Just One Look
Copyright© 2025 by DB86
Chapter 20
If I had my way, I would’ve spent the next week—or possibly the next eternity—entangled with Rachel in bed, losing myself in the softness of her body and the taste of her lips.
Sadly, we both had jobs, so the next day I drove home for a shower and a change of clothes.
I walked into the office with coffee for myself and one for Marisa. I dropped hers on her desk as I breezed in. She took one look at me, blinked, and stood.
Without saying a word, she grabbed her coffee, marched me into my office, and shut the door behind us.
“Okay, Pete. Tell me everything.” She paused, reconsidering. “Actually, not everything. Spare me the dirty details.”
“How do you know something happened?”
She raised an eyebrow. “One—that ridiculous smile says you got lucky. Two—you’re practically radioactive. And three...” She tilted her head. “What are you doing?”
“Trying not to smile.”
“Well, stop it. Details, Pete. Don’t make me call Rachel.”
I laughed—and might’ve done a little happy dance—then took a breath to compose myself. “Yes. Rachel and I ... ahem ... cleared the air.”
She squealed and jumped. “Keep talking.”
So, I told her everything, minus the dirty parts.
“So, you’re together?”
“I think so, yeah.”
“As in boyfriend and girlfriend? A steady couple?”
“I ... think so?” I hadn’t actually asked that question yet.
“What do you mean by ‘think so’?”
“Well, we didn’t really talk about labels. But she’s definitely a one-man woman. So ... I guess that makes us exclusive?” I shrugged. “Marisa, she’s just ... the sweetest person. And she’s gorgeous. And perfect.”
“No one’s perfect,” she said, clearly trying to keep me grounded. “Not even me.”
“I meant she’s perfect for me.”
“So ... you and Rachel, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Crazy.”
“You tell me. Don’t tell my mother, or she’ll start planning the wedding.”
“Don’t I know it? You’ve been avoiding her, haven’t you?”
“Yep, she’s calling three times a week to check in. As soon as she sees I’ve lost weight, she’ll start her campaign to make Pete chubby again. I can handle temptation better than when I started, but I’m not quite there yet.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
“I can run two miles now without stopping. Or dying.”
“Two miles? Wow, Pete. No wonder you’re looking so good.”
I almost brushed it off—out of habit—but after everything that had happened this past weekend, I paused, took a breath, and let myself smile. “Thanks.”
The next day, I got to work feeling energized.
I used to roll my eyes when people said exercise gave them more energy. How could something that nearly killed me—like walking up stairs—energize anyone?
But it was true.
I was sleeping better. I was drinking more water. And I genuinely felt a hundred-percent better than I had two months ago.
It was time to kick it up a notch. I didn’t really think I could trim too many more calories from my daily intake and still function, but I started jogging on the days I didn’t go to the gym and walking to my meetings.
With the high school reunion around the corner, I decided it was time to buy new clothes. I couldn’t get away with cinching my old work pants anymore. Nothing fit.
I asked Marisa to come with me. I needed an honest opinion, and if anyone wore honesty like a tailored suit, it was her.
At the store, the tailor gave me a quick once-over, then snapped his fingers. “Thirty-eight.”
“I’m thirty-five, thank you very much.”
He blinked. Marisa laughed and patted my arm. “Suit size, Pete.”
“Oh.” I lifted my chin. “Right. Sorry.” Then the number hit me. Size thirty-eight? I hadn’t worn a size thirty-eight jacket in years. I turned to Marisa, barely containing my excitement. “Thirty-eight!”
I’d only planned to buy one suit. But somehow, I walked out with three—one navy, one gray, and one charcoal. Despite the hit to my bank account, I couldn’t stop buzzing.
I sent Rachel a selfie of me holding the size thirty-eight tag and smiling like an idiot.
Her reply came almost instantly.
So proud of you. I’ll be at yours at seven. That’s okay?
I texted back.
I’ll be home by 5:30. See you at 6.
Marisa and I drove back to the office. I twirled with my shopping bags. “Size thirty-eight!”
“Shut up! I hate you,” she grinned. “Now, get your skinny ass in gear and get some work done.”
I laughed and headed toward the door. “I’ll go for a walk and check how the crew’s doing.”
While outside, I texted my mom. I told her what I’d been doing these past few months and sent her the same photo I’d sent Rachel.
She replied with a voice message.
“Pete, dear—is this why you’ve been avoiding me? Let me tell you, you look very handsome and tall. I’m proud of you. Marisa told me you’re dating someone. When will you be coming over for dinner? You’ll bring her, yes?”
I muttered to myself, “Not for dinner. Not in this lifetime.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of walking the site and burying myself in financial statistics—and even that couldn’t dampen my mood.
On the drive home, I started wondering what I should cook for dinner. Once I got in and changed, I stared at my fridge and pantry for inspiration ... but came up completely blank.
My doorbell rang at exactly six o’clock.
I opened the door, and there was Rachel, smiling at me like I was her favorite thing in the world. And in that moment, I had to wonder if this day could possibly get any better.
“Hey, boyfriend,” she said, flashing me a thousand-volt smile.
Well, that solved the label question I’d been avoiding.
“Hey, girlfriend,” I replied, one hand behind my back and a grin on my face.
I revealed a single rose.
“From me to you.”
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