Darby checks in several times a day. Her texts always chipper, but I can’t help but notice a thread of sadness. I get it. I was lonely in Chicago before she moved out there. Now that I’m back home, she’s in the same boat I was.
I’ve tried to cheer her up by telling her about the Fans Only videos I’m watching, but at this point, I think she thinks I’m infatuated with him. Which I am, but not really. It’s one thing to appreciate a person’s perfect body, another to want to have his babies. Which is out of the question.
I try not to obsess over the faceless man on the screen, but I’m starting to catch on, following a few easy exercises I can do on the floor of Dad’s office… squats and easy lifting using canned goods for weights. A girl’s gotta start somewhere.
But when the videos focus on machines and equipment I can’t replicate at home, I find myself studying him from every angle he allows. But I still can’t shake the feeling that I knowthis place. Maybe I want out of my parents’ house so badly, I’ve become delusional. But I swear the equipment and mirrors are exactly like the ones at Savannah Harbor.
It’s ridiculous, I know. But the feeling won’t let go.
I don’t just recognize it, I feel it. In my bones. In the back of my throat. Like a word I can almost remember but not quite say out loud.
By the third night, my curiosity is piqued and frustration wins.
I grab my hoodie and keys and drive back to the apartment complex, my heart racing the entire way. I just need confirmation. Proof I’m not losing my mind. And maybe I can figure out that glute ham thingy machine while I’m at it.
I let myself in through the pool gate, pull my hoodie closer around my neck, and try the door handle to the gym. The doors are still open when I slip inside, just before closing. The gym lights glow softly, welcoming and quiet.
I head straight for a bench and open my phone, pulling up the bookmarked videos again. I compare the background to the room around me trying to figure out the angle of the camera and where it’s coming from.
I walk around, propping my phone on every surface I can think of, then flip back to the videos trying to get a match. And then I find it, and my stomach flips.
This roomisthe same. What are the chances I’d stumble upon a Fans Only page that’s filmed in this very spot.
“Excuse me?” The voice slices through the silence like a needle skittering across a scratched record.
I whirl around.
The leasing agent stands just inside the door, eyes darting around the empty gym. Her pleasant smile is gone.
“Who let you in here?” she asks. “This space is for residents only.”
Heat floods my face. I’ve never been good at lying, but if it’ll keep me out of trouble, now’s a good time to start.
“Oh, I’m not…,” I stammer. “I’m… waiting for someone.”
Her brow arches. “Who?”
My brain short-circuits.
“My… my… boyfriend,” I blurt. “He lives here. I swear he’s on his way. Just running late.”
The door opens again. I don’t look. I can’t. It’s mortifying enough that she’s caught me. I don’t need the humiliation of a crowd.
She crosses her arms, clearly unconvinced. “And does this boyfriend of yours have a name?”
My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure they can both hear it.
“Grey.” The footsteps and a familiar voice that darn near makes my heart stop. “Sorry I’m late.”
I turn, and time stills.
Grey stands in the doorway, gym bag slung over his shoulder, confusion etched across his face. He looks between me and the leasing agent, clearly trying to piece together whatever the hell is happening.
My survival instincts kick in. I rush to his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, grab his arm, and smile nervously.
“There you are, baby.” I say, breathless.
The leasing agent’s gaze sharpens. “This is your girlfriend?”
