I glance around the gym as we pass through. Clean machines. Mirrors. A certain… layout. Something about it tugs at my brain, but I can’t place why.
Before I leave, she hands me the paperwork.
“You’re welcome to take these home and bring them back whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m still looking around at my options. I’ll be in touch.”
I tuck the paperwork into my bag and walk out feeling strangely energized, but still with few options on my plate. So I fudged. My current situation isn’t any of her business.
But, I’m almost a tenant. A tenant in waiting. An interested party who would like more information. Try the place on for size, so to speak.
That’s what I tell myself an hour later when I circle back wearing sweats and a hoodie, and feeling a wee bit guilty for treating myself to an ice cream.
I obviously have no self-control. Or common sense.
I park, sit in my car for a second, then grab the papers I filled out from my passenger seat. I could just drop them in the night box.
But since I’m already here… it wouldn’t hurt to check out the gym again. You know. For research. I mean, what if I hate it? That would be a deal-breaker. I owe it to myself to test the vibe. I’m not breaking and entering. I’m not vandalizing anything. I’m almost a resident.
That has to count for something.
The gym is empty when I slip inside, my heart races like I’m doing something far more criminal. I mean, I’m not even trespassing. I’m taking a second look at the place without a tour guide.
The place feels bigger when it’s quiet.
I walk around, skimming my fingers along the machines that look like intricate torture chambers. I tilt my head at a contraption with the wordsGlute-Ham Developerin bold letters along a piece of steel.
What the?
I’m suddenly aware of every insecurity I own and why I’ve avoided gyms. Where would I even start? What if someone came in and watched me flail around? What if I injured myself and couldn’t move? No one would find me until morning. Would the blonde lady call the police and have me arrested?
Pfft…of course not. My imagination’s getting away from me.
I end up on the treadmill—the one piece of equipment that feels safe. Predictable.
As it hums to life, I pull out my phone and scroll through the videos I’ve bookmarked. Workout clips. Fitness creators. Content I’ve been studying for my side gig, helping influencers expand their social media presence.
One video stops me cold.
My gaze flicks around the room. The mirrors. The placement of the equipment. The flooring. My pulse spikes.No. It can’t be. Apartment gyms all look the same with their corporate design and mass-produced layouts. My brain is playing tricks on me.
Still, the sense of déjà vu crawls up my spine, and now I’m curious. I follow the link in bio that leads to a Fans Only page for user, Flex Appeal.
Clever.
I watch the intro video. The guy has abs for days and pecs that won’t quit, but he doesn’t show his face. Camera shy orsecurity minded. Either way, he’s hot, hot, hot. The video ends with an invite to join his workout page for personal trainer tips.
A personal trainer for five bucks? I hesitate, then rationalize. That’s less than a drive-thru latte, and educational. I need all the personal training I can get. I hit subscribe before my common sense catches up.
The man’s complete bio pops up and so many videos I start to salivate. But a metallic clank echoes outside—the sound of a gate opening, then clicking shut.
Panic slams at my chest. I yank my hoodie over my head and take one foot off the treadmill while the other slides backward at three miles per hour. I lurch forward and catch myself before face-planting into the rubber floor.
The door opens and I freeze, belly to the ground and itching to run. If it’s the blonde lady, I’m toast.
“You okay?” The man’s voice is low and concerned, smooth as ice cream.
He moves quickly toward me. Panic surges in my chest and shoots through me at lightning speed. I press my palms flat against the floor and push myself up while keeping my chin down and my face hidden.
