17. Chapter Sixteen London
Chapter Sixteen: London
O ne perk of working at McMann and Ma is the attached gym. It's usually full after work or during lunch hours, so Gloria and I like to work out on weekends or early in the morning before we start work for the day.
This Saturday morning, I'm in the free weights section, which is next to the mats where Gloria is stretching. She’s wearing leggings and a strappy red top that’s a mix of a sports bra and a crop top. Not that I frequently notice what she wears.
It's just that this morning, she's doing a series of yoga poses that draw my attention to her in that outfit. And every line of her body. Taking a deep breath that has nothing to do with my physical exertion level, I do my best to ignore her and concentrate on my workout.
I pick up two heavy dumbbells from the rack and start doing shoulder presses with them.
I try not to grunt too loudly as I finish my last reps, keeping my gaze locked on my reflection to check my form.
It's definitely not to avoid meeting Gloria's gaze as she finishes her stretches and walks over to the bench beside mine.
Wiping down the dumbbells I just used and putting them away, I adjust the bench to a horizontal position and grab a bar to do bench presses .
Gloria catches my eye in the mirror. "You seem more quiet today than usual."
"Because we both know I'm usually a chatterbox," I say. Because otherwise I’d stare at her, since she looks incredible in the colour red and her leggings make her legs look a thousand miles long.
"No, but we usually make some kind of conversation when we work out together," she says. "Don't we, Birmingham?"
She's right. When we go to the gym together, we usually chat between sets or while warming up or cooling down. I can't deviate from our usual routine, or she'll suspect something's up.
"Of course we do. I guess I'm just tired," I say. To reinforce the lie, I think of something fatiguing: my family.
"Work?" she says softly, sitting on the bench next to me while I slide plates onto the ends of my bar and clip them in place with the barbell clips.
"No," I say. "Family stuff. But I'll be over it soon, I promise."
A divot forms between her brows. "You don't have to promise me that, London. You don't have to pretend to be happy around me. Whatever you want to talk about, I'm here to listen."
Her words unlock a vault inside me, and if I didn't think it would show every card in my hand, I'd give her a hug. I'd hold her close, clinging to the warmth and sweetness of her, knowing that as long as I had her, I'd be alright.
But I don't have her. Not as more than a friend.
"I know," I say. "Thank you."
"Of course." To my surprise, she leans forward and pats me on the arm. "That's what friends are for."
We continue our workout; she goes back to her own bench and does tricep extensions, while I turn back to bench pressing. I count down the reps in my head before shoving the bar back up onto the rack .
The strenuous effort distracts me from my family and worries that my parents’ marriage is irretrievably broken. My anxiety fades as I feel the burn of straining my muscles to their limit.
But I'm distracted during my bicep curls when Gloria picks up a pair of dumbbells and starts doing squats.
I would swear she was doing this on purpose if I didn't know her better.
I have half a mind to stand behind her and block every other guy in here—there's only a handful on a Saturday morning—from seeing the same view I am.
I grunt and pick up a heavier weight than usual to bicep-curl with.
Then, as I do my third rep, pain spikes through my wrist.
And not in a good, 'this is hard but I'm getting stronger' way.
I drop the weight I was using with a yelp, thankful it doesn't land on my foot. It bounces harmlessly off the rubber-coated floor and rolls to a stop next to Gloria.
"You okay?" She puts away her weights and walks over to me, concern splashed across her face.
"Fine," I say through gritted teeth as I cringe, gingerly rubbing my left wrist. "It's probably just a sprain. I’ll ice it when I get home."
"No way," she says.
"No way what?" I ask.
"No way are you going home with a possibly sprained wrist. What if it’s broken?" Before I can protest further, she's already commandeered one of the gym's employees into bringing over a bag of ice.
The next thing I know, she forces me to grab my things and let her drive me to the nearby walk-in clinic.
Well, force is a strong word. More like she gently probed my injured wrist, and told me that since her brother is a doctor, she's practically a medical professional herself.
Then she asked me to ease her conscience by letting her take me to the clinic.
I was helpless to do anything but agree .
That's why I’m in the waiting room of the emergency clinic half an hour later, still dressed in my hoodie and sweatpants while Gloria sits beside me. I notice her rubbing her hands up and down her bare arms as we wait under the fluorescent lights and air conditioning unit.
"Are you cold?" I frown as I glance over at her. Goosebumps rise on her skin.
"N-no," she says, teeth chattering.
I take off my hoodie since I'm wearing a t-shirt under, removing my glasses first so they don’t get smudged. "Here. I know it's sweaty, but it'll keep you warm."
She takes it reluctantly. It probably smells sweaty.
As she tugs it over her head, the garment engulfs her small frame like a dress instead of a shirt.
I can't help but feel satisfaction at seeing her in my hoodie.
It's an old sweatshirt from high school, when I played on the football team for one season in a hopeless attempt to impress my dad.
My name is printed on the back, a detail that doesn't escape me.
Seeing Gloria in my hoodie, especially one with my name on it, shouldn’t give me the urge to make her mine. Shouldn't make my heart race as I wonder: what if ?
"London Young?" one of the clinic workers drawls, clicking a pen and holding a clipboard.
I get up. Gloria comes with me. I don't protest since I know she'll pester me about what the doctor said later, anyway.
"Have a seat," the employee says in a bored, robotic tone that suggests she's done this at least twenty times today. "The doctor will be with you shortly."
Sitting in the examination room, on a crinkly paper-topped bench, makes me feel like a child again. At least I don't have to wear a hospital gown.
"Thanks for your hoodie," Gloria says. "It's really warm. "
"It probably smells like a high school boys' locker room," I say, only half-joking.
"No, um, it smells nice. It smells like you." The implication is that she thinks I smell nice . Or maybe I'm just suffering from a severe case of wishful thinking. Does the doctor have a prescription for delusional attraction to your best friend?
"Thanks," I say with a chuckle.
The door flies open and the doctor walks in, wearing a name tag that reads DR. COFFIN, which makes me chuckle. "London Young?"
I raise my hand like I'm taking attendance in school. "That's me."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Doctor Coffin. What seems to be the problem here today?"
"I'm pretty sure I just sprained my wrist at the gym this morning, but…" I gesture toward Gloria. “She wanted me to get checked out.”
“Well, it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
” Dr. Coffin examines my left wrist with expertise, instructing me to turn it back and forth.
"Yep, it looks like you just sprained it. Just get lots of rest and ice it. If you have an ace bandage, feel free to use it to wrap your wrist, but nothing else should be necessary. Come back in if the pain and swelling don’t go away after three to four days. "
I give Gloria an I told you so look. She shoots me one that says, better safe than sorry .
As we drive back to my apartment, listening to SB19 and BINI, Gloria says, "I know what you're going to say."
"I told you it was just a sprain."
"Well, I felt bad that you got hurt, so excuse me if I wanted you to get it checked out."
"You're not responsible for my health and wellbeing, you know."
"Maybe not, but maybe you wouldn't have gotten hurt if I wasn't there. "
I suck in a sharp breath, but not because of my wrist. Does she know I was checking her out at the gym?
"I mean, you were probably distracted by my improper squat form, and that's why…"
My shoulders sag the slightest bit with relief. I wince as the movement nudges my sore wrist. "It's my fault for trying to show off."
"You were trying to impress me by bicep curling fifty-five pounds?" she says, turning over to look at me with one eyebrow quirked up.
"Yes. No. I don't know," I say, the words tumbling out in a scrambled rush. "Thanks for making me go to the clinic. I'm glad it wasn't something worse."
"Me, too." She pulls into the parking lot outside my house.
"Let me make it up to you for cutting our workout short," I blurt out. "I'll cook you dinner."
"London, are you making it up to me or punishing me?" she asks, folding her arms over her chest. She's still wearing my hoodie, and the sleeves are adorably too long on her, going way past her hands.
"No, I promise I'll make you something edible. I mean, more than edible. Delicious, even."
"What about your wrist?" she asks.
"After my wrist heals, I, London Young, solemnly swear to cook you dinner," I say, pressing a hand to my chest. "Come on. It'll be fun. After all the favours you've done for me recently."
"Okay, fine." Her shoulders soften. "It's a date."