Initially, when Daniel decided to spend the summer in Seattle while I stayed in Bellingham with my parents in order to save up money, we’d agreed that we wouldn’t go more than two weeks without seeing each other. But after he left and as June progressed, it became clear that the seminars he had enrolled in were more intense and demanding of his time than he’d thought they would be. He was also working full-time at a twenty-four-hour gym, so by the Fourth of July weekend, it had been almost an entire month filled only with daily texts, FaceTiming, and, when our schedules aligned, a longer call on Skype.
“Love you, baby,” Daniel said at the end of every one of our conversations. “Can’t wait until you’re here with me.”
“I love you, too,” I always replied, because it was true. I did love Daniel. I missed him. But that didn’t erase the fact that since talking with Tyler about my feelings over coffee the day Daniel left, I hadn’t been able to shake the nagging sensation that getting engaged might not have been the smartest choice. I didn’t know if I was really ready to make that kind of commitment. Before Daniel asked me to marry him, I’d been excited to move to Seattle, to embark together on the adventure of figuring out what we would do with our lives and who we’d eventually become as individuals. There was no pressure, just the limitless, open-road future stretched out in front of us. But now, the ring on my finger seemed to signify something so weighty, so final and constricting, the excitement I had felt shifted into something less thrilling and more uncertain. Something that filled me with doubt.
I did my best not to think about it, telling myself that everything would be fine once I made the move to Seattle and Daniel and I were together again. I kept busy, spending time with my parents and Tyler, focusing on my own job at a locally owned gym. I started work at six a.m., five days a week, and was there until two in the afternoon. It was a smaller establishment that prided itself on a family-friendly atmosphere and personalized fitness plans for the customers. They scheduled me to see at least five clients a day, and I was happy for the chance to show them what I could do.
The Friday morning before the holiday weekend, I began my day with a dark-haired, attractive, but pudgy bank manager, who informed me that he wanted to try to find his abs again after ten years of feeding them nothing but fast food and beer. The next hour, I met with a client who seemed more interested in watching the Today show while she walked on the treadmill than in listening to what I had to suggest about letting go of the handles and bumping up the incline on the machine so she might actually break a sweat.
“I want to have a body like yours,” she had said when I first introduced myself and inquired about her fitness goals. She was in her late forties, and was round on top with long, thin legs.
“Well,” I said, in a measured tone. My first job as a trainer was to get a client to set reasonable and realistic goals. “I tend to focus more on getting you healthy and strong rather than trying to help you reach a specific body type. We can get your body in the absolute best shape for you.”
“Huh.” She gave me a sour look. “I bet you’re one of those women who can eat and eat and never gain weight.”
I suppressed a sigh, suspecting that if I told her about my struggle with body image and how close I’d come to dying—if I said that learning to make sure I ate enough food every day was as much of a challenge as her learning to eat less—she wouldn’t believe me. I knew from my time in the hospital, and the years of struggle to find balance that followed, that unless this woman changed her mind-set, her body would stay exactly as it was.
Still, I encouraged her through a workout, and she told me she would be back for another session on Tuesday, so it was still possible for her attitude to shift in the right direction. I reminded myself that I didn’t get better overnight—it had been a process, a relearning of everything my calorie-deprived brain told me was true. That even ten years later, I still had to fight the voice inside my head telling me I was too fat, that I shouldn’t eat this or that or, on some days, anything at all. After she left, I took an hour to get in my own workout—being able to do so while I was still on the clock was a perk of the job. Now, at a little before ten, I stood behind the front desk, watching it for the receptionist while he took his morning break.
“Can I help you?” I asked an older woman who entered the doors of the gym, clad in a red velour tracksuit, looking a bit uncertain once she was inside.
The woman directed her bright blue eyes at me. “Yes, please,” she said. “I’m Doris Carter, and I have an appointment with Amber Bryant?” Her voice wavered a bit as she spoke, and I guessed from the crinkled state of her pale skin and slightly hunched shoulders that she was somewhere in her seventies.
“I’m Amber,” I said with a welcoming smile. “Is this your first time meeting with a personal trainer?”
She nodded. “My doctor said walking my dog isn’t enough. I need to lift weights to help support my bones.” She looked me over from head to toe. “How old are you, dear, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“And you know what you’re doing?”
“I do,” I said, continuing to smile. “I have a degree in nutrition and physiology, as well as a personal training certification. I’d be happy to show you my credentials.”
“Oh no,” she said, waving the suggestion away. “If Harold hired you, then I’m sure you’re wonderful.”
“How do you know Harold?” I asked as I grabbed the intake sheet I would need Doris to fill out before we started our session. Harold Richards was my boss, the owner of the gym, and a client of my father’s, which was how I’d secured the job.
“I was his high school English teacher,” Doris said. “He was a terrible nuisance in class, but it seems as though he’s finally made something of himself here.” She took the piece of paper I held out to her and looked it over. “?‘Is there any possibility you might be pregnant?’?” she read out loud, and then winked at me. “I doubt it, but I sure wish I had someone to practice with again.”
I laughed, immediately knowing I would like working with her. “You’re not married?”
“I was. For fifty-two wonderful years. My Steven passed away four years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, wondering if my marriage to Daniel would last that long. If it would last at all.