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I sent it from my bedroom earlier, looking at the empty bed. Before I got ready to leave. Before dropping off Penny.
I know this story. I’ve been here before. Share a moment with Emery, and then Emery disappears.
Fuck that.
We have to talk about the cabin. We made a deal. Remember?
I hit send and huff, shoving my phone back in my pocket before getting out of the truck. It’s going to be a long fucking day.
Emerson
“Feel the burn, guys,” Ian says.
Says. Not wheezes. The man doesn’t even have the decency to fake a pant. He’s grinning, sitting on the bike facing the class with his little microphone around his ear like he’s Britney herself.
If Britney Spears was a buff dude bro with an affinity for snapbacks and cut-off t-shirts that show way too much side pec.
He waves when he sees me glaring from the center of the third row.
“This is fucking torture.”
My friend Finn looks over at me and grins, though it’s a little wobbly and looks a lot forced.
My legs are moving less than half the speed of everyone else’s. “Seriously. My ass crack is sweaty, Finnegan. Who wants a sweaty crack at five thirty in the morning? Sweaty crack before the sun has even come up is crazy.”
“Stop talking about your crack,” Finn says between ragged inhales. He swipes at his forehead, then grasps the handle again for dear life. “This was your idea, by the way.”
I grunt but say nothing because it’s true. When Ian said I should come to one of the classes at his gym, spin sounded fun. Like a little leisurely spin. A cheeky little class meant for showcasing cute athletic wear first and flirting with the idea of cardio health, second.
I had no idea. No. Idea.
There is a gleam in the eyes of half the women in here. And yes, everyone but Finn, Ian, and I seem to be women. All unhinged, red-faced, and absolutely going ham on the bikes. Every shouted encouragement or instruction from Ian is met with immediate, perfect execution from them all.
I’m going to die. Just keel over and die with a sweaty ass crack.
I even went out and bought cute workout clothes for this. I’d rather let Warren beat the shit out of me on the sparring mats, if I’m honest. Maybe get a couple good kicks in myself.
“Since we seem to be on your quarter-life crisis tour,” Finn starts, then groans when everyone starts standing and sitting and standing and sitting. I glare around the room with my ass firmly seated. “Can we skip the early morning workouts from here on out?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Finn laughs, breathless and high-pitched. “Seriously? We’ve tried axe-throwing this week. You nearly decapitated a poor woman. Pottery, where your vase turned out just a sad little curved phallic shape, and mine looked like a sad phallus but with a bowl on top. Now this. Tomorrow, we have baking class.”
I flip Ian off when he makes a motion with his fingers for me to move faster. “What’s your point? Do you not like hanging out with me? Also, what’s wrong with a curved phallus?”
“Can’t we just go get wasted and cry about our problems instead? I mean, I love you, but swamp ass at sunrise is actually crazy. I am not cut out for this.”
“Less yapping, more moving, boys,” Ian sing-songs.
“Absolutely not. I’m actually just never going to drink again.” I stop pedaling completely and slump over the bike. Somehow the timer on the display says eleven minutes and forty-three seconds, which is crazy because it’s been at least five hours of this torture, surely.
When Dad sat us all down and told us he wanted to retire, I was confused about what that had to do with me. When he asked if I wanted part ownership of the gym or to be paid out my cut, I laughed and laughed my way to the bank because absolutely not. It smells like testosterone and sweaty pits in here with a layer of Febreze. I could never do this all day.
In fact, my cap seems to be a whole whopping twelve minutes.
Warren and Ian are the only two who wanted the place.
Zane is busy fighting fires and probably planning next year's hot firemen calendar and figuring out how many times he can reasonably flash his abs.
