15. February 5, Saturday #3
Zoey hesitated. Honesty was a dangerous drug. But if she was already high… “Yes. I want that spark. That if I walk into a room, someone thinks, Huh, she’s interesting. Not just, I bet she gives great outreach pitches.”
Thea nodded once, like she’d expected that. “Then you need to stop waiting to feel that way. Fake it until you make it. Practice.”
Zoey’s stomach flipped. “On who?” she demanded. “You make it sound like I just…go up to random men and bat my eyelashes until my self-worth improves.”
“That’s one approach,” Thea said dryly. “Not one I recommend. You want to feel safe, not like you’re doing exposure therapy with predators.”
“So, kind of like this…” Zoey muttered.
Thea huffed a laugh. “You work out different muscle groups in a gym, right? Leg day, upper body, whatever.”
“In theory,” Zoey exhaled. “This is my first day in a gym in ages…and already my muscles are like, What is this, and why do you hate us?”
“Well,” Thea said, “feeling confident, sexy, powerful—it’s all the same idea. You learn new exercises. Sometimes it’s equipment you know, just…different angles. Different tempo.”
Zoey flinched as someone across the gym dropped their deadlift bar with gusto.
“Look, sometimes the best way to get comfortable with something new is to try it with a tool you already know and trust. A friend. Someone who won’t make it weird. Who won’t…weaponize your awkwardness.”
Zoey’s brain, unhelpful organ that it was, immediately supplied an image. Not some anonymous man at a bar.
Ilya. Steady. Calm. Quietly amused. Following her lead. Letting her trip over her words. Catching her before she actually fell.
Her heart did a weird, hiccupping lurch. Absolutely not.
“That sounds like a recipe for ruining a friendship,” she said too fast. “Or a working relationship. Or spontaneously combusting on the spot.”
Thea shrugged. “Depends on the friend,” she said simply. “And your intentions. It’s not about seducing someone. It’s about giving yourself permission to take up space in that way again. To see that you won’t die if someone sees you as…desirable.”
This whole conversation was ridiculous.
Zoey’s cheeks burned. “I don’t even know you.”
“Nope. I’m just really good at interviews and getting what I want.
Growth is terrifying, but…” Her gaze flicked briefly to Zoey, then away again, a little tic in her fingers as she nudged her treadmill speed higher.
“You mentioned fostering. You want to be responsible for a kid whose world exploded without warning? Show them what safety looks like?”
The question sliced through Zoey’s flimsy defenses.
“Yes,” she said, no hesitation.
“Then taking care of yourself isn’t vanity,” Thea said quietly.
“It’s…part of the job. Physical health, mental health, feeling like your body is your ally instead of your enemy.
That’s strength. That’s modeling something they can copy.
You don’t have to be some terrifyingly shredded Instagram mom.
But do you want them to watch you disappear?
Criticize your own body? Or watch you show up for yourself?
Start there. Even if you’re not ready to do it for yourself yet… start there.”
The words landed heavy and true.
Zoey swallowed around the lump in her throat. She pictured a small face watching. Taking notes. Seeing whether Zoey could take care of herself—and, by extension, whether she could be trusted to take care of them.
A bead of sweat slid down her temple. She didn’t wipe it away.
“Okay,” she said, a little hoarsely. “That’s…something to think about.”
Thea smirked. “I’m annoyingly good at that.”
“And very nosey,” Zoey reminded her.
“Also that. But I’ve heard some things, so it’s all for the greater good.”
Zoey gave her a questioning look, but Thea had people-d out and was already adjusting her treadmill to a challenging run. They both retreated into their side-by-side bubbles, facing forward, watching the other gym-goers.
Ilya had added more plates to the bar. Of course, he had.
Zoey tried not to watch and failed spectacularly.
He stepped back under the bar, head ducking, hands wrapped around the steel. Forearms corded with effort. The muscles in his back rippled under his damp T-shirt as he rolled his shoulders and settled the bar high on his traps.
He exhaled once, focused. Then unracked the weight with a controlled push of his legs. The loaded bar rose with him like it weighed nothing.
She knew, intellectually, that was not true. Each plate was forty-five pounds. Five on each side. Plus, the bar.
Her traitorous brain noted, with alarming clarity, that if he wanted to squat her…he could. Preferably against a bedroom wall. Naked.
She cranked the speed, fully aware her heart wasn’t racing from exercise.
So much for coming here to get herself under control.
Apparently, all it took was one treadmill, one existential crisis, and Ilya squatting a house to remind her that her body still worked just fine when it wanted something.
Which, frankly, felt like a different kind of emergency.