Chapter 4 Crumbs
The staff lounge smelled like burnt coffee and nostalgia. A farewell party for one of the senior teachers. Retirement. Confetti. Sentimental speeches. Cake.
So much cake.
I stood in the corner, watching the others laugh and dig into the dessert table. There was a strawberry tart that looked like it was sent straight from heaven, and two kinds of cheesecake. One of them was caramel-swirl—Ryder's favorite.
I wanted a slice. God, I craved it. But instead, I reached for my mug and pretended to sip something that had gone cold an hour ago.
"Hey." Gracie nudged my side. She was one of the younger teachers—bubbly, kind, all sunshine and pastels. "You're not having anything?"
I gave her my usual joke. "Trust me, the only thing I need less than sugar is a larger pants size."
She stared at me. "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"That. Put yourself down like it's some kind of reflex. Do you even hear yourself?"
I smiled tightly. "I'm just joking."
"No, you're not," she said, eyes suddenly serious. "You do this all the time. You're beautiful, December. I wish you could see what the rest of us see."
I looked at her. Really looked. The warmth in her face, the soft sincerity. It should've meant something.
But all I heard were echoes. Of my mother. Of high school boys. Of every mirror I'd ever turned away from.
"I know what I look like," I said, forcing a smile. "Anyway—did you hear what Mr. Thomas said in his speech? " And just like that, I changed the subject. Because I always do.
Later, I snuck two slices of the caramel-swirl cheesecake into a container. Ryder would love it.
It was a small thing. A sweet thing. When I called him, he said he was heading to the gym. so was I so I thought I'd surprise him with it. When I walked in, I spotted him instantly. Clipboard in hand, laughing with two clients, his navy tank top clinging to him like a second skin.
He turned. Saw me. Smiled.
But then—
He looked over his shoulder. Quick. Subtle. Like he was checking for someone.
My heart dropped. Still, I smiled. Played it cool.
"I brought your favorite," I said, lifting the container.
"Caramel-swirl." He looked... uneasy. Another coach walked up behind him, catching the exchange.
"Oh, cheesecake? Really? At the gym?" the guy laughed.
Ryder joined in. "Thanks, Miss Copard, but maybe don't bring that in here next time, yeah?
" He turned to the coach. "Let's go warm up.
Clients are on their way." Then he left me standing there.
I was Miss Copard. Like I was someone's mother dropping off forgotten lunch. I laughed lightly, too high-pitched. "I brought enough for everyone," I said, trying to brush it off. But inside, I wanted to disappear.
I went to change in the locker room, cheeks hot. Reminded myself that I was being ridiculous. Who brings cheesecake to a gym?
Me.
Idiot.
The group class started soon after. I was part of it now.
No more one-on-one sessions. He said it was "more professional" this way.
Translation: safer for him. We flirted too much.
Crossed too many invisible lines. Better to keep things.
.. vague. During the session, I struggled.
My body ached. My breath caught. I was behind on every set. Once, he came over, crouched beside me.
"You've got this," he said gently.
But all I heard was the blood pounding in my ears. My arms were shaking. My breath uneven. My thighs burning in that way that made you want to collapse and disappear.
I nodded, because that's what I always do. But inside? I felt like a failure.
Slow.
Big.
Clumsy.
Everyone else was flying through reps like it was easy, like they were built for this. Their bodies lean, their leggings hugging all the right places. They didn't have to tug at their shirts every five minutes or suck in their stomachs every time someone walked by. But me?
I was the struggling one. The girl who always finished last. The one who couldn't quite get the angles right or hold a plank without her body shaking like a leaf. And the worst part?
He saw it all.
He was watching me. Not the way he used to. Not with pride. Not with affection. Not with that soft smile that used to say, "Look at you, I'm so lucky you're mine." No—he watched like a coach observing a client. Professional. Detached. Supportive, but not close.
I hated how much I noticed the distance. Hated how much I needed him to notice me. Not just my form. Me. So I pushed through the pain. Kept going. Felt the weight of every insecurity press against my ribs. But I said nothing. Because that's what I always do.
The class ended. Ryder high-fived two women and started talking with the other coaches.
Joking. Laughing. So relaxed. So effortlessly charming. I grabbed my bag. Left without saying goodbye. At home, I showered in silence. Stared at myself in the mirror. No tears. Just tiredness. I realized something, standing there wrapped in a towel, my skin still damp and raw:
I don't have him. Not really. But I have parts of him.
Stolen mornings. Half-said things. Sideways smiles.
And maybe... maybe that's better than nothing.
Right?
Maybe crumbs are enough.
Even if I'm starving.