Chapter VII
VII
Ana
Even at the most expensive gym in West Hollywood, the smell of testosterone hangs in the air: a unique combination of sweat, preworkout powder, and fragile male ego.
While I typically work out with my trainer from the comfort of my home, there is no denying that Swole is the place to be if you want to be seen.
Particularly if you want to be seen half-naked and glistening.
Which I don’t, but I’ve certainly done worse for less exposure.
I leave the locker room, chrome water bottle dangling from my fingers and bumping against my hip with every step I take.
The rhythm of it feels like the ticking of a clock, maybe a bomb, counting down to the moment when Levi walks in and we have to start this performance in earnest—and in public.
Except, as I turn the corner, he’s already here, sitting on a bench in the lobby.
In one hand, his phone, and in the other, a protein shake that he swirls absentmindedly as he scrolls.
He hasn’t noticed me, and I give him a once-over.
He looks like he belongs here, and he looks good.
Perhaps I should’ve considered, when I decided on the gym for this “date,” that he’d show up in a tank that shows off his traps and gym shorts that ride a little too high—a little too nicely—up the cut of his quads.
And that I’d be here, staring at him half-naked while wearing painted-on leggings and a sports bra working overtime to cover my nipples.
Nipples that are saying hello, that didn’t get the memo that this man is a business prospect, not a romantic one.
We should’ve gotten coffee or something that requires full clothing coverage.
I cross my arms over my chest and rub my hands along my upper arms to generate some heat.
As if that’s the issue, that it’s cold in here.
“Ana.” Levi clocks me and stands up to greet me at the front desk. I straighten, swipe him in, and gesture for him to follow me onto the floor.
“Welcome to Swole.” I don’t miss a beat as he sidles up next to me.
“A gym I’ve belonged to for five years and have visited probably five times, in part because there are always paps outside.
” It’s like I’m speaking in code, staying cognizant that anyone in this place could be eavesdropping at any time, but still trying to signal to Levi that we’ll have the opportunity to be spotted together here.
When a woman tilts her cell phone in our direction, I thread my fingers through his. His warm, rough palm envelops mine, and energy radiates from the contact, sending pinpricks of heat up my arm.
“We’ll stay vigilant,” he says with a wink. “Where should we start?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
He catches my gaze, and there’s a glint in his hazel eyes and a soft smile at the corner of his lips.
It etches a small dimple in his left cheek.
At the studio the other day, he was stiff—he practically flinched when I touched his arm in passing.
Here he looks settled. It makes me think we may actually be able to pull this off.
His palm squeezes mine. “Why don’t we start with some stretches?”
He lifts his chin in the direction of a pile of mats in the corner and tugs me gently toward the back of the space.
My right hip cracks as I walk, and the sound prompts a visceral response—an immediate flood of hot and dizzying distress that lights up every corner of my body.
And it hits me: I let myself get caught up in this charade and made plans to exercise, of all things.
I thought only about where Levi might be comfortable, and where we could be photographed, and neglected to consider why I never come here.
“Wait—” I stop short of the mat he’s laid out. “Before we get started, you should know that I . . . well . . .” I stumble, looking for the words. His chestnut brows furrow in concern, eyes stuck on mine.
What do I say here?
It would be one thing if I’d practiced sharing the diagnosis with the people I care about, but instead, outside of my trainer, I’ve chosen to keep it to myself.
Emily knows that I’m . . . particular about how I move my body.
That I’m careful with what is stipulated in my contracts.
But even she doesn’t know why. I’ve spent the better part of my life making accommodations I pray no one notices and doing my damnedest to ensure my issues are no one else’s problem.
Years of guarding the reality of my needs with the care someone might use to handle a live grenade.
But now I have to tell Levi. Maybe this will be better? Maybe opening up to a relative stranger will be easier. I scan the gym and thank God everyone else in this weight room is focused on their machines.
“So I . . . before we start, I have this thing, and I have to be careful about how I stretch and work out. My connective tissue is crappy—it doesn’t function the way it should—and, well, I can very easily dislocate or subluxate my joints, kind of like a dislocation-lite.
The condition makes me hypermobile, really flexible, but it also means I can easily push myself too far.
It’s called Ehlers-Danlos, or EDS. I’m telling you this because I don’t want you to think I’m weak or incapable if I need to modify whatever we’re about to do. ”
It all comes out at once, like it was waiting just below the surface. I take a deep breath, pushing air to the bottom of my lungs and back out through pursed lips. Levi gives me a slow nod.
“Connective tissue, so ligaments and tendons?”
“Ligaments and tendons, yes, but also arteries, skin, cartilage—a lot more than you’d think.
” His eyes are soft. He’s listening intently, and that compels me to say more.
“All of them contain collagen, and my body, unfortunately, doesn’t produce enough collagen, and what it does make is faulty.
This tends to mean everything is a bit floppy. ”
Before I can stop myself, I remove my hand from Levi’s and stretch my forearm to him, palm facing up. I straighten at the elbow, my arm extending well beyond the typical range of motion. Like an upside-down V.
“Ah, so you’re double-jointed?” He sets down his phone and shake and brings his thumb to the thin skin covering the crook of my arm.
With his fingertips resting on my funny bone, he lifts my forearm up and down, testing.
Gently, then rotating. Noticing that I can change my hand from palm up to palm down without my elbow moving at all.
He squeezes the joint, massaging the tense muscle just above.
I could melt into the pressure, the feeling of his hands on my skin.
There’s a reverence there. A curiosity that catches me off guard.
I hadn’t considered that this is a man whose job it is to be very in tune with his body, and that that might affect how he engages with mine.
“This is where you make a sex joke.” I force a laugh, pulling my arm from his touch, stepping back from the unexpected intimacy we just fell into.
“Something about the benefits of being flexible, or asking if I can lift my leg over my head.” To avoid his gaze, I plop down on the mat, lifting my knees to my chest as I sit.
“Is that what people do? Make a joke about how your condition could benefit them? I’ve gotta say, that’s not a person I’d want to have sex with.” He sits next to me, crossing his legs in a butterfly, and winks.
He winks.
Manufacturing levity for my benefit on the heels of this bomb I just dropped and then sitting here, his shorts riding up a bit higher as he does, like this isn’t a big deal—I don’t know what to make of it.
Like he heard me say the words, saw my body being weird (that’s another thing people say—that my elbows “weird them out”), stored that information away, and moved on.
As an actress, so much attention is focused on my body.
My body is a talking point, a casting decision, a challenge for wardrobe, a bit too much up top, a bit too little in the hips for balance.
I’ve been asked to lose weight, look younger, erase my wrinkles, pour my fat into too-small shapewear so a dress “hangs better.” I constantly feel like my body is a product to be consumed, whether by movie audiences or by men I date.
Levi’s looking at me like my body is something more, like it is mine.
I can’t decide if it makes me want to crawl out of my skin or crawl into his lap.
I hug my knees closer, as if to keep any invasive thoughts out. I clear my throat.
“Let’s do something simple.” Levi seems oblivious to the way this interaction, no more than a few minutes long, has entirely scrambled my brain. “Just some yoga postures. No weights, no hard conditioning.”
“Let’s,” I say with more authority than I feel.
I stretch my legs in front of me and fill my lungs with a deep breath.
I need to get back on track. More action, less thinking.
More joking, less wondering if I could ever find as much peace with my body—the way it works, and the way it looks—as Levi seems to have with his.
He stands and holds out a hand to assist me.
He moves into a perfect warrior two position, and I emulate him: I bend my front knee over my ankle, ignoring the way the joint creaks, and keep my back leg straight.
I reach my hands in either direction, channeling every yoga teacher who’s instructed me to imagine that there is a line of energy shooting from my fingertips.
“Look at you.” Levi appraises me with a smile. There’s that dimple again.
“Shut up and do another pose.” I give him a gentle shove on his shoulder to knock him off balance, but he doesn’t move an inch.
“Have you ever tried this one?” He moves into downward-facing dog, his fingers stretched and flush on the mat, while his feet shimmy to find the right position. His tank falls, the hem dipping toward his chest to expose a sliver of his abs and the V at his hip bones.