Chapter 22
I’m not ready
“So, these are the changing rooms.” Rhys gestures towards the women’s changing room doors.
I nod my head, feigning enthusiasm.
Rhys ignored me as much as possible for the few days after our failed romantic meal.
I tried everything to get him to talk to me, to even look at me.
After all other attempts failed, I pulled out the big guns, very reluctantly, and asked if he would give me a tour of his gym so I could start my training regime.
He perked up immediately, which was a relief, as living with a grumpy Rhys is hell.
There are only so many passive aggressive comments and slammed doors a girl can take.
But as Rhys shows me around the gym where he works, I realise I’ve merely swapped one hell for another.
“I’ll leave you to get changed and meet you by the treadmills!” Rhys beams at me, clearly excited about getting to torture me for the next two hours.
“Changed?” I ask, confused. I look down at my black sports leggings, loose T-shirt and hoodie, wondering which part I got wrong. “These are my workout clothes.” Brand-new ones too. I figured new, appropriate clothing would make me feel more confident. I’m still waiting for that feeling to kick in.
“Oh.” Rhys looks me up and down with an eyebrow raised but doesn’t elaborate further. “Okay, well that’s fine if that’s what you’re comfortable in, I guess. Let’s get straight to it, then.”
Rhys turns on his heel and leads me to the cardio area of the ground floor.
As we walk, I feel all eyes on us and sense people judging me, though the vibe aimed at Rhys is very different to the one coming my way.
All the women we pass, and some of the men, eye Rhys like he’s a piece of chocolate cake waiting to be devoured.
I’m sure any one of them would give their right arm to have Rhys train them so they got his undivided attention for a while.
When they look at me, however, they can sense my fear.
They see my flabby body and mock me for daring to enter the realm of beautiful, fit gods and goddesses.
I try to keep my head held high, my ponytail bouncing as I walk, but I’m already feeling out of place and out of my depth, and I so desperately want to be out of the gym too.
The cardio area is huge and intimidating.
Along one long mirrored wall is a row of twenty treadmills, all facing, rather cruelly I think, the mirrors themselves.
I imagine this is so the people running can see themselves looking like shit, which motivates them to keep running, either as a form of self-torture or to try to make themselves feel like they’re at least trying to do something about it.
I’ll be running with my eyes closed, thank you.
There are six others using the treadmills, all spread out, with polite gaps between them so they can’t hear each other’s panting.
They’re all toned and glistening with sweat.
The two men are shirtless, leaving them wearing only shorts so their chiselled muscles are on full display.
The four women are wearing sports bras and skin-tight shorts in varying colours, their flat stomachs making me envious.
There’s no way they’re human: their legs barely wobble when they move.
And now I understand Rhys’s surprise at my choice of outfit. I clearly don’t fit in here.
Rhys motions to a treadmill between two of the running women, and I panic. Putting me between them for my first run would be an unfair side-by-side comparison.
I point to the three empty treadmills at the end of the row, tucked into a quiet corner. “Can’t I use one of those?”
“Nope, this one.” Rhys taps the machine with his toes and moves to stand in front of it so he’s facing me when I eventually step on.
I don’t miss his subtle smile to the woman on my right, but I try to convince myself he’s just being polite and not flirting right in front of me. I remove my hoodie and throw it onto the floor along with my water bottle and phone.
Rhys takes a few minutes to show me how the treadmill works and sets me up for a steady walk to warm me up.
After five minutes, he ups the speed to a fast walk and adds a small incline.
I’m already getting a little breathless, but I try to keep it steady so the women on each side of me don’t notice how unfit I am.
“Okay, now you’re all warmed up, let’s get started.” Rhys presses a few buttons on the control pad and the roller beneath me picks up speed, forcing me into a jog. “All set. Now don’t touch any of these buttons until I get back, or we’ll have to start all over again. See you in half an hour!”
“You’re leaving me?” I squeak, my legs trying to keep up with the speed of the machine. Gripping the handle for support, I look at Rhys pleadingly, hoping he’ll take pity on me and stay for moral support.
“I can’t just stand here watching you run for thirty minutes, Muffin,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes at the eavesdropping woman beside me, then walks away towards the offices.
Hoping I can pass off my embarrassed cheeks as a healthy, exercise-induced flush, I try to focus on the task at hand.
Half an hour for my first run seems like a long time, especially considering I’m already getting out of breath.
And, as I left my bottle on the floor, I can’t even take a sip of water to help me through.
I decide to make the best of it and try my hardest. A quick glance at the screens of the runners next to me shows they’ve been running a lot faster and for a lot longer than my half-hour jog, so it would be too mortifying to fail.
Avoiding looking in the mirror in front of me, my eyes land on the timer set on my screen.
I’m already down to twenty-nine minutes and ten seconds.
Twenty-six minutes and three seconds to go. My breathing is noticeably heavier, despite how hard I try to hide my struggle from the professional gym-goers around me.
Twenty minutes and fifteen seconds to go. My legs are tingling, and I have a pain in my side which I’m ninety per cent sure is a stitch, the other ten per cent being convinced it’s my appendix preparing to explode.
Fourteen minutes and thirty seconds to go. My knuckles are white as they hold onto the handles on either side of the machine for dear life.
Come on, you can do this.
Nine minutes to go. I’ve never been so covered in sweat in my entire life. I can’t wait to finish this run so I can take a very long shower.
Four minutes to go. I think this might be how I die. Maybe the gym will honour me by adding a commemorative plaque over the treadmill?
Two minutes to go. Rhys returns to his spot in front of me and gives me a questioning look.
“Mat, did you stick to my rule?” he asks, checking the settings are how he left them.
“Yes,” I gasp. “I didn’t even stop for water, check my bottle.” I nod towards the still full bottle on the floor, and he gives me a smile.
“Great! Just finish your last minute here, then you can have a water break before we move on.”
“Move on?” I squeak. “You mean, there’s more after this?”
Rhys just laughs and hands me my bottle as my treadmill slows and finally stops.
My legs are wobbling so hard I have to hold onto Rhys’s arm as I step down onto the floor.
I down half my water in one go and use the back of my hand to wipe my sweaty forehead before the droplets can trickle into my eyes.
After letting me recover in silence for a minute, Rhys puts his hand on my back, but pulls it away quickly once he realises how sweaty I am. He wipes his hand on my hoodie, which he picked up along with my phone as I inhaled my drink, and sets off towards—
“The Stair Climber!” Rhys says proudly, reaching the tall machine.
I groan instantly. My legs are ready to give up the ghost at any minute, and my head is spinning from my eight hundred-calorie daily limit. I don’t know if I can handle this.
Sensing my hesitation, Rhys takes my hand and leads me onto the first step. He throws my stuff roughly onto the floor next to us and turns the machine on.
“This machine will shred that fat and tone your arse in no time. You know I’m an arse man, Mat.”
“Of course.” I nod determinedly. I could at least try. For my marriage, for my husband and for my sanity, I will try. Luckily, this part of the room is fairly quiet, so I don’t feel quite as self-conscious.
“Okay, off you go then.” Rhys presses the start button, and I slowly climb the moving stairs. Rhys gives me a pleased wink and slaps my arse before leaving me alone again.
After that first fateful day, Rhys put me on a gruelling training regime.
That evening, he printed off my daily schedule and pinned it up on the living room wall.
It was daunting to look at and even worse to try to fulfil.
I was booked onto an hour-long class each morning, ranging from spin to HIIT to Pilates, and I had a two-hour training session with Rhys each day after lunch.
The week was utterly exhausting. But next week looks even worse.
As well as my morning class and post-lunch session with my personal trainer-slash-husband-slash-torturer, Rhys has added in an afternoon walk ‘to loosen your muscles after working so hard’.
He expects me to walk five miles daily, come rain or shine.
Personally, I think a hot bath would loosen my muscles just as well, but who am I to argue with the expert?
Despite my constant groaning and whinging, I’m determined to follow through on my promise to be better.
I’ve attended all the morning classes, even if I do have to arrive an hour early so I have time to have a panic attack in my car beforehand.
Rhys is religiously keeping track of my food app, but I would be sticking to my allowance regardless.
I’ve found a routine with my food that makes it easy to stick to.
There’s very little variety, I’m always hungry, and I feel woozy whenever I move, but at least I know where I stand.
Fruit salad for breakfast and a regular salad for lunch and dinner. Simple.
I was hoping that by spending more time together, Rhys and I would feel closer, and that he’d feel proud of the effort I’m putting in. It’s what he wanted, after all. But Rhys has been more and more distant lately, and I think I know why.
We still haven’t had sex since we got back together.
I’m still not sure I’m ready for that, but even if I was, he’s running me ragged, quite literally, with his workout plans.
I don’t have the energy left at the end of the day to lift my arms to wash my hair properly in the shower, let alone sleep with someone.
And, despite my hard work, I don’t yet look or feel any better than I did before, so my confidence is still at an all-time low.
Putting those thoughts out of my mind, I tread the familiar walk to the changing rooms at the gym, put my belongings in a locker and head off to find Rhys.
I find him in the office, talking animatedly to one of his colleagues, a man of the same height and build as Rhys.
Same age and haircut too, actually. It must be part of the criteria to work at a place like this.
When Rhys spots me, his smile falters slightly. I keep smiling broadly anyway, hoping it will be infectious. It’s not.
“Ah, Mat! Sorry, Muffin, I’ve got a shit ton of stuff to catch up on here,” he says, feigning frustration. “You okay to sort yourself out for this session? You know what to do, right?”
I do know what to do, but the thought of doing it without Rhys’s presence causes my anxiety to flare up.
He’s never stayed with me while I worked out, just turns up to move me on to the next exercise and set the controls for me, but I always felt reassured that he was around.
Now I’m going it alone, and I’m terrified.
“Okay. Yeah, sure, of course!” I start to back away. I try my best to look confident, but my shaking hands are a giveaway. Rhys’s friend dips his head to hide his smirk and my face flushes scarlet.
I turn away quickly and make a beeline for the treadmills for my usual half-hour jog. I pounce on the opportunity to use one of the quiet treadmills in the corner that Rhys usually won’t let me go near. Setting up the pad as I’ve seen Rhys do so many times before, I start my run.
By the time I’m done, I’m sweaty and breathless and still feeling like a fish out of water.
Keeping my head down to avoid seeing how many people are staring at me and, more importantly, so I don’t see my own reflection, I shuffle over to the stair climber.
I take a deep breath as I look up at the machine, and the room spins.
I wait for the now-familiar sensation to pass, then step on.
I’ve been climbing for five minutes when the room spins again. This time, as I’m standing on a set of moving stairs, it’s harder to refocus.
It’s fine – it’ll pass. No pain, no gain, fatty.
I keep climbing, not wanting to have to start all over again if I stop, but my foot slips. I feel the world around me spin in slow motion and my head split open.
Then everything goes black.