I glance over my shoulder and see Trevor leaning against one of the cable machines. “Morning.”
He studies me for a moment the way trainers always do, mentally cataloging posture, stance, muscle tone. His browfurrows slightly. “Did you lose an ab or something? You look a little softer today.”
The comment hits a nerve before my brain has time to filter it. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
Trevor straightens immediately, clearly realizing he just wandered into dangerous territory. “Whoa. Nothing bad. I was just saying you look different.”
“Differenthow?” The edge in my voice surprises even me.
“I thought maybe you changed your routine or something.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. “I wasn’t trying to insult you. Are you detraining for some reason?”
For a moment, we just stand there by the weight rack while my temper and my hormones attempt to start a fistfight inside my head. Then the rational part of my brain finally shows up and points out the obvious. He isn’t being cruel. He’s being a slightly clueless trainer, which unfortunately is not illegal.
Maybe it should be.
“Sorry. That was an overreaction.”
Trevor relaxes a little, though he still looks confused. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I grab my water bottle and take a long drink. “Just having one of those weeks.”
Okay, this is getting ridiculous. If one mildly observant trainer noticing a missing abdominal line can send me into a defensive spiral, the secret clearly isn’t going to last much longer. Trainers notice bodies. It’s literally part of the job description, and sooner or later someone here is going to connect the dots.
I stare out across the gym floor and blow out a long breath. “Fantastic. This is going great.”
By the time I finish my last client of the day, my stomach feels like it has run a marathon without my permission. Morning sickness is the most misleading phrase in the English language. Whoever named it clearly never spent an afternoon trying not to throw up while demonstrating lunges.
Time to face the music.
I knock on the office door with my knuckle before I can talk myself out of it. The door is half-open anyway, but the knock buys me one last second of denial.
“Come in,” my boss calls.
Jim is alright, as bosses go. He’s old-school, about thirty years older than me, and a little grouchy. But he’s always been fair.
Hope that record remains intact after this.
I step inside and close the door behind me. His office smells faintly like coffee and dry-erase markers, the whiteboard behind his desk already covered in scribbled client schedules.
He looks up from his computer when I sit down in the chair across from him. “What’s up? Everything okay on the floor?”
“Yeah.” I rest my hands on my knees and take a breath. “Actually… I wanted to talk to you about something.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “That usually means paperwork.”
“Not this time.”
He leans back in his chair, waiting.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words land between us and sit there for a second.
He blinks once, then nods slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I repeat.
“Okay,” he says again with a small shrug. “Congratulations.”
