Chapter 4
COURTNEY
“Okay, Jill, you’ve got the printouts ready?”
Jillian taps her tablet, nodding. “Check, printed, collated, and laid out. Looked ’em over myself, not a smudge on a single paper.”
“And the bagels?”
“Duh. With that nasty ass salmon-infused cream cheese that we found out she likes.” Jillian holds up her tablet, showing me all the green checkmarks on her list as I review mine.
“And the flowers?”
Jill grins, nodding. “Got an email from Abi already confirming it. We’re good, Boss Lady.”
I stretch my arms overhead, groaning as I hear three pops from somewhere below my bra strap. It’s been a long day but a productive one. “Okay. Well then, I think I might head out, catch a class at the gym.”
“Good for you! Are you gonna hit that Zumba class again and work off those nervous butterflies with some twerking, or Zen out in meditative yoga? I vote Zumba.” She rolls her hips around like she’s working an invisible hula hoop, finishing with a hair flip that’d make Tawny Kitaen proud.
“Maybe you’ll meet a solid eight there. And I don’t mean eight out of ten. ”
She wags her brows, holding her hands about eight inches apart and making sure I’m catching her very obvious hint that I need to get laid. I swear, to hear her talk, I walk around with a pinched face that telegraphs how unused and dried up my vagina is. That it might be true is beside the fact.
“Jillian!” I balk, shaking my head. “Not interested.”
“What, you’re telling me that you can’t meet a guy at the gym? I’m not saying go find your future husband. Just have some fun. I worry about you, Courtney.” A bit of true concern darkens her eyes.
“Yeah, I know, but that’s not the reason I go. Besides, the only guys who seem interested are ones who want to ‘check my squat form’.” We throw matching eye rolls of commiseration because every woman who’s been in a gym has had that particular experience with a bro-boy.
That dampens her pushiness slightly. “Fine, I won’t beat a dead horse,” Jillian says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Even if I’m right.” She walks out of my office, her skirt swishing as she sings Van Halen’s Right Now in a low, flirty voice.
Packing my bag, I head out, jumping in my car with twenty-seven minutes to spare. As I drive, I try to put work out of my mind, but I can’t.
I originally joined One Life because I wanted to support my big brother. But I’ve found it to be a lifesaver, a place where at least for an hour or so, I can still the constant voices in my head.
Do more. Be more. Is that all you’ve got? Push, push, push.
I shimmy my shoulders and wiggle my hips as I drive, trying to find that mental place. The one where I can forget about presentations and meetings and emails. Where there are no expectations from anyone else, and mostly, not from myself.
I can just be free.
A good sweat is exactly what I need tonight. Then I can sleep and be fresh and ready for tomorrow.
I get to the gym and change just fine, but when I come out of the locker room I nearly run into Kayla and AJ.
They are two of One Life’s more colorful staffers, and Ross has shared some whoppers of stories about them.
Currently, they seem to be in round number ten thousand and six of their never-ending argument.
I can’t help but eavesdrop as I approach because these two are more entertaining than a Temptation Island episode. Not that I watch trash like that. Much.
“Dangit, AJ, I’d tell you to think with your head, but unfortunately, the one in your pants is bigger than the one on top of your neck!” Kayla fumes, reaching up to poke him in the chest. “You do not try to flirt with a woman when she’s got a hatchet in her hand!”
“I wasn’t flirting!” AJ protests.
I didn’t see what started this particular spat, but I can guarantee that AJ was absolutely flirting. Charm virtually oozes from his pores, but he turns it up to eleven whenever Kayla is around. I can also guarantee that Kayla loves it. She’s the quintessential lady who doth protest too much.
As I get close, Kayla spies me. “Hey, Courtney! How’re you doing?”
I don’t slow down, not wanting to get in the middle of their moment and seriously not wanting to lose my spot in Stacylynne’s class. They’re nearly impossible to reserve and I need this tonight. “Good, thanks.”
AJ pipes up too. “We should talk about training soon. Cardio’s great for the ticker,” he says, patting his chest over his heart, “but you want to work the rest of your muscles too. Some strength training would add years to your health and functionality.” He flexes his bicep and flashes a smile, oozing that charm and sexiness without even trying.
Any other guy talking about my ‘functionality’ would get an earful, and maybe a knee to the groin, but AJ is truly just talking about my muscles.
Hmm, maybe he wasn’t flirting with Kayla? It’s hard to tell with AJ.
“Maybe!” I call over my shoulder, still hustling toward my mission. I won’t be late.
In my mind, late is rude. On time is late. Early is on time. My preference is to be in my spot, stretching out, at least five minutes before class begins. And I barely have enough time as it is.
“See ya later, then. Enjoy your class!”
He’s not flirting, but behind my back I hear Kayla pop him in the chest, anyway. “She’s out of your league, Admiral Jackass.”
Is that a touch of jealousy in Kayla’s tone?
“Again, not flirting,” I hear AJ growl, and when I peek back, he’s stepped closer to Kayla and is looking down his nose at her. Both of them are giving each other death glares, but their chests are rising and falling too fast for it to only be adversarial.
Wishing I could stick around for the fireworks but knowing I can’t, I open the studio door.
Luckily, Stacylynne is talking to a newbie, doing her ‘there’s no right or wrong, there’s only movement in the physical plane’ speech I’ve heard dozens of times before.
I set my water bottle and towel down and claim my spot.
A glance at the clock tells me that it’s three minutes to class time. Damn it, I’m late.
But Kayla and AJ were worth it.
I spread my arms wide and dive for my toes, starting to stretch out. From my upside-down vantage point and with the help of the mirrors, I look around. There are several familiar faces, though I don’t know anyone’s actual names. But I don’t let that hold me back.
There’s Stripperella, who seems to want to wear as little as possible for class, and next to her is Compression Girl, who’s covered everything but her hands in spandex that makes me break out in a sweat just from looking at her.
There’s also the Diva Trio, a front-row group of women who will flat-out tell you to move if you dare get too close or come between them and their mirror space.
“All right, Ladies . . . and Anthony!” Stacylynne calls, earning a laugh as the one male member of class smacks his own ass in greeting. “Who’s ready to release the reality of life beyond that door?”
The class whoops in response, as expected, and I see the newbie looking around in surprise at the noise.
She’ll get used to it. We’re a loud bunch or Stacylynne makes us do push-ups and try being loud again.
I was once a quiet newbie too, but I’ve learned the hard way to be loud and proud or pay the price.
“Who’s ready to create flow through their body?” Another hoot from the class. “And who’s ready to let loose?” The loudest callback of all sounds out as Stacylynne hits play and music fills the room. We want to be sure she hears us.
Letting loose is easy for most of the class, but even after months of classes, it’s hard for me. My brain won’t shut up and I judge myself in the mirror. No matter how hard I try, I compare myself to Stacylynne and the other people in class and find myself . . . robotic. Stiff. Lacking.
The only thing that helps is I’ve given Stacylynne’s voice to the angel on my shoulder, her mantra on repeat. There’s no right or wrong, there’s only movement in the physical plane. So free your ass and your mind will follow.
It’s a bit woo-woo for me, but it works after a bit, and even though there’s so much on my plate, it drifts away as the choreography requires my full concentration. Eventually, Stacylynne starts us into a traveling salsa, and I might not be grinning, but at least I’m not grimacing.
“Whoop-whoop!” Stacylynne suddenly yells, and we all turn around, facing the mirrored back wall of the studio without breaking our stride. It’s more than a bit Pavlovian—Stacylynne whoops and we turn, but we seem to be okay with it.
“Whoop-whoop!” one more time, and we’re back to the front as the music slows and we grab our first water break. I take a sip even though I’m barely sweating because I know what’s coming.
The siren is our first warning, screeching loudly for a couple of seconds before Latin street beats fill the room, and Stacylynne pumps a fist in the air as she jumps through the crowd, splitting us into battle teams with a manic grin on her face.
Her bun, which is more of a loose, messy knot on top of her head, flops from side to side as she hypes everyone up.
I still don’t understand how this girl, who looks like she watches Hallmark movies with a rescue dog in her lap and a cup of tea and who probably shows up at the supermarket with her coupons for organic spinach and vegan not-chicken nuggets all cut and sorted for the cashier, can suddenly turn into a Twerk Queen with the push of a button and some Daddy Yankee.
But it’s such a great workout, and if nothing else, I get a great ab workout laughing at myself as I try to keep up.
I do my best to follow Stacylynne, whose class is nothing like the YouTube instructional I watched once.
That sample was level one. Stacylynne’s is at least level forty-two.
It’s like half reggaeton, half booty drop, with a heavy dose of a New Zealand rugby haka thrown in for good measure.
No way did Zumba HQ come up with this dance.