“Gene’s does not do frills. I don’t think the membership cards have changed since the eighties, when Gene got a laminator,” I say. “That’s what I like about it.”
“Well, it’s certainly not the smell.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You don’t love eau de gym socks and rubber?”
“I usually lean more toward citrus and bleach, but this will do,” she says with a grin, and I think she might be working through her anxiety. But as soon as we start to walk toward the machines, she tenses.
I reach for her arm to stop her. “Hey, look at me,” I say, and when she turns tilt her chin up with my finger. I wait until she meets my gaze, and then I have to take a beat, because looking straight into her big eyes the color of a summer sky damn near knocks me out. “I’m going to be by your side the entire time. I won’t let you get hurt, I won’t let you embarrass yourself, and I won’t let anyone give you any shit. But if at any moment you need to tap out, you can do that. Okay?”
There’s a long pause, and for a minute I think she’s going tomarch past me and straight out the door. Instead, her lips quirk as she says, “Can we have a password?”
“A password?” I ask. “You mean like a safe word?”
She blushes, and I have to beat back all the thoughts that come along with that particular fantasy. I told her I needed a friend, after all.Anything else would be ungentlemanly.
“Yes,” she says.
I nod. “Name it.”
She thinks about it. “Lemon.”
My mind immediately goes to the wallpaper sample in her kitchen and the look on her face when she told me about it. She loves it, clearly, but something is holding her back. She isn’t ready to explain what, and I’m certainly not going to push her to talk. But I like that she’s bringing it up with me now. It’s like she sees me as safe.
I like it a lot.
“Okay,” I say. “You want to leave, you just say ‘lemon’ and we’ll get out of here.”
She nods. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s do it.”
“Attagirl,” I say, and give myself three seconds to enjoy the rush of pink that floods her cheeks. Then I shake it off. She’s nervous. I told her I would help her. And that doesn’t include objectifying her, no matter how good she looks in her black leggings and pink tank top, the crisscross straps of a green sports bra sticking out tantalizingly underneath. “Okay, let’s do legs today. Quads will help you skate, and glutes will help you hit.”
She nods, her brow set like I’m her drill sergeant.
“We’ll start with some mobility to get warmed up.”
I take her over to an open space in front of a bank of mirrors and grab two mats, then lead her through some basic stretches and gentle joint movements. She watches me closely, sometimes pulling her pillowy bottom lip between her teeth, sometimes letting out these breathy little sounds as she sinks into a stretch.
I thought the gym would be a safe space. I’ve never once walked into this place, which smells like sweat and old sneakersand has a soundtrack of eighties hair metal and the occasional male grunt, and thought of sex.
But that was before Carson was standing next to me in front of a full-length mirror, her ass encased in black spandex, her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail that begs for me to wrap it around my hand and yank.
But, you know, in a fun way.
It takes every ounce of my concentration not to let my body react to her. But I manage to lock it down, because I don’t want to be a fucking creep. And also my gym shorts don’t leave much room for error.
And then a welcome distraction appears in the mirror behind us.
“Always with the stretching,” Norm grunts, because he’s forever teasing me about how mobility is new age woo shit and not the number-one way to make sure I’ll be able to get out of bed without wincing when I’m eighty.
Then his eyes land on Carson.
“And who’s this?” he asks.
For the first time in the year that I’ve been working out beside him, Norm isn’t glowering. No, suddenly there’s an actual gleam in his eye.
“This is my, uh, friend,” I say, glancing at her as I try the word on for size. Friends—that’s what we are. Roommates too, I guess, but I hope that even after I move back into Decker’s apartment, if the plumbing ever gets fixed, Carson and I can stay friends. I don’t make many of them, so I’d like to keep her, if I can. And from the smile she gives me, I think she might agree. “This is Carson Webber.”
She smiles and holds out a hand, which Norm seems to find charming as all get-out. When he takes her hand, he pulls her in a little, dropping his voice as he says, “He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”
