Chapter 19
Eyes closed, I lean against the cold metal elevator as it rises up to La Vida Buena’s fitness center. It’s 4:55 a.m. and my abdomen still aches from last night’s incident.
Ding. The elevator doors slide back.
Zombielike, I stumble down the hallway, wave my cell over the security pad, then enter.
The lights turn on with a pop, illuminating a shiny blue-and-silver reception desk with inlaid towel cubbies. Unlike most resort gyms, La Vida’s high-ceiling gym takes up nearly the entire top floor with a room for spin class, a row of treadmills gazing out onto the ocean, and three full-sized workout studios.
Pocketing my keys, I breathe in the welcome gym smells of rubber, steel, and tenacity—also known as the orange-scented gym cleaner used to clean up sweat.
There’s a lot to be proud of and a recent spotlight piece on local television introducing our new Bailarcise fitness equipment has driven up memberships. According to Mateo, so has my appearing on FTW. We’re so close to success that I can taste it.
Winning FTW and paying Haydée for enough shares to finally gain control of the hotel would be the final push to realizing a decades-long dream. Not to mention, being able to label the gym as the first FTW franchise in Puerto Rico.
I grab towels from the storage closet and stack them in cubbies around the front desk.
“Nena, por qué estás aquí?”
I turn to Mateo. He’s leaning against the front desk, his bomba drum tucked against his side, handsome despite the hour. Unlike me, he’s always been a morning person.
With a yawn, I answer. “I gave Liza the later class since I start practice for The Last Stand tonight.” Dios, I’m tired.
“But you were so sick last night. You need to rest up.”
I don’t point out that he needs sleep too, because he really doesn’t. Super-memory, mechanically inclined, high-metabolism, and musically gifted are all things I admire about Mateo. But his need for very little sleep… No thanks. Mami used to tell us that he required so little sleep as a baby that she took him to specialist. Me? She used to have to wake me up to feed me. I like sleep. “I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to take the class? I can use the drum recordings.”
I shake my head. “No. Live drums are one of the reasons people attend the early class.”
The gym door beeps and George enters. I wave. “Hola, Jorge.”
A super-fit retiree from Maine with salt-and-pepper hair and a ready smile, George gets a kick out of me pronouncing his name in Spanish. He first joined the gym when he discovered I was Puerto Rican. He said he wanted to support the true local economy. He’s the best kind of transplant.
He grabs a towel from the desk. “Hola, Yolanda. Lista… para hacer… ejercicio?”
His Spanish is improving. I answer, holding up my arm and flexing my bicep, “Definitely ready to work out.”
He slings his towel over his shoulder. “Then I’m going to need this.” A soft look settles on his face. He reaches across the desk and awkwardly pats my hand. “You fought despite being sick, and I don’t believe a word of what people are saying online.”
What are people saying? “Que?”
“It’s nothing,” Mateo cuts in.
My shoulders grow tense. It’s not nothing. “What are they saying?”
Both men grow quiet, and though it’s not appropriate for me to press George, I glare at Mateo. He fiddles with a string on the side of his bomba. “It’s mierda. Nada.”
“You can’t protect me from this, Mateo. If it’s out there, I’ll hear about it. The best you can do is prepare me.”
He relents with a sag of his shoulders. “That pendejo Eli was interviewed online after the show. He suggested the pressure was too much for you. Now, rumors are flying that you were ill on purpose. That you had a relapse.”
My delicate stomach cramps with his words. “The mindset that sparked my eating disorder no longer controls me. Even when it arises in my world, when a new client mentions that I don’t fit their image of a fitness instructor or when that person on my marketing team assumed, incorrectly, that I wanted him to slim down my thighs for promo materials, it doesn’t take hold. Not anymore.”
“I know,” Mateo says.
“I do, too,” George agrees.
I stare at them. Of course, they do. They’re part of my life, my real life, but… “I’ve done a terrible job of explaining myself on the show.”
“You’ve just started,” George assures me. “You’ll show them all. Don’t give up. Sí tú puedes.”
Emotion rises up to fill my throat with heat and tears. “It’s due to gente like you that I’m determined to win.”
“And you will,” George assures me with another of his big smiles before heading to the studio for today’s workout.
“He’s right.” Mateo taps a peppy beat on his bomba. “Don’t let rumors get you down. You’re stronger than they know.”
Another ding from the door sends Mateo off to follow George as my heart leaps. I was once told the sign of a healthy gym was how many people showed up for the early class. Three familiar locals come through the front doors.
“Hola, Yolanda,” one of them calls with a much-too-cheery-for-five-a.m.-wave, “I thought you were amazing last night.”
“Performing while sick,” another says. “Only a woman could pull that off, chica!”
I raise my arms in a triumph I don’t feel as they make their way to the studio.
In rapid fire, ten more clients enter, quiet and bleary-eyed. They can’t know how much it means to me to see them here. These aren’t only guests. These are also people who live in the area, choosing to pay for and come to our gym.
There was a time when no one believed I could create a gym that catered to locals and visitors. I’ve proved them wrong. And I’ll prove those spreading lies about me wrong, too.
Grabbing my own towel, I head to class.
Time to shake things up.