Peter listens, but says, "Why doesn't that fiancé of yours run with you?"
Because he's a workaholic, and he's on calls early in the morning, up and working with people on the East Coast.
"He has a home gym he works out in before he starts his calls." I say it flippantly, like it's no bother. It really doesn't bother me, but it obviously makes Peter think poorly of Duke, and for some reason, that's what bothers me.
We straighten, and that’s when I notice Peter working the side of his bottom lip with his teeth.
"What?" I challenge. "You have opinions about fiancés, and me running by myself?"
Peter doesn't say anything, but he looks like he wants to. I decide against prodding him to say whatever it is he's thinking, because I don't want to hear it. Nothing nice could possibly come from an expression like the one he wears.
And that tiny but persistent feeling of appreciation over Peter’s protectiveness? I’ll be ignoring that, as well. I absolutely donotlike the way Peter seems irritated by the idea of me running alone. It doesn’t make me feel cared for, AT ALL. Not in the least.
Peter has one shoulder lifted higher than the other, and it negates the point of stretching if he keeps one side locked up. Using a light touch, I reach out to adjust his positioning, but when my fingers touch him, he flinches as if I’ve burned him.
His repentant eyes find my curious, and I'll admit it, hurt gaze. "Sorry about that," he says, brusque.
"It’s fine," I answer, plastering on a smile.
"Don't do that," he says quickly.
I blink, smile wavering. "Do what?"
"I’d rather see you scowl for real than smile for show."
Oh.
I clear my throat, because what else is there to do? This man,this stranger, sees through me as if I'm made of something sheer. It's unnerving and confusing.
We move through the remainder of the appointment, and Peter keeps his eyes cast down as he focuses on his stretching. He says nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He has gone radio silent, but I am full of questions, all of which I will not ask.
Did Penn hire you?
How well do you know him?
Depending on his answers, more questions.
Has Penn ever mentioned me?
I want to know, and I don't want to know in equal measure. The answers will lead to more feelings, very likely not great ones, and I've done such a good job keeping myself numb towards Penn for years. I need to stay that way, even with the unexpected presence of this newcomer to town, to my life, to my job.
I carved Penn out of my heart, banishing that piece of him to the depths, and I made a life for myself. I'm marrying Duke in a little more than a month. Whether or not I love him feels irrelevant at this point.
I cannot look back. The past is where all that, including Penn, should stay.
Feeling reinvigorated by my determination, I continue our session by showing Peter specific stretches that will help warm up the smaller muscles. We finish with rolling out his fascia, which is also a low-key form of torture.
"I've done a lot of tough shit," he grunts, moving the backs of his thighs over the foam roller, "this ranks up there as being almost unbearable." He's grimacing, but almost everybody does. Me included.
"You can do hard things," I tell him, and he tosses me a look that plainly sayscome the fuck on.
"You should put that on your wall," he quips, thumbing back toward the small room where we had our consult.
"Maybe I will," I say, reaching under him and sliding the roller out from under his bent knees.
I reach out a hand, offering to help him up. His eyebrows tug in determination, and he chooses not to take the help, using momentum to roll up onto the balls of his feet and stand upright.
