Carolina Days: Yesterday's Half Truths Part 4

"No, and no pressure to say yes to this. I'm only throwing this idea out there because I think it will help."

"I'd like to think it over if that's all right," I whisper.

"Let me know once you decide. How long do you want to think about it?"

"Is overnight okay?" I ask.

"Of course. Call or text me tomorrow."

"I will. I'm going to go now, okay?"

"Sure. Talk to you later."

Once our call is disconnected, I press the phone to my chest, my mind swirling at his idea. It was already bad enough knowing he knew how much I weighed and had my measurements too. Now he wants to train me face to face. I had to give myself a pep talk to call him. I have no idea if I'll be able to hold a conversation with him that way.

Granted, seeing as how it would be a training session, it is likely I would not need to say much, but still. This is a big deal. It would be awful if I told him yes and then chickened out. There's also no way to look attractive while you work out. I can imagine very few things more embarra.s.sing than sweating my b.u.t.t off in front of a man like Luke.

The only thing keeping me from saying no is wondering if he's right. What if switching over to training like this would mean the difference between having results and not. I hadn't lied to him when I said I was committed to doing what it took. Is this the answer I was looking for?

I'm done with work; so I decide the best thing I can do to stop fretting over this is to focus on my blog. No matter what I decide, I still needed to plan my post for the next day.

Trying to throw myself into random websurfing is no help though. I can only think of Luke's idea. It's the ultimate d.a.m.ned if you do and d.a.m.ned if you don't. There is no way for me to know for sure if this will be the difference to meeting my goals or not.

Is it worth the risk not to do it? How bad would it be for him to see the real me? I managed to talk to him on the telephone without anything terrible happening. He's a trainer; he can't have an ulterior motive. What if he records me? Is that even possible? A recording of me working out would be humiliating.

If I could get some a.s.surance he wouldn't or couldn't do it, then that would be the only way I'd consider it. I can't think of anything else before I find out. Reaching for my phone, I send a quick text.

Will you, or can you record me?

Almost instantly, he replies.

Not if you don't want me to.

Relief at his reply is swift but my belief in him fades just as fast.

Can you email me a signed affidavit to that effect?

If that's what it takes.

It is.

Trust is for the nave.

I have agreed to a live chat training session. If energy weren't a requirement to working out, I would've found some way to get anxiety meds. My old shrink, the one who gave up on me, would have prescribed me some in a second. Part of the reason he gave up on me was my refusal to be medicated.

I'm not crazy, I'm only overly cautious.

Coco watches enthralled as my pacing brings me near her again. I've learned the hard way to stay out of swat range. She thinks it's a game and tries to bat at me as I walk past. It took one snagged lace Betsy Johnson top to ensure I never pace that close to her again.

Last week I ordered new exercise clothes in preparation for today. They're top of the line, flattering, and highly rated. Control panels flatten my tummy and thighs while elastic lifts and emphasizes my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. My new shoes claim to burn more calories than their compet.i.tors. I'm not convinced as of yet.

My hair is in a messy bun, which took me an hour to achieve the exact level of messy I wanted. My makeup is non-pore clogging and applied to give me a dewy, fresh faced look. Sad thing is, even though I have dropped a couple, as in two pounds since the six pounds I first dropped after starting Luke's diet plan, it doesn't feel like my body is changing.

This right here, this lack of instantaneous results is what has made any fad diet or exercise program I've tried in the past fail. My hope is Luke will motivate me to stick to this lifestyle change. I believe he is my last chance of successfully getting in to shape.

At least the diet Luke recommended wasn't as horrible as I a.s.sumed it would be. Turns out, I can successfully bake chicken and steam vegetables. I do still crave soda, bad. If I wasn't such a hermit, I'm certain I would have gone out and bought some.

Glancing at the mirror one last time before I walk out of my room, I sigh. If only I had a magical mouse that would allow me to edit the real life me just as I did with the pictures I posted online. Luke is going to be the first person, other than my doctor and dentist to see me in a long time. Even knowing that he deals with bodies in transition does nothing to calm my nerves.

Part of the reason I hide, living my life virtually instead of out in the real world, is to avoid the possibility of ever being hurt again. If I never leave my house, no one could ever trick me into trusting them again. Coco trails me quietly, overtaking me as I walk in to the living room and jumps up onto the back of the sofa.

She turns in a circle a few times before lowering herself to a comfortable perch. Everything to live video chat with Luke is already set up. Twisting my head left and right I make sure the portion of my house he can see looks neat and tidy. A notification ding on my tablet alerts me he's trying to connect.

My eyes flick to the clock on my cable box. He's right on time. Gulping down the emotional rock now lodged in my throat, I connect. The screen on my TV blinks a couple times before his face fills it.

"Lindsay? Can you see me? Can you hear me?" His handsome face wrinkles as he stares right at me.

This was a terrible idea. I have no clue how to speak to someone in real life. I thought our one pathetic phone call was hard; that seems like a cakewalk now in comparison to this.

Yes, I can see him. d.a.m.n he's even hotter in real life or on live TV or he's just stupid hot, and that makes me not remember how to speak and make words come out of my mouth. I stare blankly at him, taking him in. From his tousled light brown hair, curling at his neck and behind his ears, to his stunning green eyes.

A white t-s.h.i.+rt pulls tightly across his chest, some ink peeking out from one of his sleeves. He wears loose black track pants with stripes down the side and grey sneakers. I've always thought a well-fit suit on a man was the s.e.xiest thing clothing-wise they could wear. One glance at Luke in workout clothes and I've changed my mind. It's at this point I remember I haven't answered his questions.

"Hi," I croak, giving him a lame half wave. "I can see and hear you; can you see and hear me?"

He squints, his forehead further wrinkling. "Are you wearing makeup?"

My face heats. "Not much."

Smirking, he shakes his head. "Trust me, no more makeup. You're only going to sweat it off."

"Ahh," I reply as my mouth drops.

He c.o.c.ks his head to the side and grins. "It's nice to meet you, Lindsay. Ready to burn some calories?"

Shrugging, still annoyed he called me out for wearing makeup, I halfheartedly reply, "Ready as I'll ever be."

Putting his hands on his hips, he frowns. "Come on, I need more enthusiasm than that."

Giving him a cheesy grin, I pump one hand up and sarcastically shout, "Yay for working out."

Chuckling he shakes his head and some of his honey brown hair falls in to his eyes. Freezing, I process the fact I've just had a two-minute conversation with one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen; and one, he was laughing not at me or my appearance, and two, I hadn't freaked out or hidden. Interesting.

"Let's start with some stretching. Do you have enough room to move around?"

Nodding I take a couple steps back, so I'm in the middle of the room.

"Okay, arms first. Lift both of your arms so they're going out straight from your shoulders, like this."

Mimicking his stance, I lift my arms. Step by step, I copy his movements and follow his verbal instructions. From time to time, he corrects what I'm doing by telling me to lift my arms higher or point my toes outward.

By the time we're done stretching, I'm winded.

"Can I pause and grab some water?" I ask, trying not to pant.

His eyes widen. "We haven't even started the workout."

My shoulders sag and I pout, not expecting to get a positive reaction from it.

"Get some water," he groans, motioning with his hand.

Grinning, I turn and head to my desk where my water bottle is. Coco chooses that moment to leap off the sofa and stalk toward the TV. She smoothly jumps onto the console and examines Luke.

"Hi, kitty, kitty." He wiggles his fingers at her as her ears flatten and she hisses at him.

There's a crash behind him as a flash of growling, barking, and white charges his TV.

"Loki, sit. Loki, sit." Luke tries in vain, my eyes widening as I stare at the top of his dog's head as he jumps up in front of the TV.

The stand where Luke's TV is must be too high for his dog to rest his front paws. Coco in turn hisses and bats at the screen each time Luke's dog jumps.

"Coco, stop that," I admonish, picking her up.

She struggles in my hands, reaching back toward the TV, as I carry her to my room.

"I'll let you out when my session is done," I explain, gently setting her on my bed.

She eyes the door, possibly evaluating who would reach it first in a race, her or me. I raise a brow letting her know I'm on to her, and would so win that race. She slowly pads her way to my pillow, spins around twice, then lies down, her back to me.

Great. Silent treatment.

When you live alone with a cat, you develop a routine day-to-day hierarchy. To a certain extent, I do depend on her for affection. It's not fun when your cat ignores you.

Closing the door behind me, hopeful her annoyance at being locked in my room won't last too long, I make my way back into my living room. From the screen, I watch as Luke walks back into what I'm a.s.suming is his living room as well.

"Sorry about that." He gives me a half smile. "Loki goes nuts around cats."

"It's cool. She's in my bedroom now," I say, grabbing my water bottle and taking a swig.

"All right, Lindsay. You've had your water, time to work out."

For the next forty-five minutes, Luke has me do everything from yoga to jumping jacks. I'll be dedicating a blog post to how little my super expensive sports bra did to hold the girls in place during that portion of our workout. Lesson learned, cleavage-enhancing sportswear is not really meant to do anything other than make you look good, forget actually working out in them.

While I did successfully make it through my workout, I am embarra.s.sed by my lack of endurance and strength. It's clear Luke was taking it easy on me. At the end of our workout, as I gasp, trying to catch my breath, he gives me homework. I am about to end the connection when he stops me, saying I need to stretch again as I cool down.

Dropping to the floor I mimic his stance, my legs straight out in front of me. Where he can easily reach his toes and lower his face close to almost touching his knees, I can barely touch my knees. Drenched in sweat, and panting in front of the s.e.xiest guy I've ever seen motivates me more than anything else has.

I might never be a size two like the pictures on my page but it is within my control to get into better shape. Someday, I hope soon, if I keep working out with Luke, I'll be able to touch my toes. With any luck, I might even be able to make it through a workout without getting so out of breath.

After our final stretch, I collapse backward onto my rug, too exhausted to care that at this angle my high priced work out gear is probably losing its battle to flatten and tone all my jiggly bits.

"It wasn't that bad was it?" Luke teases from the screen.

I lift my head and give him a withering glare.

His laugh makes my stomach flip; and even though it strains my stomach to keep my eyes on him, I can't look away. He's laughing full out, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he clearly is not intimidated by my angry stare. To be fair, the probability that my stare is still angry versus l.u.s.tful is low.

Is this what my homebodiedness has caused? Will I be this flabbergasted around any attractive man I happen to see?

As his enjoyment over my behavior ends, he brings his fist up to his mouth and laugh coughs a couple times before shaking his head at me.

"This has been fun, Lindsay. Keep up with your diet, meal tracking, and daily time on the treadmill. b.u.mp the incline up one next time and leave it there." I nod dumbly at his instructions, slightly concerned at me actually being able to get off the floor. "I'll see you again in two days," he continues.

"Bye." I limply lift my hand.

As my head falls back onto the rug, I catch a brief glimpse of him grinning and shaking his head again as he turns off his screen. The fear he might inadvertently reopen the video stream is the only motivation I need to crawl over to my TV and turn it off. I unplug my tablet for good measure before dropping back to the floor.

If I ever get up, I see a long hot bath in my future. Exhaustion keeps me on the floor though. For what seemed to be a simple workout, I'm amazed at how wrecked I am. I didn't lift weights, unless the added weight of my own limbs counts.

Thank G.o.d, I knocked out all the work for my day job out before my workout. Cautiously, I move to stand, embarra.s.sed by how slowly I'm moving. One perk to living alone, other than Coco, is my lack of an audience. I strip my damp, sweaty clothes off as I make my way to my bathroom. It is no small task. It's as though the sweat from my workout shrunk my clothes or my fat expanded in complaint to my attempt to rid myself of it.

I'm successfully nude by the time I pa.s.s my hamper. Taking a moment to contemplate if I want to subject my average dirty laundry to the epic level of yuck of my workout clothes I hesitate putting them in. Instead, I decide to throw them in the sink while I start my bath. I'll wash them separately before I crash for the night.

Strangely, I'm proud of how funky they are from one workout. Starting the tub, I turn back to take in my appearance in the full-length mirror of my bathroom. Do I look any different than I did the day before? Yes, I look awful. I'm all red and splotchy, my makeup, so carefully applied, has either melted off my face or been consumed en ma.s.se by my pores.

Even though I can truthfully say I have never looked worse, I also have never felt better, emotionally, not physically. I physically feel like c.r.a.p at the moment, and not a healthy, high in fiber diet crud. My hair hurts. I'm pretty sure that's uncommon. Emotionally though, today is the first step to getting off my b.u.t.t and finally doing something other than wis.h.i.+ng to make my dream come true.

As fas.h.i.+on obsessed as I am, I get that I'll never be a runway model. First off, they're super young and crazy tall. Since I'm neither of those things, it's clear that isn't ever going to be a reality for me; but someday wearing a single digit dress size might be. I want to look in the mirror and see the girl I show the world on my blog.

Maybe if I did, I wouldn't be so scared to leave my house. I know I'm hiding; even a part of me is ashamed at myself for doing it. Could I be a bigger wuss? My doctor calls it agoraphobia. While I've always been shy, severely so, I wasn't always like this.

I used to go to school, at least through high school and part of my freshman year of college, before I started getting worse. Shopping in a store, driving, going to cla.s.s, all freaked me out but I still managed to do it. All I ever wanted to do was fit in. I was the definition of flying under the radar.

Glancing back at the tub, I'm relieved to see it's ready. Easing my sore limbs into the hot water, I relax briefly until my thoughts drift to her, the one person who I was never invisible to, Missy Pollard. She was everything I wanted to be in high school, pretty, popular, a force of nature. Everyone, even our teachers, gravitated to her.

She hated me. I'm still not sure what I ever did to draw her attention. She was the only person who saw me until whatever torment she inflected on me made me visible to everyone else. It started our freshman year of high school. We had two cla.s.ses together, and right after winter break, she honed in on me.

At first, it was so subtle I tried to convince myself it wasn't even happening, a shoulder b.u.mp as we pa.s.sed each other in the hallway; standing in front of my locker with her back turned to me, pretending she couldn't hear me when I asked her to move.

Each year was worse than the one before it. Once I got home off the bus, that she thankfully did not ride, I would retreat to my bedroom and stay there. She was active in extracurricular activities and went to all the games. I stayed home out of fear of running into her.

My senior year I was certain I would be free of her until I found out we would be going to the same college. Stupidly, I thought I could hide from her on a college campus. I never could have guessed the extent to which she would go to torment me.

After Lindsay's session, I decided to go for a jog. This whole web chat training thing is new, so I kind of used her workout as part of my own. I'll still need to keep up my weight training separately, but I can kill two birds with one stone and do cardio with her twice a week. She looked beat at the end of the workout.

If I was at the gym, I could hang out by the front desk, under the guise of filing paperwork, and see my clients as they walk out to their cars. Depending on how they move, I would know if I had been too rough on them or not. Freeing Loki from my room, I rub his belly for a couple minutes before slipping my key into my pocket and heading out.

As I jog, I mentally go over my session with Lindsay. She seemed committed. Other than her first request for water, she didn't stop once. That's a good sign. I can't show it, but I can't handle the whiny clients who stop me every couple of minutes. They aren't committed and are clearly only going through the motions of trying to change their lifestyle.