Chapter seven
Terry
The tip of the Christmas tree almost grazes the glass dome meters above in the foyer of Starsky’s Gym Complex. Silver tinsel and white lights scatter diamonds across the walls.
Underneath, images of gym instructors wearing Christmas hats decorate the gifts. Festive music I’ve heard thousands of times fills the air, cringy and relentless, like the season is forcing me to have Christmas spirit. If I fake it long enough, maybe it will feel real. The same as my marriage.
Two huge escalators disappear behind the tree and carry members up to the fitness suites beyond. The place looks more like a shopping mall than a gym. Every wall reflects the passersby.
A sportswear and equipment shop on the ground floor covers the footprint of the center. Upstairs, there are rows and rows of machines and equipment stacked neatly.
Amy skips beside me, wearing her training outfit. “Isn’t this place amazing,” she squeals. “Trey said they have the best equipment in all of London.” She scans the rooms as we pass, taking everything in.
There are dozens of men and women wearing the latest gear working out, not a hair out of place. Even their sweat patches look on point. I groan internally. This is not my scene, but I promised I would come and support her.
“Terry,” she snaps. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I haven’t stopped listening to you since we left home. I know. Starsky’s has the best equipment, best instructors, and the best training program ever invented.” Her face twists, then she flicks a stray lock of hair over her shoulder.
“Look, there’s the competition suite,” I say to change the subject. We’re here for Amy’s second bodybuilding competition. For the past six months, she’s been one hundred percent focused on today. Memories of the 4 a.m. meal prep and tubs stacked in our fridge flood back. The clang of dumbbells on our kitchen floor between reps.
Bodybuilding was meant to distract from Bex’s illness, but it’s become her obsession. Her days and nights have been spent in the gym. She’s in the best shape of her life.
At the end of the corridor are double doors pinned open wide. Inside the competition suite is a theater with seating for hundreds of spectators. A stage fills the back of the room. There are lights and speakers suspended from the ceiling and walls. Dance music is blaring from all directions. Across the wall behind the stage is a gigantic banner reading ‘Welcome to Starsky’s Amateur Body Building Competition 2018.’
Amy grabs my hand and starts jumping up and down on the spot. Sometimes I wonder if my wife ever really grew up. Her flushed cheeks and swinging ponytail used to be something I loved. Her never-ending joy in life, it used to rub off on me.Now, I feel like a man peering through glass on the outside, left behind.
Trey appears from nowhere and wraps his arms around her waist, swinging her around. My fists tighten before I even think about it. I hate that she laughs with him the way she used to with me. I miss being the man who could make her light up with a smile.
Maybe that’s the problem. We no longer feel like awe. She’s moving forward, finding new parts of herself, while I stand still and watch her disappear.
“Amz!” he shouts, then places her back on the floor, standing back to look her up and down. “You look incredible. Are you ready to flaunt your hot body?” My hackles rise. I hate this guy. My wife spends more time with him than me, and he’s so fucking touchy-feely with her. She giggles and flicks another strand of hair away, the previously warming sound now a sting on my skin.
Turning to me, she says, “Darling, I need to go prepare. I’m the first class on stage. Bikini body over forty.” My jaw clenches, but I force a nod. I know this. She’s told me a bazillion times already. “Wish me luck!” She pecks my cheek, then scurries off after Trey in the direction of the stage.
As I squint around the room, I feel completely out of place. Everyone smells of fake tan and body spray, enough to choke me. The overhead lights reflect off perfectly oiled skin.
I slide into a seat near the front where the light is broken overhead, the kind of corner where nobody looks twice. Pulling a beer from my rucksack, I crack it open quietly and sink lower, the fizz hissing like a dirty secret. Hidden here in the shadows is the only way I’ll make it to the end.
Twenty minutes later and two beers down, a man dressed in a tuxedo walks on stage. The crowd, I hadn’t noticed filling the place, goes wild.
The man in the tux waves both his arms in the air. “Welcome!” he shouts into the microphone, and the sound reverberates around the hall. “This is our tenth annual Starsky’s Christmas Competition. I’ve seen the competitors, and, fucking hell, they look good.” His face splits into a huge grin. “First up, we have our entry-level bikini competition. These athletes must be within their first two years of competing. We’ll start with our ladies over forty and work downward. Let’s go.” The crowd goes wild again, and the music shrieks.
A man dressed in nothing but the smallest pair of briefs I’ve ever seen walks on stage with a board above his head, telling us this is round one?presentation. He turns to leave, and to my horror, the briefs don’t even have an ass attached to them; it’s a bloody thong. I drop my focus to the floor, grab another beer, and settle back to watch the hell that will be my day.
Thirty minutes later, umpteen women wearing sparkly string bikinis have paraded across the stage and posed. Finally, Amy makes her entrance. She’s wearing a pink diamante triangular top, which barely covers each breast, with jewels hanging from the band. Her bottoms expose her toned butt cheeks.
For a heartbeat, I don’t recognize her. The glint of her skin, the determination in her eyes. The woman who used to curl up by my side smelling of homemade cookies and vanilla, now glistens like a star under the spotlight.
The second round begins the same way as the first. I close my eyes to block out the guy’s junk in front of me and swig my drink. This time, all the competitors are brought on stage and lined up. They pose and turn on command.
Amy is in the middle of the line between two brunettes; both are slightly shorter than my wife, but their muscles bulge in the same way. The class is then dismissed, and they walk off. The presenter reappears.
“The results will be announced in ten minutes. Grab a drink and meet us back here.” I pull another beer from my bag, glad I brought a twelve-pack.
“Terry!” Amy’s shrill voice makes me jump. “What the actual fuck are you doing?” she wails. I blink my eyes open, then scan my surroundings. Shit, I fell asleep. My white shirt displays the last can of beer I was holding, and the soles of my sneakers crunch over the snacks scattered over the floor.
Amy freezes in the aisle. The heat behind her eyes makes my world blur. Trey beside her, his lips curled back as if tasting something sour. He taps her on the shoulder, and she turns to look at him.
