Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Terry
The tip of the Christmas tree almost grazes the glass dome meters above in the foyer of Starsky’s Gym Complex. Silver tinsel and white lights scatter diamonds across the walls.
Underneath, images of gym instructors wearing Christmas hats decorate the gifts. Festive music I’ve heard thousands of times fills the air, cringy and relentless, like the season is forcing me to have Christmas spirit. If I fake it long enough, maybe it will feel real. The same as my marriage.
Two huge escalators disappear behind the tree and carry members up to the fitness suites beyond. The place looks more like a shopping mall than a gym. Every wall reflects the passersby.
A sportswear and equipment shop on the ground floor covers the footprint of the center. Upstairs, there are rows and rows of machines and equipment stacked neatly.
Amy skips beside me, wearing her training outfit. “Isn’t this place amazing,” she squeals. “Trey said they have the best equipment in all of London.” She scans the rooms as we pass, taking everything in.
There are dozens of men and women wearing the latest gear working out, not a hair out of place. Even their sweat patches look on point. I groan internally. This is not my scene, but I promised I would come and support her.
“Terry,” she snaps. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I haven’t stopped listening to you since we left home. I know. Starsky’s has the best equipment, best instructors, and the best training program ever invented.” Her face twists, then she flicks a stray lock of hair over her shoulder.
“Look, there’s the competition suite,” I say to change the subject.
We’re here for Amy’s second bodybuilding competition.
For the past six months, she’s been one hundred percent focused on today.
Memories of the 4 a.m. meal prep and tubs stacked in our fridge flood back.
The clang of dumbbells on our kitchen floor between reps.
Bodybuilding was meant to distract from Bex’s illness, but it’s become her obsession. Her days and nights have been spent in the gym. She’s in the best shape of her life.
At the end of the corridor are double doors pinned open wide.
Inside the competition suite is a theater with seating for hundreds of spectators.
A stage fills the back of the room. There are lights and speakers suspended from the ceiling and walls.
Dance music is blaring from all directions.
Across the wall behind the stage is a gigantic banner reading ‘Welcome to Starsky’s Amateur Body Building Competition 2018. ’
Amy grabs my hand and starts jumping up and down on the spot.
Sometimes I wonder if my wife ever really grew up.
Her flushed cheeks and swinging ponytail used to be something I loved.
Her never-ending joy in life, it used to rub off on me.
Now, I feel like a man peering through glass on the outside, left behind.
Trey appears from nowhere and wraps his arms around her waist, swinging her around. My fists tighten before I even think about it. I hate that she laughs with him the way she used to with me. I miss being the man who could make her light up with a smile.
Maybe that’s the problem. We no longer feel like a we. She’s moving forward, finding new parts of herself, while I stand still and watch her disappear.
“Amz!” he shouts, then places her back on the floor, standing back to look her up and down.
“You look incredible. Are you ready to flaunt your hot body?” My hackles rise.
I hate this guy. My wife spends more time with him than me, and he’s so fucking touchy-feely with her.
She giggles and flicks another strand of hair away, the previously warming sound now a sting on my skin.
Turning to me, she says, “Darling, I need to go prepare. I’m the first class on stage. Bikini body over forty.” My jaw clenches, but I force a nod. I know this. She’s told me a bazillion times already. “Wish me luck!” She pecks my cheek, then scurries off after Trey in the direction of the stage.
As I squint around the room, I feel completely out of place. Everyone smells of fake tan and body spray, enough to choke me. The overhead lights reflect off perfectly oiled skin.
I slide into a seat near the front where the light is broken overhead, the kind of corner where nobody looks twice. Pulling a beer from my rucksack, I crack it open quietly and sink lower, the fizz hissing like a dirty secret. Hidden here in the shadows is the only way I’ll make it to the end.
Twenty minutes later and two beers down, a man dressed in a tuxedo walks on stage. The crowd, I hadn’t noticed filling the place, goes wild.
The man in the tux waves both his arms in the air.
“Welcome!” he shouts into the microphone, and the sound reverberates around the hall.
“This is our tenth annual Starsky’s Christmas Competition.
I’ve seen the competitors, and, fucking hell, they look good.
” His face splits into a huge grin. “First up, we have our entry-level bikini competition. These athletes must be within their first two years of competing. We’ll start with our ladies over forty and work downward.
Let’s go.” The crowd goes wild again, and the music shrieks.
A man dressed in nothing but the smallest pair of briefs I’ve ever seen walks on stage with a board above his head, telling us this is round one―presentation.
He turns to leave, and to my horror, the briefs don’t even have an ass attached to them; it’s a bloody thong.
I drop my focus to the floor, grab another beer, and settle back to watch the hell that will be my day.
Thirty minutes later, umpteen women wearing sparkly string bikinis have paraded across the stage and posed. Finally, Amy makes her entrance. She’s wearing a pink diamante triangular top, which barely covers each breast, with jewels hanging from the band. Her bottoms expose her toned butt cheeks.
For a heartbeat, I don’t recognize her. The glint of her skin, the determination in her eyes. The woman who used to curl up by my side smelling of homemade cookies and vanilla, now glistens like a star under the spotlight.
The second round begins the same way as the first. I close my eyes to block out the guy’s junk in front of me and swig my drink. This time, all the competitors are brought on stage and lined up. They pose and turn on command.
Amy is in the middle of the line between two brunettes; both are slightly shorter than my wife, but their muscles bulge in the same way. The class is then dismissed, and they walk off. The presenter reappears.
“The results will be announced in ten minutes. Grab a drink and meet us back here.” I pull another beer from my bag, glad I brought a twelve-pack.
“Terry!” Amy’s shrill voice makes me jump. “What the actual fuck are you doing?” she wails. I blink my eyes open, then scan my surroundings. Shit, I fell asleep. My white shirt displays the last can of beer I was holding, and the soles of my sneakers crunch over the snacks scattered over the floor.
Amy freezes in the aisle. The heat behind her eyes makes my world blur. Trey beside her, his lips curled back as if tasting something sour. He taps her on the shoulder, and she turns to look at him.
“I’ll see you at the gym on Monday,” he says, kissing her cheek. “Well done, Amz. I’m so proud of you.” It’s then I notice the trophy she’s holding. Third place. Her disappointed gaze returns to me.
Heat rushes to my cheeks as horror stabs at my chest. Of course I’ve ruined it. I can’t even show up for her without wrecking something. All I can think of is how small I must look right now.
“Let’s go home,” she mutters as she swings her bag over her shoulder, walking off in the direction of the exit. I follow behind her, far enough away that she won’t speak to me, but close enough not to lose sight of her.
Arriving at the car, she pulls the key from her coat pocket and climbs into the driver’s seat, slamming the door behind her.
Momentarily, I consider making a run for the train station, but decide it will be less painful having an ear bashing from my wife now rather than later. Slowly, I get into the passenger seat.
Surprisingly, the drive home is made in silence.
Amy keeps her focus on the road with her dark shades pulled tight over her eyes.
Every few minutes, she swallows as if holding back a sob.
My fingers flex against my thigh. I want to reach for her hand, say something, anything to fix this.
But the words jam somewhere between my throat and my pride; no apology could wipe the slate clean.
On reaching our apartment, she parks the car on the street, climbs out, and walks up our path away from me without a word.
The front door slams, echoing all the way to the curb.
Unsure what to do, I shove my hands in my pockets and walk around the block.
The cold air bites at my face until my self-hatred returns to survivable levels.
Resigning myself to the fact that I need to go home tonight, I climb our stairs at a snail’s pace. The door is ajar, but all the lights are off. Soft music is floating from our bedroom.
Upon entering our apartment, I close and lock the door behind me, then go to the fridge and drink milk straight from the carton. It dribbles down the side of my mouth as the sour taste coats my tongue. After wasting time in the bathroom, I head to bed.
She’s already asleep, her blonde hair splayed over her pillow.
Dark tracks where her mascara has run cover her cheeks.
My stomach turns, guilt clawing its way higher.
She’s on her side, curled into a ball, holding a pillow in her arms for comfort.
A single tartan pajama leg sticks out from beneath the covers.
Once, I could read every look she gave me; now it feels like a foreign language. But tonight, the message is clear—don’t touch me.
I wander over to her bedside and crouch down beside her.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry for being an absolute dickhead.
But I don’t know who you are anymore. My wife isn’t who I remember.
” Tears spring to my eyes, and I wipe them away before heading to the spare room.
The floorboards creak beneath my feet, each step the sound of the last threads of our marriage snapping.