Friday afternoon findsme back in the athletic center, working through my third set of deadlifts while my earbuds pump music directly into my brain. Arthur and Tyrell flank me on either side, their presence a comfort after my revelation.
My playlist shuffles, and an ’80s classic fills my ears. The melody is familiar—something my mom used to play during car rides when I was a kid.
The lyrics cut right to my very soul. A woman’s voice, raw and determined, talks about crying over lost love, about learning to live without someone. About hardening her heart.
I freeze mid-rep, the barbell hovering inches from the ground.
“Jackson?” Arthur’s voice is muffled through the music. “You good?”
I’m not good. I’m standing in a gym, sweating through my shirt, while Quarterflash tells me exactly what I need to do. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
Harden my heart. That’s the answer, isn’t it? Stop hoping. Stop looking for hidden meanings in Drew’s texts. Stop imagining that the roller rink meant something, that the bathroom meant something, that any of it meant he cared.
I finish the rep with renewed determination, the burn in my muscles matching the ache in my chest.
“What are you listening to?” Tyrell asks, noting my sudden intensity.
“Life advice,” I grunt, starting another set.
The thing about hardening your heart is that it sounds simple in a song. Just decide to stop feeling. Just choose to move on. But feelings don’t work like that. They’re not light switches you can flip off when they become inconvenient.
Still, I have to try.
Another rep. Another breath. Another decision to keep going.
“You know,” Arthur says during our water break, “whatever happens Saturday, we’ve got your back.”
“Yeah,” Tyrell adds. “And if Drew does anything stupid, I’ll accidentally trip him the next time I see him at The Brew.”
I manage a weak laugh. “I appreciate the offer, but violence isn’t the answer.”
“It’s always an answer,” Arthur counters. “Just not always the right one.”
We finish our workout as the sun starts its descent outside the gym windows. My body aches in that satisfying way that comes from pushing yourself past comfort, and for a few blessed moments, I don’t think about Drew at all.
Then my phone buzzes.
Drew
Hey, what time should I pick you up on Saturday?
I stare at the message, the lyrics from earlier echoing in my head. Harden my heart. Don’t let him see how much this costs me.
Me
5 works.
Drew
Perfect. It’s going to be great, Jacky. Promise.
Jacky. The nickname he gave me, the one that used to make my stomach flip. Now it’s salt in an open, gaping wound.
Me
Can’t wait.
I pocket my phone and head for the showers, the hot water washing away sweat but not the hollow feeling in my chest. When everything is said and done, when my body has been thoroughly painted and caressed, I’ll smile, and I’ll joke, and I’ll be the best damn friend Drew Larney has ever had.
