The Beautiful Truth

// 105

"Hey, Fallen, remember that time you called me a bitch when you were hitting on my roommate?" I groaned, grimacing as I shifted my weight on my lounge chair. "That was really great. I knew we'd be friends," I added sarcastically.

Chase deserved it. He'd just finished torturing me in the gym, which now loomed like a monolithic house of horrors behind us.

Fifteen minutes on the treadmill, a trillion crunches involving core balls, medicine balls, leg lifts, rubber bands and some kind of medieval torture device shaped like a short, fat rolling pin, ten minutes on the stair-stepper at max resistance, and then fifteen minutes of free weights, operation 'Olympian Abs' was underway.

Chase had been calling me weak and out of shape after I'd winced, leaning over to pick up my sunscreen a minute ago. I was already sore. I would probably be unable to walk until Sunday. My abs were on fire like never before, and my arms felt like lead pipes.

"I did that?" he asked, looking at me and frowning in concern.

I smirked. "It was before I knew you; it's OK."

Chase scoffed. "Well, even so, I'm sorry. God, I'm a dick."

"Finally," Travis sighed in mock-exasperation on the other side of Chase. "June 19, Chase becomes self-aware. Somebody write this down."

I laughed. "I did also ask you if you had been trying to lose the Washington State game."

Chase groaned. Travis grimaced, remembering.

"So I may have deserved it," I admitted.

Chase laughed. "Well, I'm glad I know better now. How would I have passed Technical Writing without you?"

"Mm, right," I agreed. I loved editing his papers. Something about wielding a red pen made me feel so powerful.

"Who's your roommate?" Chase asked.

It took a second for me to answer. We were all settling in to that post-workout stoned feeling. "Uh, Michelle van der Waal. She's a cheerleader."

Or at least she was. Considering her douche-y twig-armed stunt partner, I wondered if she was still on the squad—if she wanted to be, that is.

"You know, the blonde one," Travis laughed.

Chase and I chuckled. Cal had twelve varsity female cheerleaders. At least eight of them were some shade of blonde. That didn't narrow it down.

"If I didn't think I'd tear myself in half, I'd get my phone and show you a picture," I explained.

Chase sat up straight on his chair, then swiftly bent forward to retrieve my phone. "When you can do that workout without being sore, my work will be done. Imagine how great it's gonna feel tomorrow," he winked.

"Woah, what's this?" he asked suddenly excited, staring at my iPhone, then reading the text message displayed on the front. "Come on, SF, I don't want it to be like this. I told you I can't turn off how I feel. Can you?"

I shot up from my seat and had to grit my teeth to keep from crying out. "Give me my phone," I ordered, lifting one of my lead pipes to him.

Chase blocked my tired arm easily. "From a 213 area code. Who do you know in LA? Wait. Your area code is 213, how did that work out?"

I dropped my arm and stared at him blankly.

"Uh... Wh—OH!" he suddenly realized. "Oh!"

"Wait, what?" Travis asked, confusion apparent.

"Tell me this is Talyn Parrish's phone number."