Chapter 4
Chapter four
Terry
Three months later…
Amy bounces from foot to foot in the kitchen. “Can you believe it?” she squeals. “Today I’m officially a gym owner!”
I laugh as her high ponytail swings from side to side.
Her deep brown eyes are wild with excitement.
She’s wearing her new uniform: pink and blue checked leggings and a matching cropped top.
Her toned abs are a billboard of her career.
She gives me a megawatt smile and bats her eyelashes. “Do I look the part?”
Walking over to her, I take her in my arms and kiss her fiercely, claiming her mouth with mine. “I’d fuck you,” I whisper in her ear.
She giggles the way she does when she’s turned on.
“Time for a quickie?” I suggest.
She slaps my arm away and sashays over to the front door, then bends from the waist to pick up her huge gym bag, giving me a full view of her luscious behind.
My palm twitches, my body answering before my brain does.
I rearrange myself in my sweats. “I’ll pop past later, after my shift,” I tell her.
“Okay,” she sings as she skips out the door and blows me a kiss over her shoulder. “Love you.”
My current job is another one in a long line of failed careers. When I moved to the city in my twenties, I had big plans to work in theater and television. Over the years, I’ve worked in both porn and drag shows, but never broken into mainstream entertainment.
There was a short spell behind the scenes in a local theater, but they fired me for trying on the costumes. Now, I’m back to flipping burgers at a local café. At over fifty years old, there’s little chance I will progress further than this.
Sometimes I scroll through social media and see their faces. The ones who made it. The old friends who stand under spotlights, while I tend to the fryer. I try to convince myself I’m happy for them, but every post is a reminder of what I failed at.
Thirty years ran away, and I’m stuck where I was at twenty: low paid, head down, and pretending there was no dream.
***
Standing on the pavement after my shift, I stare up at the neon pink sign of my wife’s new business.
Bex’s New You. Amy debated for weeks about the name.
It was only last Thursday that she committed to this one, wanting to remember her sister.
I begged the signage maker to have it ready for opening.
We’ve nailed the memory of her sister above the door in ten thousand lumens.
As I step through the front door, the reception area is heaving. “Terry,” Amy shouts from behind the counter. “Come and help me. Isn’t it wonderful? Look at this…” She waves her phone, notifications stacked like Tetris tiles. “A social media influencer heard about the gym and mentioned us online.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Take the forms and start typing them into the computer,” she instructs, pointing to the crowd of people clutching their paperwork. “We’re past a hundred and climbing. I’m going to need another instructor at this rate.”
An hour later, all the forms are completed and the card machine is hot to touch. Tomorrow, the doors open and classes begin.
The gym cost a fortune to set up, but thanks to a loan from Ben, we were able to finance it. The interest is next to nothing. I hadn’t been keen to take financial help from family, but Bex had insisted we accept.
Ben, being a high-profile oncology consultant and financially savvy, had the money there to help. I swallow my pride every time I see his name on our bank statement.
“What time do you need to be here tomorrow?” I ask, and Amy shrugs.
“We open at eight. I’ll probably just get up and head over.
I want to make sure everything is perfect.
” She scans the already immaculate gym. Every bit of machinery is shining, and the mirrors across the back wall glimmer in the evening sunlight.
“I wish Bex was here to see this. She would have loved it.”
As I stand in front of her, I put my hands on her shoulders. She meets my gaze, but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“She would be so proud of you,” I tell her. “You’re going to smash it.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs, but exhaustion flickers behind her expression. Or maybe the strain of doing too much, too soon.
I almost say it. The thought I’ve been swallowing for weeks. That I hoped the gym would help Amy move on, help us both heal.
But instead, she’s replaced one obsession with another, filling the silence Bex left with marketing strategies and loan repayments.
It hits me that I’ve no idea how to reach my wife anymore. Whatever us we once were—is gone.
We’re turning the key in the lock of the gym door when I hear footsteps behind us. “Excuse me,” a deep, gravelly voice says. “Are you the owner?”
I turn. A wall of a man takes two steps at a time. He’s late fifties, close-cropped gray hair, blue shirt pulled tight across a chest that’s done many push-ups.
“I’m the owner,” Amy says behind me. “This is my husband, Terry, and I’m Amy.” She thrusts out a hand, and he takes it, shaking it once, firm. “How can I help? Do you want to sign up?”
“Actually,” he says. “I was wondering if you were looking for staff. I’ve worked in the fitness industry all my life. I’m trained in kickboxing, high-intensity workouts, and Pilates.”
“Pilates?” I chuckle. “You do Pilates?”
His mischievous eyes turn to me, and a smile plays on his lips. “Yes. Pilates is perfect for flexibility. Keeps you honest. I like to have an all-around fitness program. I also body build,” he adds.
“Oh,” Amy squeals. “So do I.” She bounces on the spot, the way she does when dying to ask all sorts of questions. “Come by tomorrow. I’ll be here from eight. We can discuss any opportunities available. Sign-ups were a lot more than I expected. I could probably do with another set of hands.”
“Great.” He smiles. “My name is Trey. Lovely to meet you both.” With that, he turns and drops back down the steps and out of sight.