“We’re pathetic,” Simon said finally.
“Completely.” I clinked my glass against his. “To hopeless men with too much money and not enough sense.”
“To wanting things we can’t have.”
“To being idiots about it.”
We drank.
The gym at six in the morning was supposed to clear my head.
It wasn’t working.
The place was mostly empty—just a few early risers scattered across the floor, earbuds in, faces blank, lost in their own private battles. Morning light was starting to filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, that soft California gold that photographers chased and tourists photographed. Outside, palm trees swayed under the gentle breeze.
Beautiful. Peaceful. I wanted to put my fist through something.
I loaded another plate onto the bar. Then another. The metal groaned under the weight.
“That’s too much.”
Michael’s voice came from behind me. I didn’t turn around.
“I can handle it.”
“You’re going to tear something.” He moved closer. I could feel him standing there, radiating that particular brand of calm concern that made me want to lift even heavier. “And then Claudette will kill me for not stopping you, and I’ll be dead, and she’ll be sad, and it’ll be your fault.”
“Then spot me.”
He moved into my peripheral vision but didn’t position himself to help. Just stood there with his arms crossed, watching me like I was an accident about to happen.
“You going to stand there or help?” I asked.
“Depends.” He tilted his head. “You going to tell me why you’re trying to bench press a truck at six in the morning?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
We stared at each other. Somewhere across the gym, weights clanked. A woman on the treadmill increased her speed, ponytail bouncing. The morning sun climbed higher, painting gold stripes across the polished floor.
I gripped the bar anyway. Lifted.
My arms shook. My chest burned. My body screamed at me that this was stupid, reckless, that I was going to hurt myself and deserve it?—
Three reps. That’s all I managed before Michael grabbed the bar and helped me rack it. The sound echoed through the gym like a gunshot.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“No.” I sat up, breathing hard, sweat dripping down my face. “Care to have a competition? Like old times?”
“Absolutely not.” He started stripping plates off the bar, ignoring my challenge. “I’m not miserable in love like you. I don’t need to beat myself half to death just to feel something.”
“Good for you.”
“It is good for me, actually.” He set a plate down and turned to face me, and there it was—that expression. The one he got whenever he was about to talk about my sister. I braced myself. “Claudette made breakfast this morning. Pancakes. From scratch.”
“Michael.” I warned.
