Twenty-Two
“I’m going to wipe the floor with him!” I shout-grunt, performing bicep curls with fifteen-pound weights to Leo’s expert count.
“Eye of the Tiger” blares on a loop across the room. This is my Rocky moment. This is the training montage to end all training montages. Leo, seemingly unrattled by most of my dramatics thus far in our fake relationship, was befuddled when I got back, changed into workout clothes, and told him—no, barked at him—that we were hitting the gym.
If you can even really call this a gym. It’s a green-carpeted room on the basement level of the building with one tiny window touching the ceiling, letting in barely any light. There’s an elliptical, a rack of weights, and a bench. And it’s devoid of other people. Which is perfect. Because I’m pissed.
“Are you feeling okay?” Leo asks, pumping heavier weights directly in front of me, providing ample motivation. We’re only twenty minutes into this forty-minute workout. I’m sweating, and in the reflection from the mirror across the way, my eyes are intense lasers.
“I’m fine,” I say, which is met with visible skepticism. “Okay, I’m enraged I spent four years of my life with a mega-jerk who would do all of this just to spite me. What does that say about me, about my judgment?”
The fizzling anger I’m experiencing makes me want to punish my body. I unload the fifteen pounders and reach for the twenties.
“Whoa there, champ,” Leo says, stepping between me and my demise. “Let’s not blow out our arm muscles before the show, okay? You’re already going to be sore in the morning.”
“Because you’re going to fuck me so hard and good that I’m going to forget my ex hates me so much that he’d fly across the country to compete on a TV game show he despises?” My tone is hopeful.
He laughs, but it’s rueful. “No.”
I boo back at him, trying to fake him out and grab for the weights anyway.
“Maybe!” He beats me again. “If you listen to me. You were young, right? You said you met in college. Your brain wasn’t fully mature yet. You shouldn’t beat yourself up—literally with weights or emotionally—for outgrowing someone.”
“Easy for you to say,” I huff out before taking a swig from my water bottle. “At least with your ex, you know why it all went to shit. With mine, he just, what? Woke up one day and decided I wasn’t good enough to be with anymore.”
Leo’s weights clunk back down onto the metal rack. I can tell by his gait as he grabs his sweat towel from his bag that I’ve upset him by being a rude, selfish gremlin. The last thing I want to do is jeopardize what we’re building with the wrecking ball that is my past.
“Sorry. That was completely insensitive of me. I know this is affecting you just as much.” I face the mirror but close my eyes, unable to look at myself right now. The person stuck there in the glass feels unmanageable, unworthy of Leo’s support. “When I ran into Buckley on set this morning, it’s like this sadness I’ve been harboring mutated into hot rage. It’s like I have this heartbroken werewolf clawing around inside my stomach and I just want to... I want to...let him out!”
I strike the nearby stand-up punching bag. The sound makes Leo flinch, but relieves me a little, even if my fist hurts.
Leo peers over, eyes inquisitive. I throw another punch, and then another, alternating hands and shouting. “Eye of the Tiger” circles back to the start. Eventually, Leo comes and steadies the bouncing bag from behind, which creates some tension and makes the impact of the hit more satisfying. So much so that I get my legs involved.
In the mirror, I look like a windup toy that’s malfunctioning, but I don’t stop. And I truly don’t care. Because Leo’s not judging me and I’m trying hard not to judge myself.
I key into the song instead. Those guitars burrow into my soul as I pick up speed, letting a feline instinct take over. As the chorus comes around, I switch from primal grunts to shouty singing.
Leo, seemingly loving this, joins me.
We get loud and rowdy, until my skin is on fire and throat is raw.
The outro plays. I abandon the bag, grabbing Leo’s sweat-soaked tank by the collar and tugging him into me, pressing our lips together with force and fervor. He kisses me back, latching his hands onto my hips, sinking his fingertips into the flesh.
“What’s going on in here?” comes the sound of Annabelle, the desk attendant who gave me my bag the other day. Leo and I break apart as we notice her standing in the doorway looking about as pissed as I feel. “Why am I not surprised it’s you?”
“Sorry,” I say, rushing over to turn down the music. “Just letting off some steam.”
She shakes her head. “There are plenty of places in this city to do that that won’t disturb my guests.” I was on her bad side before, but I can tell I’ve marched my way onto the abysmal side. “This is your second warning. One more and I’m going to have to cancel the rest of your reservation and have you seek accommodations elsewhere.”
“No, no. I’m sorry. This is the last time. I promise,” I say. “We won’t be around tomorrow and then, the day after next, I check out. I’ll be out of your hair.” It hits me that this trip is about to come to a sudden end. We’ll either win or we won’t, but one thing is for sure: in two days, I fly back to New York.
Even if we do go home with the grand prize, it’s not like they’re going to direct deposit my half into my account as soon as the cameras stop rolling. There will be a lapse and taxes taken out and paperwork filed. I can’t just extend my trip. Not with all the money I’ve spent so far.
That means leaving Leo.
“Well, good,” Annabelle says, fixing her blazer with an exaggerated sigh. “Regardless, given the volume of complaints, I think it’s best we lock the gym for the night.”
Checking my phone, I realize it’s well past 10:00 p.m. I need my rest for the competition tomorrow. We’ve got an early start. “No trouble. We’ll go.”
