daydream about whatever it was that dogs daydreamed about.
“Arf!”
“So, when does this program begin again?” Fay asked.
“My initial weigh-in is this Sunday. Which mean I have forty-
eight hours to cheat,” I told her between chewing, shielding my
mouth, because talking with your mouth full is bad table etiquette.
“Why would you want to cheat if you’re planning to lose
weight?”
“Because going on a diet sucks,” I said from minimal
experience. “So I want to at least have my fill before I die of
starvation.”
“Okay.” She chuckled. “If you want to put it that way. Good
luck.”
“Thank you. I’m gonna need it. I hate working out.”
“I feel you. I don’t like working out either.” She folded her
arms on the table. “My joints hurt just from getting in and out of
the car alone,” she said and then sighed. “But I have to be active,
otherwise I’d be a useless sack of potato.” Leaning forward, she
regarded me with a sober look. “This will be good for you,
Melanie. You’re still young, and you’re very beautiful. Don’t let
that go to waste. You should keep yourself healthy. And a healthy
life makes a happy life.” Just like always, her big expressive brown
eyes exuded love and concern for my well-being. Even with my
mouth stuffed, I smiled at the notion. Only Fay could easily turn
a few sentences into something deep and thought-provoking,
cinching at my heart. She was a wise person, indeed. And the salt
and pepper, curly bob she’d recently had trimmed really
complemented the lovely person within her.
I swallowed my food. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her eyes flicked down at my plate and
noted the lone leg bone devoid of anything edible because wasting
food was against my religion. “You want another piece?” she
asked as I was tearing into my second drumstick.
“Sure.” She left her seat and returned with not one, but two
more juicy drumsticks for me to grub on. I smiled appreciatively.

Fridays were always hard for me. Ever since Mark and I separated,
we agreed on shared custody just for Max’s sake. Even with me
resenting him, I still preferred that he remained active in Max’s
life. My son deserved time with his father.
I parked my white crossover and waited for Mark at our drop-
off point—a vast parking lot of a bustling shopping plaza. It was
a balmy afternoon, and people were taking advantage of the soft
breeze, enjoying lunch out on the covered patio.
“What are you watching, sweetie?” I asked Max, looking into
the rearview mirror to see my son in his car seat with a tablet over
his lap, engrossing in one of his favorite cartoons.
“Timmy!” he cried, swinging his legs, a mop of sandy brown
hair falling over his forehead—the same shade as his dad’s.
Chuckling, I shifted my attention and addressed my face in
the mirror. My deep-set hazel eyes looked dull against my fair skin.
The dark circles around it had diminished substantially after
regaining a normal sleeping habit that had eluded me since the
revelation of Mark’s affair. Just the thought of it had bile creeping
up my throat.
Heaving a sigh, I checked the time on my phone. It was one
fifteen in the afternoon. He was late for the third time in a row;
our drop-off time was one o’clock. Where the hell could he be? I
glanced impatiently around the lot for Mark’s car. Momentarily, a
black sedan pulled into a parking space not too far from mine.
“Finally,” I huffed as I climbed out of my car, already peeved
as I stalked to meet him halfway. We stopped face to face. “You’re
late.”
“I was stuck in traffic,” he countered back a lame excuse.
I folded my arms over my chest. “Maybe if you’d leave on
time you wouldn’t have to give me your bullshit excuse.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I’m here, alright.” He strode past me
toward my crossover.
“No. It’s not alright,” I chewed out, following him. “Y’know
what… I don’t even know why we even agreed on shared custody
if you can’t even keep your priorities straight. It’s apparent that
you’re starting to lose interest in him.”
“Hey.” His head whipped my way, eyes hardening. “I love my
son, okay. And I don’t need lectures from someone who neglected
to keep her family intact.”
My breath caught, and my eyes grew wide. “FYI, I did not put
us in this predicament.”
“You wanted the divorce, not me.” He pulled the car door
handle and swung it open. His voice and expression softened as
he faced Max. “Hey, Max.”
“Daddy!” My son bounced in his seat.
Mark hoisted him up and onto his hip. Even the dimples from
Max’s grin couldn’t rein in the anger that had ignited inside me.
“Yeah. Blame others for your doing. You selfish a-hole.”
“Hey!” he barked, our glares exchanging in silence. His green
irises used to charm me to no end, but now all I saw was red.
“A-hole,” Max mimicked, diffusing the embittered tension.
“See what you’ve done,” Mark said.
“He doesn’t know what it means.”
“It doesn’t matter. I do.”
“Good.”
 His eyes narrowed as he reached in to pluck the car seat,
which somehow got caught in the process. Instead of looking into
the problem, he repeatedly yanked at it without a sign of patience
and to no avail.
I sighed in annoyance. “Hold on, you moron.” I shoved him
away from my car.
“Will you quit it with the name calling.”
“Fine, you imbecile,” I grunted, working on the belt.
“Seriously?”
After extricating the car seat from the buckle, I straightened
up and slicked the strands of hair behind my ear before turning
to Max.
“Bye, sweetie. Mommy’s gonna miss you.” I leaned in and
kissed his rosy cheek, faintly marred by the side effects of eczema.
“Be a good boy and give your dad a hard time.”
“Melanie,” Mark warned icily. With a resentful sneer, I
stepped aside, allowing Mark to pluck the car seat freely, and
watched as he made the short walk toward his sedan with Max and
his Despicable Me Minions backpack in tow. My son grinned over
his shoulder and offered me a one-arm flail before his dad planted
him inside the car. I sighed pensively as Mark drove out of the
parking lot and into the street. His license plate shrunk from my
line of sight, denoting the dreadful solitary weekend ahead.

The frozen meal section in the freezer aisle was one of my long-
term weaknesses. I loved cooking, but ever since Max came along,
it wasn’t much of a priority anymore. Of course, I still cooked,
but the convenience of microwavable foods and take-outs
outweighed the time and effort it took to churn out a wholesome
meal. Which explained why I added weight to my once ideal frame.
Processed foods after processed foods could be disastrous to your
waistline. I grabbed the box of frozen lasagna that I’d been
deliberating over for a good minute and tossed it in the cart along
with the rocky road ice-cream and jalapeno poppers. Three-course
dinner for one!
My night ended with a glass of red as I curled up on my
powder blue, mid-century modern couch and watched the latest
episode of The Bachelor. I think I’d outgrown the show by now
as I found my head lolling and my eyelids fluttering shut from
boredom before the rose ceremony came around. Who was going
to receive a rose and move on to the next episode? And who was
going home crying onscreen? I didn’t give a rat’s ass anymore.

It was close to three in the afternoon when I entered my house,

humming and clutching a bag of grocery that I had picked up after
attending a friend’s high tea baby shower. The audio from the TV
resounded throughout the living room, but I dismissed it and
made my way past the Tudor arch toward the kitchen.
I set the grocery bag on the granite kitchen island and
unloaded it, placing the egg carton beside the dirty plates
neglected on the counter.
“Really?” I muttered as I transferred the dishes to the sink.
Before I could reach the fridge with my egg carton in hand, a
woman’s muffled moan stopped me in my tracks. I paused,
frowning and straining to differentiate the sounds coming from
around me. Setting the carton back on the counter, I crept my way
down the hall leading to the bedrooms. The moans and groans
from both parties amplified with every heart-pounding step I
took. The door to the master bedroom was left ajar, so I pushed
anxiously, and what I encountered next confirmed every wife’s
worst nightmare. I froze in horror, my eyes and skin prickling with
shock.
Tears were rolling down my cheeks. Flush against the wall of
the hall, my trembling hand clasped over my mouth, silencing the
scream that could shatter a million glasses.
How could he?
 How could she?
How could they?
Behind my back.
I never saw it coming. I never would’ve imagined my own
husband cheating on me.
With her.
That bitch.
That slut.
That homewrecker.
My vision started to blur. The tightness in my chest became
unbearable. I couldn’t breathe. I felt suffocated. The spaces
around me were closing in. I couldn’t focus anymore. My mind
clouded as the rage inside me intensified, fueled by their betrayal.
My blood boiled.
Hotter and hotter and hotter…
And I snapped.
I stalked into the kitchen, then pulling open the top drawer, I
grabbed the chef ’s knife, having every intention on ending them
both. I’d stab him in the back first, immobilizing his adulterous
limbs before plunging the knife into her wretched heart and watch
them suffer before me. Clenching my jaw, I tightened my grip
around the handle as I pictured their demise: blood oozing from
their traitorous, lifeless corpse. They would pay for their
transgression. Atone for their sins and the pain they’d inflicted
upon me. I was firm on seeing it through, but something hindered
my resolve when I spun around: the one person that mattered to
me most.
My baby.
A happy, carefree photo of Max pinned up on the fridge
twisted at my heart and had me sobbing anew.
“Max.”
Immediately, I took a deep purifying breath and cleared my
conscience. The repercussions for committing the crime raced
through my mind. The thought of me landing in the slammer and
abandoning my only precious son swung to the forefront. I’d
promised to always love him and care for him, cherish him as long
as I could, but how was that possible if I was incarcerated for
second-degree murder. What kind of mother would I be? A
useless mother? A mother my son would resent in the future due
to my lack of presence? I couldn’t do that to my baby. He meant
the world to me, so I would do anything to keep him happy and
safe in my arms.
I felt my resolve slipping, as did the knife in my hand as it
clanged against the tile floor, jolting me out of my state.
Conveniently, the egg carton grabbed my attention, so I snatched
it, storming out of the kitchen and down the hall, then kicked the
bedroom door open.
“Oh, shit!” Mark cried, glancing over his shoulder as he was
screwing the homewrecker from behind.
“You assholes!” With an egg already clutched in my hand, I
hurled it across the room.
CRACK!
“Ow!” It smacked him right in the back, and he tumbled off
the bed and thudded on the hardwood floor.
The homewrecker snapped out of her daze and whirled
around, shrilling as the next shell catapulted her way.
CRACK!
“Ow!” Right in the face. Take that, bitch!
“What the fuck!” Mark barked, scrabbling for his boxers.
CRACK!
“Ow!” Right in the chest as he was frantically pulling on his
boxers. “Are you insane?”
Slits of hatred glowered at his barely clad frame, seething
from the sight of his two-timing boner. Was I insane?
“No, honey! I’m just a tad bit distraught, that’s all!”
Furious, I fired another round.
 CRACK!
Then another, alternating between the two.
CRACK!
Repeatedly.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The two shrieked and groaned, dodging my attack as they
scrambled to get their clothes on.
That was over four months ago. A week after the new year.
One of the worst moments of my entire life.

I stirred awake on the couch. The TV was still running, so I clicked

it off and dragged myself down the hall toward my bedroom—
the one I used to share intimately with Mark. I’d replaced the
disgusting mattress a couple of months ago in hopes of
eliminating any thoughts of him, but I hadn’t been able to
convince myself to sleep in here. Every time I entered the room,
the image of them and their misconduct would torment me, and
I would end up in tears for hours on end. Fortunately, time had
mitigated the pain, emotionally and mentally. I’d learned to cope
with the nightmare that once drowned me in grief and kept me
desolate.
I did my morning ritual in the en suite bathroom: relieved my
bladder, brushed my teeth, showered.
Opening the cabinet for a roll of toilet paper, I spotted a
Sonicare brush head nestled in the corner and immediately
recognized it as Mark’s. Grabbing the brush, I lobbed it across the
room where it landed in the Amazon box beside the door that was
aptly labeled “Mark’s Shit.”

Drawing the curtains open, the sunlight spilled into the family
room and adjoining kitchen, livening up the atmosphere of the
once cluttered and uninviting home of my clients. Prior to the
open house, I had the owners store everything that they had
hoarded for the past ten years in the storage unit, leaving only the
necessary furniture that I had used as part of the staging process.
After several days of sweeping, vacuuming, rearranging furniture,
and other minor touch-ups, the place was immaculately ready for
a successful open house. No doubt about it. I’d been a realtor for
seven years now, ever since I turned twenty-one, so there was no
home I couldn’t sell in and out of Sacramento. Homeowners were
referred to me because they knew I could stage and hook
prospective buyers into making an offer. I loved what I do.
A glass vase of beautifully arranged spring flowers consisting
of pink and white tulips, tiger lilies, and lilacs were placed on the
farmhouse dining table that was already set with plates and
chargers and silverware as if dinner were about to be served.
Throw pillows were fluffed up for good measure, and homemade
M&M’s chocolate chip cookies were browning in the oven,
preparing to whet the buyers’ interest. I wished I could say that I
made them myself, but I didn’t. Fay graciously did. She was always
ready and willing to help where cooking was concerned. And who
was I to object her sweet offer.
Potential home buyers and agents started showing up by nine
a.m. to view the home. One after another, couples and families
entered and exited the house, some with Fay’s cookie in hand.
“I love this kitchen,” said a husband as he tested the soft-close
drawer, opening and closing it repeatedly. He was Caucasian, and
his wife looked to be Chinese and petite. They were somewhere
in their early thirties. As much as he complimented the kitchen,
his wife was opposed to the layout.
“It’s beautiful, but the positioning of the kitchen sink is
inauspicious,” she said, grazing the marble counter. “It’s bad feng
shui and not good for marriage.” I looked on as she regaled to her
husband about certain family members or friends who had ended
up in a divorce because of bad kitchen layout. Interesting. If I
could, I would’ve told her it didn’t take a kitchen layout to end a
marriage. It took a selfish third party. But who was I to interject?
I was only an agent trying to get the house off the market, and
soon.
By the end of the day, I’d met over a dozen prospective buyers
and deemed the open house a success. I’d received three
competitive offers. One was accepted by the owners at five
percent more than the asking price. Loved the existing seller’s
market.
Before heading home, I decided to take advantage of my
clients’ free-form pool. Toeing my heels off, I dipped my legs into
the cool shimmering water and basked in the ray of light as I bit
into Fay’s colorful chocolate chip cookie, which I had hid just for
this occasion.
My phone buzzed just seconds after I finished the cookie.
Pulling it out of my blazer pocket, I checked the notification. It
was a text from a college friend of mine, Ally.
Ally: You busy tonight?
Me: No. What’s up?
Ally: Meet up later for drinks?
I deliberated for a minute, pursing my lips. A drink didn’t
sound too bad. Besides, I deserved a reward after such a
productive day.
Me: Sounds good 😀

Ally was a close friend of mine who I’d met in my first year of
junior college. We were contemporary in age and had hit if off
since the day we sat next to each other in Accounting 101.
Eventually, we decided that accounting wasn’t our passion, so she
studied toward nursing and became a registered nurse while I
found myself interested in selling real estate. She was also a social
butterfly. Her stories were always interesting, if not elaborate. Just
like Brie, she would always make me laugh when I was in need of
cheering up, especially as of late.
 “And then he pretended like he accidentally dropped his
towel, and I was like ‘hello,’” Ally shared with a twinkle of
amusement in her sparkling brown eyes. “He was hung! Like,
OMG!” She thrust her arm up and used it as a comparison.
“Horsewang!”
My eyebrows knitted as I laughed at the simulation of her
gagging on his monster cock. That was Ally. Never uncomfortable
about her sensuality. I noticed the guy occupying the barstool next
to her constantly glancing down. Most likely checking her out in
that red backless number that was partially concealed by her
lustrous black hair.
“So, did he stay over that night?” I asked, resting my head
against my fist with my elbow propped up on the counter.
“Nope.” She shook her head. “He had to fly out to Chicago.
But we had fun that night.” She took a sip from her martini glass
then popped a mini pretzel between her luscious red lips. Ally had
a strong personality, always outspoken and confident. Not to
mention, exotic and slim with flawless olive skin tone, attributed
from her Spanish mother and her father’s too many to mention
ethnic background. Before I met Mark, we used to bar hop and
hang out at nightclubs because men would offer us free drinks in
exchange for our company. Majority of the time, they would ask
for our numbers, which I’d refuse to give out because I knew this
was a routine for them—go hang out at nightclubs in search of a
potential one-night stand. If they got lucky, they’d have one girl
who would accept their offer. But I couldn’t and wouldn’t be that
girl who was giving out free samples in hopes of finding one who
was willing to purchase. Ally, on the other hand, didn’t believe in
happy endings, so anything went.
“I’m meeting up with him again tonight. We’re gonna hit the
club. You should join us,” she offered as she was texting.
“Um… I can’t.” I swirled the skinny red straw in my tall
cocktail glass.
 “Why not?” She set the phone down on the bar counter and
turned her attention back to me.
“I’m tired,” I lied, averting my gaze to the giant vodka bottle
on the top lit up display shelf behind the cute but excessively
tattooed bartender who was shaking up another cocktail.
“Oh. Come on,” she said, crinkling her perfectly threaded
eyebrows. “You’re not tired.”
“I am. I hosted an open house today. It was a lot of work.”
“You’re lying. I know you.” Her eyes were fixed on mine,
studying me intently.
Rolling my eyes, I sighed in defeat. “Fine. I’m not tired. I’m
just lazy. Lazy to dress up. Lazy to spruce up. Lazy to do anything.
I just wanna go home and watch a movie.” With so much on my
mind, I wasn’t interested in doing anything socially fun as of late.
Besides, I didn’t possess the figure to pull off that sexy look I once
had.
“You can watch a movie anytime. You need to go out. Be
around others. It’ll be fun. You don’t have to dance. Just relax and
enjoy the music.”
“But I really wanna see the final installment of Fifty Shades.
I’ve been putting that movie off for months.” Watching a
romance movie while being emotionally unstable wouldn’t be as
enjoyable.
“Are you serious?” Her eyes widened incredulously, shocked
that I would pick the movie over her. “Fifty Shades?”
“Mm-hm.” I nodded.
“Fifty Shades can wait.”
“No, it can’t.” I shook my head. “I really mean it. Besides,
three’s a crowd. Just go and have fun with your ‘friend.’” I
shouldered her suggestively.
She cast me a concerned look. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Please. I’m positive.” I flashed an appreciative smile.
 “Okay.” She nodded. “But if you do change your mind, just
hit me up. Alright?”
“Okay,” I said before pinching the red cocktail straw between
my lips and sipping the delicious fruity Mai Tai, garnished with a
fresh pineapple wedge and a pink drink umbrella, that the tattooed
bartender had passionately shaken up for me. It was still my cheat
day, so I planned on taking full advantage of it.

The cocktail hour I had with Ally had left me parched. I grabbed
a bottle of water from my fridge and guzzled it, quenching my
thirst. As I shut the fridge door, a recent photo of Max caught my
attention. I smiled wistfully, wishing he were here with me right
now.
“Hello?” Mark answered quietly on the other end of the line.
I wasn’t aware that I had rung him.
“Hey,” I started timidly. “Is Max already asleep?” It was ten
o’clock. Usually, he’d be knocked out by now.
“Not yet. He’s here with me. We’re watching The Lion King
for the millionth time.” I smiled at the thought. Max loved The
Lion King, and even after a dozen views, his favorite scene would
still get the same reaction from him as if he were viewing it for
the first time.
“Who’s that?” Homewrecker’s voice chimed in, ruining the
moment, and my smile fell.
“I wanna talk to Max.” My tone was brusque. “Put him on
the phone.”
“Okay,” Mark said. “Here you go, Max.”
“Hello.” My son’s soft-spoken voice sounded carefree as ever.
“Hi, baby,” I cooed. “It’s mommy.”
“Hi, mommy.” His sweet greeting only heightened the
emptiness I was bearing right now.
“Whatcha doin’?” I feigned enthusiasm just to hear him
speak.
 “Watching The Lion King.”
“The Lion King? I love The Lion King.” My favorite
animated movie since I was a little girl.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing?” I admonished Mark for cutting in.
“Put Max back on the phone.”
“He handed me back the phone.”
“Seriously?”
“You know how he is when he’s immersed in his movies.” Of
course I knew. But I was hoping he would miss me enough to at
least engage in a brief conversation. It sucked knowing that he
barely missed me at all.
“Well, tell him I love him.”
“Mommy says she loves you,” Mark told him off the phone.
I didn’t catch a response. “See. He’s completely shut off from
reality.”
After a long beat, I dejectedly muttered, “Okay.”
“Goodni—” I hung up on him, not wanting to endure this
awful call any longer. Leaning a shoulder against the fridge, I
flashed back on times when we used to have movie nights
together, me contentedly snuggling next to Mark while Max
occupied the other side of him, bouncing and crying out with
excitement every time something interesting materialized
onscreen. It was a joy to see, and it never failed to make us laugh.
Everything Max did was something to remember, something I
held close to my heart. These fond memories always left my eyes
brimming with tears and had me wishing that everything that had
occurred in the past several months were just one hellish
nightmare, and I would wake up to my wholesome family once
again. And we would be happy once again. But alas, this was
reality—our family torn apart by the infamous infidelity. And
nothing I could do would eradicate that feeling of betrayal which
had rooted itself deep inside of me.
 It was hopeless.
I pressed the arm of my blouse over my lids, absorbing the
pool of tears that were threatening to burn my cheeks, and
shuffled despondently out of the kitchen and down the hall to
ready myself for bed.
I guess Fifty Shades would have to wait. Again.
 Two

“I can’t believe I let you convince me into coming here,” Brie

complained, sitting across the table from me. Her porcelain buffet
plate was a mere salad without any dressing and a half-demolished
steamed fish fillet, as oppose to mine, which was piled high with
anything fried: deep-fried pork ribs, fried calamari, fried sole, fried
chicken, fried noodles, fried rice. The only thing missing was the
fried shrimp.
“You used to like coming here, remember?” I reminded her,
crunching into a piece of salt-and-pepper chicken wing and
moaning my approval. Oh, so tasty.
“That was before the challenge. This kind of food doesn’t
appeal to me anymore,” she grumbled, pushing the bland salad
around on her plate.
I swallowed my poultry. “Apparently so. You barely cleaned
your plate.” Clutching my ceramic cup, I blew the steam off the
green tea and sipped it gingerly for fear of burning my tongue and
taste buds goodbye.
Mmm. Chinese food and hot tea went hand and hand.
“I told you I wouldn’t be able to eat anything here. It’s too
greasy. It’ll make me sick.” She propped her elbow on the table
and leaned her cheek into her fist, sighing. God, it was so unlike
Brie to not surrender to temptation where a buffet was concerned.
The last time we ate here, she couldn’t dunk enough potstickers
into the soy dipping sauce. She’d even tipped the chef behind the
Mongolian BBQ griddle for the quick entertainment as he went
teppanyaki on her noodles.
“Fine. I’ll just eat for the both of us. Get our money’s worth.”
Problem solved. I took another sip of tea.
“You don’t have to.”
“But I want to. Besides, it’s my last time to cheat before the
weigh-in, so I might as well take advantage of it before I die of
starvation.” My aversion to dieting was palpable as I popped a
fried calamari tentacle into my mouth.
“You’re so negative.” She flattened her arm out on the table.
“You haven’t even started the challenge yet, and you’re already
knocking it.”
“I can’t help it okay. I love food. Giving up food is like giving
up…” I trailed, fishing for a perfect example. Sex? No.
Apparently, I could do without sex for an awfully long time. Men?
Not that either. I hadn’t been with a man since Mark and I split
up, and that felt like many moons ago. “My freedom,” I finally
blurted out. “I can’t live without my freedom. I love my freedom.”
I scarfed down a spoonful of fried rice just to validate my point.
“Mel, your freedom could take a seven-week vacation, okay.
It’ll be good for you. Look at me”—she aimed both forefingers at
herself—“I haven’t been this small since college. College! And I’m
loving it because I can fit into my old clothes again. So, I’m going
all the way.”
I examined her face while I chewed my food. Her mid-length
blond ombre hair flowed down in waves, framing her much
slimmer face and prominent jawline. Double coated blue-gray
eyes also stood out more now that her cheeks weren’t dominating
her features any longer. Brie had always been beautiful even at a
heavier frame, so it never occurred to me how different she looked
after shedding those extra pounds. Clearly, it was a drastic change.
“Well, you do look good.”
“I know! Ryan couldn’t keep his hands off me.”
“It doesn’t matter. He worships you no matter the size.” I
rolled my eyes just picturing the two lovebirds always in their
lovey-dovey bubble every time we hung out.
“But he worships me even more now that I’m smaller.” She
flashed an elated grin. Brie was a size six like me back in high
school. At 5’4”, she was only an inch taller than I was—and
fortunately, well-endowed—making her an easy target for many
boys’ wet dream. However, no guy was manly or mature enough
for her. Not until she met her senior year sweetheart, Ryan, the
culprit who’d showered her with unconditional love and affection
and happiness that any woman could wish for. From then on, her
waistline kept expanding inch by inch without a sign of it slowing
down.
Until now.
Holding a mischievous grin, I scooted forward in the worn-
out maroon leather booth and spoke lowly, “So has he complained
about you being on top anymore?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Not that I can remember.”
“Congratulations,” I said with a lilt.
A knowing giggle erupted between us. When Brie had reached
her max weight at two hundred pounds, Ryan had broached the
sensitive subject, letting her know that the bearing of her weight
on him, while they had sex, was too much that it kind of cut off
his circulation, preventing his penis from reaching its full
potential. She was so embarrassed by the fact that she’d refused
to have sex with him for an entire four days. Apparently, they had
an extremely healthy sex life according to a recent survey,
roughing it up six to eight times a week. What a pair of rabbits!
The kickoff event took place at the Hilton Hotel at 6 p.m. sharp.
I arrived fifteen minutes early and idled about the lobby with
approximately two hundred others, ranging from mildly
overweight to extremely obese. Some looked uncomfortable,
some looked nervous, some looked determined, and some were
just plain calm and browsing through their smartphones, which
reminded me that I needed a selfie just for posterity, so I took out
my phone and aimed it at myself, feigning an upbeat smile.
CLICK!
CLICK!
CLICK!
“Hi. Nice seeing you again.” A deep velvety greeting drifted
over me, and my eyes shot up from the distorted images on my
phone to see who it belonged to. “Are you ladies excited?” He
spoke again, and immediately, I was able to scout out the man
behind the bewitching voice. His back was to me, about seven feet
from where I stood next to a Dracaena corn plant in a giant
mosaic planter that had claimed my attention only seconds after
entering the lobby. His arms were folded over his chest as he held
court with three of the soon-to-be female challengers. Suddenly,
they spilled into laughter, and just the sound of his laugh alone
got my lips twitching with curiosity, wondering if his look was just
as alluring as the timbre of his voice. Moving one step to the side,
I tilted my head, straining my eyes and eyebrows, eager to catch a
glimpse of mister smooth talker. But it was futile as a couple of
men joined their circle and blocked his face, hindering my chance
of matching the man to the magnetic voice. I sighed in frustration
and gave up. It would look too obvious if I persisted any further.
Instead, I did what any woman in my shoes would do if given a
chance: I checked out his buttocks and toned calves.
From behind, the attire he was sporting confirmed his
association with Fit20—dark gray T-shirt and navy-blue shorts. I
bet he was one of the trainers. His dark blond hair was of medium
length and swept back in a messy, unconcerned kind of way. He
stood at approximately six feet tall and looked really built. But not
bulky. Just enough. My mouth tugged in a contemptuous sneer,
disgusted by the fact that these trainers were probably hired based
on their good looks and perfect physical attributes rather than
from experience. But then again, I wouldn’t entrust my weight-
loss on someone who didn’t look healthy or fit either.
“I gotta go. I’ll see you guys inside,” he told the group and
started toward the front of the room, greeting others on the way
and receiving a couple of demure smiles in return as he continued
toward the double door that I presumed would be the banquet
hall where the weigh-ins would take place.
Carl momentarily appeared out of the same door and
ascended the small platform close by, making him about two feet
taller than most of us.
“Good evening, challengers,” he boomed into the
microphone attached to his ear. “How is everyone doing today?”
A combination of response flooded the lobby: good, great,
fine, okay, eh.
“I am very excited to see all of you here today,” he continued.
“And I am glad that each and every one of you decided to take
the challenge to better yourselves and your future.” He paused and
scanned over the entire room. “We want you to get healthy… We
want you to live happy… We want you to enjoy life to the fullest…
It’s never too late. And you showing up here today proved that
you are in control now. Not your body. And it’s time to get your
life back!”
Cheers and applause rang out, followed by whoops and
hollers. The pandemonium rose by the second, even without my
participation.
“Alright, alright, alright.” Carl motioned his hands, quieting
the room. “Wow. I’ve never seen such enthusiasm. You guys are
seriously ready to hop on the treadmill right about now.”
 The crowd laughed.
Within the next fifteen minutes, Carl went on to explain the
procedure of the kickoff event. Once his instructions were clear,
the double doors opened as a commencement, and everyone filed
inside the spacious banquet hall where the first half of the room
was lined up with rows of chairs, enough to accommodate us all.
The second half was set up for the initial weigh-in. Eight reps
were assigned to eight separate scales that were placed far enough
from one another to provide privacy.
Fear had kicked in as I waited anxiously in one of the eight
assigned lines. After all the gorging I had done in the last couple
of days, the weigh-in was the last thing I wanted to face.
One by one, people ahead of me were called to step on the
scale. Then a photo of them were taken with a yellow 5x8 index
card, which had their name and beginning weight written on it.
“Next, please.” The person behind me tapped on my
shoulder, jerking my attention to the available rep. I scurried
toward the young man after thanking the patient lady behind me
with a nervous tug to my lips.
“Hi, how are you?” the rep asked warmly, drawing up a smile.
“Okay. A little nervous actually.” Apprehension hung over me
as I handed him the yellow card with my name already printed on
it.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about. You’ll be fine.” He
gestured to the scale. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I stared down at the seemingly harmless scale and wished I
could back out of the contract scot-free. Unfortunately, my five
hard-earned bills were already in their possession and doing so
would only forfeit my money. I was screwed either way, so I
stopped hesitating and slipped off my shoes, taking in a deep
breath before my soles met the scale. The digits on the floating
screen before me bounced up and down until…
Whoa!
 “Not bad,” the rep said, nodding.
“Are you serious?” I gaped, appalled by the digits before me.
178.4 lbs.
My heaviest. Over fifty pounds of fat that I had accumulated
since my pregnancy. I wasn’t a happy camper. And Brie was right.
For the first time in my entire life, I outweighed her.
I craned my head and looked at the rep in vexation. “Are you
sure this scale is accurate?”
“It’s accurate.”
I scowled at the digits then back at him again. “Can I step on
it again?”
“No.” His eyes fell to the clipboard in his hand as he scribbled
on some paper.
“Are you sure?” Desperation leaked from my voice.
“Yes. I’m positive it’s accurate, and I’m positive you cannot
step on it again,” he said, looking up from his clipboard and
finalizing it with a broad smile.
Frowning, I turned my head and drank in the numbers again.
“I can’t believe I gained over fifty pounds from my pregnancy,” I
muttered to myself.
“It’s alright.” He jotted the digits on the yellow card. “Baby
weight should easily come off.”
“That was three years ago,” I stated flatly, giving him the eye.
“Oh,” was all he could utter before having me step off the
scale and holding up the yellow card, leveled to my chest—just
like a mugshot. Yes, I was a criminal for putting on fifty freaking
pounds in three years. Consequently, my punishment would
include seven weeks of pure agony in and out of the gym. All
thanks to my badgering buxom bestie.
Lord, help me.
“Smile,” the rep said as he lifted his camera and aimed it at
me. What else was I supposed to do but to plaster on one fake ass
smile for the ever-loving Brie.
 CLICK!
The event continued with Carl speaking in front of the room
before us new members, covering all topics necessary to yield the
best result: diets and portion control, shakes and supplements,
exercises, rest, etc.
“These trainers standing behind you would be your coaches
for the next seven weeks at one of the ten training facilities located
throughout Sacramento and the surrounding vicinity,” he spoke
with wide open arms, addressing the trainers standing behind the
last row of chairs. Everyone turned in their seats, their eyes
sweeping across the thirty plus coaches, male and female, all
sporting different styles but same colored Fit20 logo shirts. So did
I, but it was more of a cursory glance. My mind was still rattling
at the fact that I’d gained over fifty pounds and wondering how I
allowed myself to get this heavy. Was I really that inactive? Being
a mom was exhausting, but apparently, it wasn’t enough to keep
my weight in check.
“Please talk to them if you have any concerns about anything
regarding the challenge,” Carl went on. “They will be there for
you. They will help you. They want to help you succeed. But you
must help them also. You must follow their advice because they
could get you to where you need to be. So please help them help
you.” I drowned out the remaining fifteen minutes of his lecture,
wishing he would speed up the process so I could go home and
binge on a TV show to dispel this awful feeling that was viciously
clawing at me.
Under Carl’s recommendation and Brie’s coercion for
maximum result, I purchased the shakes and supplements offered
by Fit20 at the end of the event. And boy did the bills rack up.
With the amount I’d spent on the product, I could’ve wined and
dined at Ruth’s Chris twice and still have change for a chocolate
bundtlet from Nothing Bundt Cakes. Talk about dietary robbery!
Later that night, doubt cluttered my mind and had me constantly
flip-flopping in bed, in my son’s bedroom. What if I hated the
class? What if I disliked the trainers? What if the exercises were
impossible to execute? What if my fat refused to burn off ? What
if I failed? What if, what if, what if. An onslaught of questions
drove me out of bed, huffing as I left the room and found my way
to the kitchen.
Warm milk was a natural sleeping aid, I justified my action as
I spooned another combination of cereal—Cinnamon toast
crunch, Fruit loops, Lucky charms—into my hungry mouth. Late-
night snacks were common for me ever since Max came along.
His irregular sleeping habit made it impossible for me to snooze
all through the night, so I’d sometimes snack when I was awake
and tending to him.
Eyeing the Fit20 booklet I’d left on the granite counter, I set
my bowl down and skimmed through it again. Every topic that
Carl had covered at the kick-off event were in here.
Right in the center of the booklet were a list of foods
recommended and foods to avoid for maximum result.
Processed foods were not recommended.
I peered down at my half-eaten bowl of cereal and inwardly
cursed the program.
Simple sugar was prohibited.
Sauces and condiments were limited.
Himalayan salt was recommended in place of table salt for its
health benefits.
All greens were a go.
Fruits were limited—nothing too sweet. No watermelon,
bananas, or grapes.
Choose lean proteins.
Hydrate with plenty of water…
Overwhelmed by the amount of information, I sighed
heavily. How did Brie manage the transition? She practically did it
cold turkey. One night she was wolfing down a Chipotle barbacoa
bowl with extra guacamole, and the next day she was nibbling on
hardboiled egg whites. Unbelievable. It would take a load of
discipline to hold me back from my favorite food. I saw myself
caving in already. Pushing the negative thought aside, I conjured
up reasons to take this challenge seriously.
I wouldn’t have to waste money on new clothes, even if I was
a bargain shopper.
I wouldn’t feel self-conscious every time I stood in front of
the mirror in my bra and panties.
I could eventually incorporate my thong back into my
wardrobe without it looking like my body had gobbled it all up.
I’d feel lighter. That one was a given.
I’d save lots of money by not dining out. Thirty to forty bucks
a dinner date did add up.
Since alcohol weren’t allowed, heck, I’d save even more
money.
Working out was supposed to relieve stress. So that should
help me in the long run.
What else…
My mouth stretched open, expelling a yawn. The milk must’ve
done its job because I was feeling drowsy now. Either that or the
boring booklet was soporifically putting me to sleep. I closed it
and went to bed with a newfound positive outlook on the
challenge.

The alarm on my phone sounded at 5:15 a.m. and had me reeling

out of bed, grumbling a slew of profanities as I fumbled my way
out of Max’s bedroom and into the en suite bathroom to begin
my morning ritual. Brie had asked me to join her for the 6 a.m.
training session—the only morning session that didn’t interfere
with her work schedule. Although classes were offered throughout
the day, she preferred working out in the morning whenever
possible. It helps speed up weight loss, I was told.
I pulled on a solid black capri workout pants and matched it
with a black workout T-shirt over a pink sports bra. The
supplements I was reminded to take were easy to swallow
compared to the chocolate protein shake, which was a challenge
to gulp down. The taste was off; it was too sweet, and the
chalkiness of it left a filmy aftertaste in my mouth, which also left
me shuddering in response. Yuck!
When Brie texted me of her arrival at my driveway, I
sauntered out of the front door and down the stone stoop, taking
my sweet time because I wasn’t looking forward to pulling a
muscle anytime soon.
As Brie drove us to the gym, I inspected her thoroughly from
the passenger seat. Her hair was smoothed up into a meticulous
bun, and I also noted the lip gloss and two coats of mascara
adorning her face. Compared to her, I looked like a train wreck.
My face was devoid of any make-up. My ponytail had hairs poking
out and straying from its place.
We were total opposites.
“Do you have plans after the gym?” I asked her.
“Nope.” She turned right.
“Then what’s with the lip gloss and mascara?” I gestured to
my lips and eyes.
“Oh.” She smoothed her hair up. “It’s my usual gym look.”
I frowned. “Since when?”
She just shrugged. “Since I started the challenge.”
“O-kay.”
The gym was situated at the end of a large L-shaped building,
connected to other businesses. After steering into the parking lot
and pulling into one of the spaces, Brie and I got out and posed
for a selfie, breezily smiling with the Fit20 sign behind us.
CLICK!
 CLICK!
CLICK!
More pics for posterity.
Upon entering the gym, we were cordially greeted at the front
desk by a young brunette representative, Amanda. I signed in after
Brie and begrudgingly jotted down my beginning weight of 178.4
lbs. next to my name. It was mandatory that we updated our
weight every Monday, I was reminded. And since I was a new
member, Amanda went ahead and familiarized me with the layout
of the gym.
Behind her desk stood a large room divider with shelves,
holding all the shakes and supplements and Fit20 logo tops if
anyone were interested in purchasing. Behind that divider was the
lobby or waiting area approximately six hundred square feet in size
for members to hang out or stretch before the training began. My
orientation was held in this room a few days prior. To the left,
along the wall, were two doors that opened to two separate rooms:
the employee’s break room and the conference room where the
scale was kept. Straight ahead was the training room, partially
exposed by the half-glass wall. Several members were already in
there stretching. I supposed they chose that wall to give it an open
feel, but I didn’t like the idea of spectators watching as I sweated
my butt off.
Brie and I entered the hall to the right, which led us to the
locker room and restroom. We stored our belongings in one of
the lockers, returned to the lobby, then made our way toward the
cased opening of the training room, where a friendly reminder to
stretch before class accompanied an illustrated warmup chart on
the glass panel.
At approximately twenty-five hundred square feet, the
training area was a spacious rectangular size room. The setup was
simple. Gym members occupied the center of the room while
gym equipment occupied the area along the walls. Five exercise
bikes and five rowing machines lined one of the shorter walls
while a black platform about seven by ten feet in dimension and
probably fifteen inches in height sat against the opposite wall
across the room. A colorful mural of encouragement took up one
of the longer walls with captions reading:
“Good things come to those who sweat.”
“Unless you puke, faint, or die, keep moving.”
“Never forget why you started.”
“Give your ass what it wants.”
“Crush the challenge! We dare ya!”
“Be stronger than your excuses.”
“Slow progress is better than no progress.”
“Sore today, strong tomorrow.”
“Let’s sparkle!”
Amusing. However, I was suddenly overwhelmed by them
because below those motivational quotes lined an assortment of
exercise equipment to put my muscles to misery: a pyramid of
barbells ranging from twenty to one hundred pounds, racks of
dumbbells, slam balls, medicine balls, etc. Too much going on
along that wall. The warm-up hadn’t even started yet, and I was
already exhausted.
And lastly, along the half-glass wall stood a red training rig
that reminded me of a monkey bar in grade school but triple in
size with weight plates hooked onto it and several straps
suspended from it. Not looking forward to hanging from it any
time soon. Then flush against that same wall was a short cubby
shelf for storing water bottles. I placed mine next to Brie’s and
followed her to the center of the room.
Members of different ethnicities, ranging from petite to
average to plus-size, between late teens to early fifties, were
scattered about and facing the platform, stretching. I learned from
Brie that some of these people in class were either regular
members of the gym (non-challengers) who paid their monthly
dues, challengers who’d moved on to the next round after
succeeding in the previous round but hadn’t reached their healthy
BMI yet, which included her, or new challengers like me and
several others in the class right now.
Brie and I were stretching in the center of the room,
extending our arms in front of us, when two ladies claimed the
spot behind us and began exchanging conversation.
“I was so sore yesterday I wouldn’t allow Rick to touch me.
And the more I rejected him, the more he persisted. So I was like,
‘Sweetie, please respect my wish and leave me the fuck alone.’”
Her friend chuckled, and so did I.
“He’s not even concerned that I was in pain. He’s like, ‘Well,
shouldn’t your body get used to it by now,’” she imitated her
husband’s gruff voice.
“Seriously?” Brie chimed in over her shoulder.
“Seriously, Brie.”
“You know what you should do, Janet?”
“What?”
Brie whirled around to face Janet’s tanned complexion. “Bring
him to class with you next time. Let him feel the burn.”
“Yeah, right.” Janet ditched the idea completely. “It’ll take a
forklift to pluck him off the couch.”
“Yup,” Janet’s friend jumped in. “My brother is a lazy ass.”
Correction. She was her sister-in-law, and they both looked to be
in their mid-thirties.
As the women continued venting over their non-
understanding significant other, my attention darted to several
more members, men and women, leisurely strolling into the class
in their gym attire. Some were chatting with the person they
entered with, some greeted others, some offered a nod, and some
just smiled and claimed a spot. I noted approximately forty
something people occupying the space before the class even
started.
 Two personal trainers sporting the Fit20 logo shirt entered
the room before parting ways. The male trainer headed toward the
platform while the female trainer meandered around and
randomly greeted members of the class.
“I’ll be back,” Brie said and then marched toward the front of
the room, stopping before the male trainer.
He must be the lifesaver she had raved about while embarking
on her first challenge—the man who’d helped her shed the
record-breaking pounds and also contributed to my loss of
freedom. I appraised him from approximately fifteen feet away.
He was somewhere in his early thirties with dark blond hair, broad
shoulders to complement his tall stature, and muscles bulging in
all the right places: calves, arms, shoulders, chest. You get the
picture. If not, then imagine Thor or Wolverine or those mighty
men in 300.
Brie’s interaction with him looked casual and relaxed, as if
they were close friends. He nodded and responded to something
she just said. Soon enough, they both dissolved into laughter,
which had me wondering what they could possibly talk about that
was so funny.
When Brie returned a moment later, I asked her coolly, “Is
that him? Your favorite coach?”
“Yup. That’s him.” Her smile turned up.
“Good morning, transformers!” the female trainer bellowed,
displaying a perky disposition as she took her spot next to Brie’s
favorite coach. “How is everyone feeling this morning?” She was
in her mid-twenties, blond, sexy, and toned. I wasn’t at all
surprised by now, expecting all the trainers to possess good genes
and look physically fit, because they both were. However, I did
wonder if they had any average looking ones.
The class volleyed back an array of answers: good, fine, okay,
tired. She acknowledged them, nodding.
 “Well, I’m glad you guys all made it to class this morning.
Mondays are usually the hardest,” she said before clapping her
hands together. “Alright. Today is an exciting day because we have
some new challengers and a couple of members joining us for the
first time this morning, and it’s only courteous that we make them
feel comfortable, so let’s all say hi to our newest family members
and welcome them to our class.”
“Hi,” the class greeted collectively. So did I.
“So, for any of you who don’t know us, I am Coach Courtney
Miles, and this gentleman standing beside me right here is our
always awesome Head Coach, James Riley.” She pointed her
thumb in his direction, smiling brightly.
James Riley shook his head in amusement and bellowed,
“Good morning, fitfams!”
Are.
You.
Kidding.
Me.
Every fiber of my being froze from the familiarity of his
voice. This must be fate, I thought, gawking at the stud who’d eluded
me the day before. It wasn’t my expectation to encounter him
again. In fact, I’d forgotten all about him after the disappointing
weigh-in that left me in utter shock, exceeding my estimation by
thirteen pounds.
“I hope you guys had a wonderful weekend. I know I did,” he
continued, snapping me back to the present. “To all the new
members and challengers, I would like to welcome you to our
class, and I look forward to getting to know each and every one
of you by the end of the challenge.” The tone of his voice was
just as cordial as the evening before. “Remember, we are here to
help you reach your goal, so if you have any questions, please don’t
hesitate to ask. Treat us like one of your family members, because
we are a family here.”
 “I don’t like my family,” deadpanned one random male
member. That got everyone laughing.
“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual, Vince,” James shot back mid-
chuckle. His sense of humor made him that much more appealing.
“We will go over some things with all of you who are new to the
class at the end of the session, so please stick around afterward.”
He ended the short introduction. “Now, let’s get you all
acquainted with our program,” he said before turning to Courtney.
“Coach?”
“Yes, Coach?” Courtney responded back.
“Can you please show our new members how to perform a
glute bridge.”
“Gladly, Coach.” Courtney dutifully dropped down to lie on
her back. She then spread her legs about a hip-width apart before
bending her knees and flattening her soles on the ground. Her
arms were extended out by her sides, palm facing down.
“For any of you who don’t know what a glute bridge is, this
is the starting position,” James informed, eyes regarding the class.
“Back to the floor, legs parted, knees bent, and arms flat by your
sides.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and addressed
Courtney. “Now, Coach. Show the class how to perform a glute
bridge.”
“Yes, Coach.” Courtney drove her hips up and held it there
for two seconds before returning it back to the floor.
“Again,” he ordered, and she complied. Then looking at us,
he said, “Make sure to squeeze your butt and lift your hips off the
ground until your body forms a straight line from your knees to
your shoulders.” Courtney stilled at the stated position. “See the
line,” he said, using a finger to trace a line along her side. “As
straight as possible.” She released her hold and repeated the
exercise. “It’s also imperative that you hold your hips up for two
seconds before releasing it back down. This’ll help tighten your
glutes and strengthen your back, along with your core.” He paused
to assess her. “How’re you feelin’ there, Coach?”
“Bootylicious,” she grunted, and the class laughed.
“Alright. Demonstration’s over. You can get up now.”
“Aw. Really?” Courtney mocked disappointment.
“Yes. Gotta save some for the rest of the class.”
“Got it.” She extended her hand up, and James clasped it,
pulling her to her feet with a light bounce.
He turned to the class. “Is everyone familiar with the glute
bridges now?”
“Yes, Coach!” I responded with the class, minus the coach
part. Didn’t realize it was necessary.
“Okay, then. Is anyone here not familiar with the push-up?”
He scanned the class. No hands went up. “Perfect. Then let’s
warm up with twenty of those. And if you need to modify, then
do so using your knees.”
The class dropped down on their hands and knees and began
the exercise. I followed quickly, positioning myself accordingly
and performing a modified version of the push-up; my upper
body strength sucked.
Nine laborious push-ups later, I was puffing, slowing my pace
while Brie was beside me, pumping like a pro.
“Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…” she counted aloud.
“Follow it with some glute bridges once completed,” James
instructed. Brie was already on her back and thrusting her hips up.
I cheated.
After struggling with thirteen push-ups, I gave up and rolled
onto my back to initiate the glute bridge.
“Remember to squeeze your butt as you lift your hips,”
Courtney reminded, weaving around to survey the class. “Don’t
give me no half-ass thrusts. Otherwise, you’ll end up with a half-
ass result.” I suppose foul language sounded just as encouraging.
 I realized how much I enjoyed doing glute bridges, squeezing
my rump as I raised them off the ground. Up, down, up, down.
My eyes were locked on the pockmarked ceiling when James’ face
suddenly materialized and had me blinking tensely under his
observation.
“Higher…” he trailed, eyeing the name tag affixed to my shirt
above my chest, “Melanie.” He hunkered down for further
inspection, his eyes grazing over my position. “Fold your legs in a
little more.” Grasping the toe of my sneakers, he eased it in, hiking
my knees up a bit more. “Now squeeze.” I complied. “Harder.
Good. The harder you squeeze, the higher you thrust, and the
more you’re working those glutes. Good job.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” He stood up and sauntered off before
addressing the class. “Good job, guys. Alright. Let’s have everyone
get up now so I can explain the next step.” We all rolled over and
pushed to our feet. Some were quick while others struggled a bit,
groaning like me. “You doin’ okay, new challengers?” James asked,
heading toward the double door next to the platform.
“Yes, Coach!”
“Good. Alright.” He turned to face us. “I’m gonna explain
how things work around here before I send you out for the lap
around the building. Because this is a group exercise, one of us,
either me or Coach Courtney, will be waiting outside to assign you
a group number once you’ve completed the mandatory lap. You’ll
then re-enter the building and line up with your group member.
Pretty simple. You guys got it?”
“Yes, Coach!”
“Okay. Off you go.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder,
and we all filed out through the double door.
The perimeter of the entire building was close to a quarter of
a mile long. I started out well, jogging side by side with Brie, until
a third of the way in when I couldn’t handle the exertion any
longer and decided to ease my pace. Brie promptly followed and
walked alongside me.
“You okay?” she asked, slightly breathy.
“Yeah,” I panted, catching my breath. “I’m fine. Just a little
exhausted. It’s been a while since I’ve jogged.”
“It’s always tough in the beginning.”
Pressing a hand to my heaving chest, I could feel my heart
racing.
“What do you think about the class so far?”
I released a breath. “It’s okay.”
“It’ll be more fun once you get into the rhythm of things.”
“Mm-hm,” I uttered, not thinking much of it.
She began springing again. “C’mon.” She jerked her head. I
shook mine.
“You go. I’ll meet you inside.”
“Okay.” And off she went. As much as I wanted to finish the
lap with Brie, I just couldn’t; my legs weren’t cooperating. Looking
over my shoulder, a tiny elderly woman nearly twice my age
suddenly swished past me.
No way.
I sped up to reclaim my spot, but one of my sides began to
ache, so I slowed down, groaning. That was how inactive I was.
She lucked out. Seconds later, footfalls pounded at my ears as
several others eventually caught up and stampeded past me also.
As I rounded the final corner of the building, I witnessed the
man way ahead of me slapping James a high-five before entering
the gym through the double door. James turned his head in my
direction, his eyes flashed to me. Only me, I realized when I did a
double take over my shoulder to find absolutely no one.
“Come on! Come on! Come on!” James shouted my way,
clapping in staccato. “You can do it, Melanie!” His words of
encouragement propelled me to push forth, and responsively, my
feet picked up its pace at a breakneck speed. Well, at least a
breakneck speed for someone who hadn’t worked out in years. My
limbs were burning. My heart was pounding. My belly was jiggling.
Closer and closer, I neared him. Then tapering off my semi-sprint,
my palm went up to reciprocate his high-five.
SMACK!
“Alright, good job!” he cheered, looking on as I parked my
hands on my thick thighs and bent over to catch my breath. Hot
beads of sweat dripped from my temples and dappled the
pavement between my sneakers. My body felt like a furnace,
radiating heat against the crisp spring air. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Exhale. Gulp. I blew out a breath.
Phew!
That was vigorous. I couldn’t believe I just did that. Despite
the unpleasant aftermath, the rush felt invigorating and somewhat
gratifying.
Once the hammering of my heart subsided, I heaved another
deep breath and straightened up, only to make eye contact with a
pair of hypnotic blues that immediately drew me into a trance.
Electric blues with flecks of gold, to be specific, after a thorough
examination. So beautiful, so brilliant, so full of life. My eyes
dulled in comparison as I held his piercing gaze and remembering
not too long ago when mine were just as vibrant and lively as his—
when myriads of concern didn’t cloud my mind.
Those striking blue eyes looked me over proudly. “You’re
number one,” he said before drawing up a warm smile and
revealing a pair of faint dimples.
I was in awe, and it clearly showed in my expression even if I
was sweating and still gasping for air. “Thank you,” I said
appreciatively, wiping beads of exertion off my nose with the back
of my hand.
His smile vanished, then a look of confusion crossed his face
as he shook his head. “No, I’m sorry—I meant—you’re in group
number one,” he clarified apologetically, and I felt my cheeks
glowing with embarrassment.
“Oh, okay,” I stammered. Then with a sheepish grin and a
slap to my ego, I scurried inside the building.
“Find your group number,” Courtney said to me, standing in
front of the room before six single-file lines where members were
keeping their heart rates up by marching on the spot. I headed
straight to line number one, guided by the forefinger that was
swaying in the air by the group leader, and waited with the others,
marching in place while praying that the coaches would have
mercy on us new challengers and cut the session short.

Upon entering my front door, I flopped forward onto the couch

and let sleep envelop me after the grueling workout that left me
in a heap of sweat and a hankering for a thick, juicy Super Fatboy
Burger.
One down, thirty-four more backbreaking days to go.