“Yes. Now, c’mon.” I helped her onto her back to begin crunches, showing her how to move her body. My hand hovered over her and I swallowed, cognizant of how much what I was about to say connected to her poem. “Do you mind if I touch you to show you where you want to feel it?”
“I don’t mind.” Britta rested on her elbows as I settled my fingertips on her abdomen. I could have moved my fingers, pulled them away once she had the idea and then talked her through it, but I didn’t. Instead, I pressed lower, letting my fingers splay over her belly, feeling her tense. “Right here,” I said, my voice huskier than I planned when I met her eyes. “When you do the crunch, you’ll contract your muscles here.”
She nodded, cheeks reddening.
I slid my hand away, swallowing what felt like a plum. I cared about Britta, about helping her reach her goals, and she was my friend. Even if I lay awake thinking about the sound of her breath hitching, I was getting too close to crossing unprofessional lines.
“Great,” I said, scooting back and beginning to count out loud. Sitting back on my heels, I tried to watch her body not too closely like a guy who wanted her, but as a professional teaching her to do crunches. “Awesome,” I cheered for her when she collapsed to the floor. “Knew you could do it.”
“I hate you,” she panted, staring up at the ceiling.
“You’ll thank me someday.”
“Not today.”
“I’m patient.” I walked her through several other exercises, working obliques, doing planks to strengthen her core, and trying a Pilates move where she held her legs off the ground for intervals of ten seconds. Somewhere in the middle, she stopped telling me she hated me, and I wondered if she was enjoying it. She still got excited when she pushed herself a little further or did a few more reps than she thought she could. It reminded me why I loved doing this; that sense of accomplishment was contagious.
“Whew!” She exhaled loudly after the last set of bicycle kicks. “I’m spent.” She lay on her back, breathless.
“Let’s stretch,” I said, hurriedly reaching a hand to help her up again. In the sterile, muted colors of the gym, she was full of color and life, and the moment her hand was in mine, things felt right.
A battle raged among my self-control, my desire to be professional, and my pulsing need to be closer to her. Self-control was losing as I considered just blurting out . . . what? That I liked her? Wanted her? That I was ending our professional relationship because I planned to ask her on a date and hold her hand? I brushed a tendril of hair away from her neck, and her eyelids lowered. “Britt—”
At the sound of my phone, I jumped, digging in my pocket to retrieve it. The only calls that rang instead of vibrating were from my mom, the lawyer, and Libby, if she were ever to call.
“Mary, is everything okay?” My pulse sped at the lawyer’s voice on the other end of the call.
Britta’s expression was filled with concern, no doubt reading the worry on my face.
“Yes and no. Your mother is fine as far as I know, but she just fired me. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Can she do that?”
“She can. We haven’t made progress yet with the petition to seek guardianship, and she is a legally competent adult.”
Britta tilted her head, but I didn’t need to share this with her or anyone else, so I held up a hand indicating I’d take the call in the hallway.
“Her choices are her own, though I reminded her that firing me would not change the terms of her electronic monitoring.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, leaning against the wall in the empty hallway. It smelled of stale sweat, and the echo of a spin class instructor’s cheers rang around me. I wanted to be shocked, but I didn’t have that in me, either. “Thank you, Mary.”
“We’ll talk soon, Wes.”
I tapped out a quick text to Kelsey.
Wes: Need to cancel tonight. Thing with my mom.
Kelsey: That sucks. Talk to you later.
“Everything . . . okay?” Britta’s voice behind me was tentative, and she took a cautious step forward.
“Sorry.” I dropped my phone into my pocket. “We can get back to your session.”
“You look like someone just sucker punched you. What’s wrong?” She took another step closer, concern and a new take-charge attitude coloring her face. We were alone in the hallway, quiet save the exhortations from the spin instructor.
“It’s just a family thing,” I said, attempting to fix my expression. “My mom has some issues. I wouldn’t normally abandon you like that while we were training.”
“Do you need to go?”
I didn’t want to go, or deal with any of Mom’s bullshit. I wanted Britta to give me a hug, and not the sexual embrace I’d been imagining when I helped her with crunches, but an honest-to-God hug. I hated that feeling, like I needed someone to take care of me, even though I knew deep down Britta would. She’s probably a good hugger. “I’ve got time. Let’s finish.” The gym was something I knew how to do.
Britta gave me another of her skeptical looks, that familiar crease forming between her brows. “Are you sure? Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m sure.” I motioned back to the weight room, careful not to let our arms brush. “Let’s try a few of the machines.”
31
LIKED BY BRENDASCOTT731 AND 5,003 OTHERS
One of the first things I told my coach was that I didn’t want to do yoga. I know so many of you love it, but I never saw the appeal. That is to say, I never did until I found the YouTube channel of a woman who looks like me leading yoga instruction. I saw this beautiful, fat Black woman and thought, “Maybe me, too.” Guess what, readers? I love it! Representation is so important in all aspects, but three cheers for fat representation in fitness. We’re out here doing it, friends. Having someone I thought I could trust show me the ropes meant everything to me giving yoga a try. What pushed you to try something new?
* * *
A HAZE HUNG over the park, and the slick grass was still the dingy brown of winter. I’d arrived early, wanting to give myself extra time to stretch, and make sure my laces were tied well. I’d lived here for years but never paid close attention to the runners in the park.
I was so focused on observing the other people, the familiar voice saying “Good morning!” made me jump, much to Wes’s amusement.
I clutched at my chest. “Where did you come from?”
“You weren’t paying attention. Too busy checking out those guys?” Wes pointed to two men in their seventies wearing velour tracksuits and bucket hats power walking the perimeter of the park.
I swatted at him, the back of my hand making contact with his chiseled midsection. “Shut up. I wanted to learn the rules.”
He feigned injury, clutching his stomach, and backed away. “Rules?”
“You know. How everything works. I don’t want to look like a doofus.” I was planning a before-and-after post for my first run, and I’d taken the before video earlier in the day, already nervous about what I was getting into.
He stretched while giving me a crooked smile. “You think I’d let you look like a doofus?”
I loved that smile, kind of silly and sexy at the same time. It was also evidence that he wasn’t perfect, a reminder I sometimes needed.
“I’ll show you the ropes,” he said, patting my shoulder and scanning the park. The warmth of his hand lingered, even though he’d only given me a reassuring pat. “Ready?”
I nodded. I was up to running for nine minutes at a time on the treadmill, which I was proud of. Wes said running outside was different, and it might be easier for me, because I got so focused on the digital readout. We started off at a slow jog, and I sucked in the fresh air. It was different to move forward—to make progress. Wes set his watch for eleven minutes, and it felt doable.
“Don’t forget to keep breathing,” he reminded me. We weren’t going fast, but I didn’t want to jinx myself by using up any breath to respond.