Rachel laughed harder.
“I believed in you.”
“Glad my humiliation was profitable.”
She left.
Victor walked over.
“What’d she want?”
I threw my towel at him.
For our first date, I asked Ryan for advice.
That felt wrong immediately.
“Dinner is boring.”
“Okay.”
“Movies are terrible.”
“Fine.”
“Do something active.”
“Like what?”
“Batting cages.”
“No.”
“Gun range.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Bike ride.”
I stopped.
Rachel and I met in cycling class.
“That could work.”
It did.
Sort of.
Outdoor cycling turned out to be sweaty, tiring, and not especially conversational.
We spent most of the ride breathing too hard to speak.
By lunch, I was convinced the date was failing.
Jennifer’s voice returned.
Boring.
Then a boy came running down the trail.
“Help!”
We stopped.
The kid was crying so hard we could barely understand him.
Finally, he pointed toward a ridge beyond the trees.
We followed.
A man was lying on the ground at the edge of a drop, both hands locked around the wrist of another person hanging several feet below.
“Please!”
The boy screamed.
I moved without thinking.
“Rachel, call 911.”
She already had her phone out.
Another cyclist stopped.
We grabbed the man on the ground.
He held the person below.
Together, we pulled.
It took everything.
Eventually, the dangling teenager came over the edge.
Then the father collapsed.
Rachel knelt beside him.
Paramedics arrived minutes later.
The father had pushed himself beyond exhaustion trying to hold his son.
He survived.
Police took statements.
Rachel looked at me as we returned toward the bikes.
“You didn’t hesitate.”
“Neither did you.”
“You went toward the cliff.”
“So did the other guy.”
She stared.
“Can you accept one compliment?”
“Apparently not.”
She smiled.
Then kissed me.
The first date recovered nicely.
Our second date was normal.
Dinner.
Conversation.
Stories about kids.
Exes.
Work.
We kissed on her porch.
By the third date, Valentine’s Day, things became more complicated.
We saw a movie.
Went back to her house.
Her children were staying with their father.
Rachel made it clear she wanted me to stay.
I wanted to.
Then everything Jennifer had said returned at once.
Bad in bed.
Not attractive.
Kevin.
The room became too small.
I stopped.
“I’m sorry.”
Rachel looked confused.
“Did I do something?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m not ready.”
Then I left.
Cowardly.
Fast.
No explanation.
Afterward, I avoided Rachel.
I changed workout times.
Stayed near Victor.
Pretended not to see her.
Every time she talked to another man, my brain convinced me she was laughing about me.
It was irrational.
I knew that.
Still did it.
My workouts suffered.
Victor noticed.
One day I quit the treadmill ten minutes early.
He stared.
“Get back on.”
“No.”
“That sounded like a word.”
“I’m tired.”
“Everyone’s tired.”
“I’m not feeling it.”
Victor laughed.
“Oh, Your Majesty isn’t feeling it.”
“Leave me alone.”
He smiled.
I snapped.
“Seriously, Victor. Back off.”
His expression changed.
“Fine.”
He turned away.
I blinked.
“Fine?”
“Yep.”
He walked toward another client.
I followed.
“What are you doing?”
“Working with someone who wants to work.”
“I need one day.”
“You need excuses.”
“Are you firing me?”
He shrugged.
“Maybe.”
Anger exploded.
“After everything I’ve done?”
He turned.
“Everything you’ve done?”
“Yes.”
Victor stepped closer.
“You think I did this?”
“No.”
“You think Jennifer did this?”
“No.”
“You think losing weight makes you owed something?”
I stared.
He shoved a finger against my chest.
“You’re still waiting for somebody to tell you you’re worth something.”
That hurt.
“You want sympathy because your wife cheated.”
“Go to hell.”
“You want Rachel to prove you’re attractive.”
“Stop.”
“You want me to prove you’re strong.”
I stepped toward him.
Victor did not move.
“You know what that makes you?”
“Say it.”
“A man who still doesn’t believe himself.”
I wanted to hit him.
Instead, he pointed toward the treadmill.
“Twenty minutes.”
I glared.
“Run angry.”
I did.
Faster than ever.
When it ended, I nearly collapsed in the locker room.
Victor sat beside me.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then he said, “My wife rejected me three times.”
I looked over.
“You proposed three times?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“She was in love with someone else.”
“Who?”
“Her husband.”
I stared.
Victor leaned back.
“She was widowed.”
That changed everything.
“She loved him.”
“I couldn’t compete.”
“What happened?”
“I tried anyway.”
He laughed bitterly.
“Got fit. Made more money. Took her places. Became the greatest version of myself I could build.”
“And?”
“She still missed him.”
Victor looked toward me.
“That was when I learned something.”
I waited.
“If you build your worth around somebody else’s approval, they own the foundation.”
I said nothing.
“Her rejection didn’t make me less.”
He continued.
“It meant she couldn’t see me yet.”
“Yet?”
Victor smiled.
“We stopped dating.”
“What?”
“I told her I loved her, but I couldn’t keep auditioning.”
He looked down.
“Six months later, she came back.”
“Monica?”
He nodded.
“You married your sister-in-law’s sister?”
“Monica is my sister-in-law.”
I laughed.
“Right.”
Victor continued.
“She finally realized she was comparing every new man to someone who wasn’t coming back.”
He paused.
“I realized I was doing the same thing.”
“With her husband?”
“With an imaginary version of myself I thought she would finally approve.”
He looked at me.
“Stop doing that with Jennifer.”
That conversation stayed with me.
Victor explained what he called the eighty-twenty mistake.
People often take the eighty percent they already have for granted while becoming obsessed with the twenty percent that feels missing. Jennifer had seen stability, loyalty, fatherhood, responsibility, humor, and commitment so often that those things became invisible. Kevin represented excitement, fitness, novelty.
Victor looked at me.
“You were probably her eighty.”
I hated how accurate it sounded.
“But don’t make the same mistake.”
“What does that mean?”
“Don’t become so obsessed with being attractive that you forget the parts of you that were already good.”
I thought about Ryan.
My job.
My kids.
Years spent defining myself through comparison.
Victor tapped my shoulder.
“You’re not some victim waiting for revenge.”
Then he smiled.
“You’re Matthew.”
“Terrible speech.”
“I charge extra for good ones.”
That night, Ryan called at four in the morning.
I answered furious.
“What?”
His voice sounded strange.
“Did I wake you?”
“It’s four.”
“Right.”
I sat up.
“What happened?”
Silence.
Then:
“Amber’s pregnant.”
I rubbed my face.
“Who is Amber?”
“The girl from our birthday.”
I remembered.
Young.
Blond.
Maybe twenty-one.
“Ryan.”
“She’s twenty-two.”