Chapter 9
Scottie
THIS INSTRUCTOR IS A DEMON
“Rise and shine, bitches.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. This instructor is a demon.
“I thought you said this was a Pilates class,” I hiss to Elyse, trying to catch my breath while my legs tremble in the straps like a baby deer.
It is,” she says, perfectly calm as she floats through whatever sadistic move we’re doing. “Power Pilates.”
Right. I guess I missed the power part.
“Neutral spine,” the demon calls, clapping. “Core engaged. Pull-pull-pull. Smile!”
My core is engaged. My core is dying.
Something in my neck catches when I bring my legs back to tabletop. That stupid couch at my parents’ has given me a permanent kink. The springs on the reformer groan beneath me. This bed of medieval straps and pulleys might be the first thing all week that hurts less than that stupid fucking couch.
“Breathe,” Elyse says softly, like a person who is not currently being tortured on a wood sled. She reaches across and taps the front of my ribs. “Here. Expand.”
“I would expand,” I whisper, “but all my organs have migrated to my throat.”
“Good,” the instructor chirps. “Now ten more.”
Ten more what. Ten more minutes? Ten more years? Ten more lives to get this exercise right?
We push through the set. I can feel sweat sliding down my spine in a line my sports bra will etch into salt. I am not built for this. My version of a nice morning consists of coffee and reruns of Downton Abbey.
“Carriage home,” the instructor says. “Feet out. Box time.”
“Box time?” I repeat, terrified and confused as hell. Surely this is some form of torture invented by the military.
She wheels a foam box to the foot of my reformer. “Kneeling lat pulls.”
“That doesn’t sound pleasant,” I mutter.
Elyse smirks, barely breaking a sweat. “My therapist says exercise is good for my mental health. I actually think it’s been helping.”
Well, fuck. Now I feel guilty for being crabby.
“Up tall,” the instructor shouts, sweeping by. “Crown high. Shoulders down the back.”
I climb to my knees on the box and grab the straps, and my body responds by becoming a boneless noodle.
I’m halfway through the second pull when my watch buzzes against my wrist with a text notification and I have a very unhelpful spike of adrenaline.
Not because I think it is an emergency. Because it could be Gavin.
When I glance down, it’s just a marketing text alerting me to a half-off sale at a store I never shop at.
I don’t know why I even let myself get my hopes up. We’ve only texted once since that late-night call—just to sort out the logistics for today. The same call where I somehow found the nerve to say things I never would’ve otherwise. And I’ve been replaying it in my head ever since.
Today is the open house. Today we’ll see each other. Today, I will not think about whether he is just being nice, or whether there is something humming beneath the nice that I am not ready to touch.
Another pull. My neck twinges. I try to ignore it and focus on the straps cutting into my palms. Focus is good. Focus is not thinking about Gavin.
“Beautiful,” the instructor says to Elyse. Then to me: “Try not to grip with your traps.”
“I don’t know how to use anything that isn’t a trap,” I say through my teeth.
“Use your lats.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
She laughs. It’s an evil laugh. “Last set. Make it count.”
I make it count by not collapsing on the spot. A win is a win.
Class finally ends with a stretch that nearly makes me weep with gratitude.
When I hop off the box, my vision snow-globes for a second—just a little floaty, like the room has shifted a half inch to the left.
My watch buzzes again, confirming what I already know: my blood sugar is low.
Sometimes intense exercise throws me off balance.
“I am fine,” I tell Elyse preemptively, feeling her eyes on me. “Just a little low.”
She watches me with concern. “Can I do anything?”
“I’ve got it.” After a quick mental carb calculation, I dart for the cubbies and grab the small bottle of apple juice I always keep on hand.
In two gulps, it’s gone. Then I tear into the baggie of clementines.
The goal is simple—get enough fast-acting carbs in before I drop low enough to cause real problems. I set a fifteen-minute timer on my watch to remind myself to retest and make sure I am back in range.
“Better?” Elyse asks.
I nod, gathering my things. For me, this is just life.
I have been managing this since I was twelve, but I forget how strange it looks from the outside—this constant balancing act.
And even though Elyse has been with me since the beginning—literally there the day I went into diabetic ketoacidosis and landed in the hospital, finally getting answers for why I had been such a sluggish mess for months—it still rattles her every time I have to shift into maintenance mode.
“All good,” I give her an easy smile.
“Smoothies…if you can?” Elyse suggests, reading my mind. “There is a place across the street.”
We step outside into Badger Canyon’s main drag—one block of mom-and-pop shops with cute names and even cuter window displays. The sky is that kind of blue that makes everything look bright and clean, and it’s still early enough that the air hasn’t turned suffocating yet.
Inside the smoothie shop, a blender roars to life.
I order a drink with banana, peanut butter, and extra protein—just as my timer goes off.
A quick check of my levels shows I’m still hovering near the low end of my range, so the smoothie’s perfect timing.
Elyse orders something green and healthy that smells suspiciously like grass.
We find an open bistro table on the patio and settle in.
“So,” Elyse starts, drawing out the word. “What time are you meeting Gavin?”
I glance at my watch to double-check I still have plenty of time.
It’s a little after eight, and we agreed to meet at the open house at noon.
With the drive to Wallula Lake taking about two hours, I’m in the clear.
One of the perks of years spent perfecting quick costume changes is that I can get ready faster than most people can decide what to wear.
“We were going to drive up together, but he’s meeting me there instead. Something about him and Ethan having a meeting with a distributor, so Ethan’s going to drop him off.”
Elyse nods, clearly in the loop. “Yeah, I think I heard about that.”
“I’m prepared, though.” I grin, trying to convince both of us. “I studied the listing, pulled the most recent comps, and my mom quizzed me half the night to make sure I don’t look like a complete newbie in front of the listing agent.”
“I hope he buys it—one, so you can get the commission, and two, so I have access to a lake house.”
The commission would be nice, especially considering how far I’ve dipped into my savings thanks to my stupid insurance. But with how flat the local real estate market is, I’ll probably need to pick up a side gig. When my agent finally calls with good news, I’ll need money for an apartment fast.
It all feels like such a huge feat—overwhelming, really.
I’ve had zero motivation lately. Honestly, I’m amazed Elyse managed to drag me out the door for that heinous class.
The side effects of being off my ADHD meds are becoming painfully obvious—the inability to focus, the constant restlessness, the way I lose track of time and entire days.
I’m basically a mess. It’s no wonder my last relationship—which only lasted three months—ended in cheating.
I’m exhausting. If it’s not my diabetes, it’s my ADHD.
Or it’s both. None of it’s fun, and it’s definitely not sexy.
Sometimes it’s like I’m trying to be a version of myself that’s more palatable.
Downplay how much diabetes runs my life.
Make my ADHD seem quirky instead of a constant battle to focus, to react appropriately, to not overthink.
Every. Single. Day. It’s a burden—I’m a burden—and that’s an even tougher pill to swallow than any medication I have to take.
Shaking off my negative thoughts, I focus my attention back on Elyse. “He’s going to have to like it. It’s the only home available.”
We’re quiet for a stretch, sipping our drinks and people-watching.
Badger Canyon is the next town over from Red Mountain, so while it’s familiar, it’s nice to see faces that aren’t.
You can’t step outside in Red Mountain without running into someone you’ve known most of your life.
That’s what I liked about Chicago, among other things—the anonymity, the sea of strangers.
I could disappear into the crowd while still belonging to the tight-knit theater community.
Or at least I used to.
These days, I’m not so sure where I fit. Chicago’s scene is smaller and more relaxed than New York’s, which is one of the reasons I always knew I’d never trade the Windy City for the Big Apple. But small also means word travels fast, and reputations stick even faster.
Gavin’s voice flickers through my head—What you’ve been through matters too.
I didn’t expect that to come back now, sitting here in the sun with Elyse, but it does.
And as much as I don’t want to talk about this, I know I need to.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
Elyse looks up immediately. “What is it? Is it about the fire?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m okay. I promise.”
“Then what? Is it that cheating asshole? Because I swear to God, I never liked him. Such a—”
“It’s not about him.”
My gaze drops to my smoothie. Condensation slips down the cup, my thumbnail worrying at the edge of the label. I really, really don’t want to do this.
“You’re kind of scaring me,” she says quietly. “Do I need to kill someone? Who am I killing?”
A weak laugh slips out. “Your family is very murderous.”
She doesn’t laugh back.
I inhale slowly. It’s like ripping off a bandage. I just need to do it. “I…had an incident with my director.”
Elyse goes absolutely still.
“I’ve known him for years,” I say, the words coming rough and thin. “I’ve been to his house. Met his wife. Played with his kids. So I just—never thought…”
My throat tightens.
“You would never think he would try anything.”
She doesn’t speak, but her eyes remain on me, unblinking.
“It was after rehearsal one night. Everyone had left. I didn’t even realize we were the last two there.” I give a humorless laugh. “He starts talking about how I’m getting older. How roles are going to get harder to land. How I should start thinking about my future.”
Elyse’s jaw clenches.
“And then he told me exactly how I could ‘secure’ it.”
The word tastes sour.
“He said if I didn’t sleep with him, he’d fire me.”
Her hand curls around the table’s edge, knuckles white.
“I said no. And he still tried.” I blink hard, staring at the table so I don’t have to look at the pity on her face. “He didn’t even touch me. I was quick. I got away.”
I take a second to collect my thoughts. “Afterward, I told myself it wasn’t what it was. That maybe I misunderstood. That maybe it was just a bad moment and I blew it up in my head.”
My voice breaks, just slightly.
“But when I came in the next day, I was removed from the show. And told not to come back.”
“So then what did you do?” she asks, and her voice is careful, like she’s afraid to push me too hard.
“I reported him,” I say. “I went to my union. But you know…it’s my word against his. And he’s ‘innocent until proven otherwise.’” I make air quotes, my hand shaking a little. “So now I’m here. Until—hopefully—this all blows over.”
There’s a beat where neither of us says anything.
Just heavy, aching air between us.
Then Elyse blinks, and tears slip free, silent and angry.
“Oh, Scottie.”
My chest caves inward.
I didn’t expect her to cry.
She stands up, fast, like her body can’t hold still under the weight of it, and rounds the table to me. I’m already rising, and then her arms are around me—tight, fierce, like she’s trying to hold me together with will alone.
“I’m fine. It’s the next girl I’m worried about. The one who won’t be as lucky as I was.”
“I’m going to kill him,” she whispers into my hair. It’s not a joke. Not really. But it makes something in me stutter, the smallest laugh punching out of my throat.
“Get in line,” I say, voice cracking. “I’ve got dibs.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes wet, her nose scrunched.
And God—now I’m crying.
We cling to each other on the patio in front of a smoothie shop, both of us red-eyed and blotchy, looking completely unhinged to every passerby.
I still feel shitty. But I also feel a little better too.
Like a weight’s been lifted.