“Maybe a bit.”
“I do wish he had more structure. He goes to chess club twice a week, but he’s never shown much interest in organized sports. He’s made some great friends over the last year. And Ben spends time with him whenever he can. I’ve looked into some youth volunteer programs, but he’s too young for most of them.” She shrugs. “Sometimes I feel like he spends toomuch time alone. But before I know it, he’ll have a job. And probably a really bad moustache.”
I laugh again, and it sounds just as rusty as before. “You’ve got a few years before all that.”
“We’ll see.” Her tone is light but there’s a hint of sadness threaded through it. I don’t like when this woman is sad.
“Listen.” My voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat and try again. “I’m sorry I didn’t make time for the exercises this week. I’m used to giving orders, not following them. But I’ll work harder. I’ll do better this week.”
She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she studies my face in silence, her expression pensive. The seconds stretch long enough that unease prickles at the back of my neck. Did she not hear me? Did I say the wrong thing? Her gaze holds me pinned in place.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she nods. Her eyes catch the living room light and it almost looks like they’re sparkling. “Change is hard,” she says softly. “Keep trying, and don’t get discouraged when you fall short of your expectations. Just do the next right thing. You owe it to yourself.”
Her voice is steady and warm in a way that catches me off guard. There’s no edge, no disappointment, no trace of the judgement I’d braced myself for. Just patience. Kindness. Faith I don’t think I deserve.
I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat and manage a small nod. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do owe it to myself. And maybe, though I don’t dare say it out loud, I owe it to her too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ELLIOT
The community poolisn’t glamorous. It’s better described as “well-loved.” Big windows line one wall, letting in grey morning light that ripples across the water’s surface. The ceiling is high and industrial, with chipped white beams and vents that hum steadily overhead. The lifeguard chair sits empty, a towel draped over the back, while a pile of foam noodles and kickboards lean against a wall in the corner.
The water itself is that unnatural yet somehow inviting shade of pale blue, that almost glows under the fluorescent lights. There’s a comfort to the sound of it lapping against the tiled edges, punctuated now and then by the hollow splash of someone testing the temperature with their toes. The tiles underfoot are cool and a little gritty.
Most of my group is already here—white hair and silver beards, bathing suits in every shade from sensible navy to bold floral. They greet me with warm smiles, some raising foam dumbbells in salute. Each one shows up ready to move, to laugh, to work. I love that about them. All of them have some sort of limitations, either from injuries or simply old age, butaquafitness is a wonderfully accessible form of exercise and I strongly believe that fitness is for everyone.
“I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Ellie girl.”
Just one today, Regina?I think before turning to one of my most loyal class attendees.
“Good morning, Reggie,” I sing out in my most cheerful voice, as though she’s not marching across the pool deck like she’s on a mission to drown me.
“Is it good?” she snaps, eyes narrowed. “Because so far, this day is so saturated in hypocrisy, and I don’t see a single thing good about it.”
“What’s going?—”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” She stabs a finger toward the shallow end. “Marla is wearing a bikini. A bikini! And after I waspersonally bannedfrom wearing mine not three weeks ago, I would like to file a formal complaint.”
I follow her line of sight to poor Marla, who is inching timidly down the pool stairs as though the water might bite. She’s in a sensible, high-waisted two-piece—more 1950s pinup than girls gone wild—and the bottom comes up high enough to cover the hysterectomy scar she once confessed made her self-conscious. She glances at me, cheeks pink, and mouths a guilty littlesorrybefore ducking her head into her shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell.
“Two-pieces aren’t banned, Reggie.”
“Mine certainly was.” Her sniff of outrage could clear a clogged sinus cavity.
“That’s because your breasts kept popping out to say hello.”
For the record, it wasn’t a bikini. It was dental floss disguised as swimwear. And it did, in fact, fail to keep her eighty-three-year-old curves a secret from anyone with functioning eyes.
“That happened less than half a dozen times,” she says breezily, waving her hand dismissively. “And it’s not my fault that my girls can’t be contained. They’re social creatures, like me. They want to be seen and appreciated.”
To punctuate this, she gives her shoulders a shimmy, and sure enough, her pendulous breasts sway dramatically beneath the plunging neckline of her one-piece, like they’re agreeing wholeheartedly with her.
“Theyareglorious,” I admit in an attempt to appease her. “But the community centre has a no-nudity policy.”
“Bunch of prudes,” she mutters. “It’s not like I’m hurting anybody.”
I lower my voice. “I wouldn’t be so sure. Henry’s still recovering from his bypass surgery. You wouldn’t want to put him back into tachycardia, would you?”
