I heard the office door chime sound, then footsteps. A beat later, Benji appeared, looking up at us. “You guys sunbathing?”
“Something like that,” I said, getting up and handing him his now-melty cone. “You ready to go?”
“Yep. I got some Rolos for the ride.” He held out his hand, showing me. “Want one?”
“Nah,” I said, ruffling his hair. Like always, he leaned into me slightly, like a dog. “Thanks, though.”
“Morris?” Benji asked.
“Heck yeah. Toss me one.” A Rolo went flying over my head and Morris grabbed it. “Thanks.”
The candy tossing, and other stupid behavior, went on pretty much all the way to Sand Castles. Having two sisters, I wasn’t used to so much boy around me all the time. By the time we pulled into the driveway, I was more than ready to be rid of them.
“I’ll see you soon, okay?” I said to Benji, as we all got out. “We’ll go golfing again, or something.”
“Yeah? Awesome!”
I waved, then started up towards the house to say hello to Theo. I was almost to the steps when Morris called out, “Hey. Emaline.”
“Yeah?”
“You know I’ll miss you, too.”
“Yeah, I know.” I smiled. “Talk later.”
“Talk later.”
So ridiculous, I thought, swallowing over the lump that was suddenly in the back of my throat as he backed down the driveway. I climbed up the stairs and knocked on the door, taking a few deep breaths. But even with my best efforts, and knowing how silly the reason, when Theo opened the door he still had to ask me why I was crying.
14
MOST PLACES IN town were not open at eight thirty a.m. on a Saturday. But the Colby Fitplex was not like most places.
It was a gym, although in my experience, there was never that much actual working out going on. This morning, for instance, as I got on the treadmill, the group I’d dubbed the Coffee Klatch was already at the tables by the front door. Senior citizens who gathered bright and early every day at the Fitplex, ostensibly to exercise, but mostly to shoot the breeze, their routine never varied. It went like this: fill coffee cup, drink slowly while seated and discussing town gossip and news, drag yourself over to ride the bike for five minutes or do one set on a machine on the lowest-weight setting; repeat.
There were some people exercising. Like the diminutive woman in her early sixties who always showed up clad in a leotard, tights, and a headband of varying neon colors. She’d stretch extensively, then do a routine with five-pound dumbbells, facing the mirror, with the seriousness and exertion level of an Olympic power lifter. There were grunts, gasps, and dramatic drops at the end of the set that sent the dumbbells bouncing across the floor to bump anyone who happened to be standing nearby. Which, more often than not, was an older fishing boat captain who showed up with his mat every morning, spreading it out to do the downward dogs and sun salutations he’d tell anyone who would listen had saved his bum knee from needing surgery.
Really, that was the true workout, avoiding the Klatch and the talkers so you could actually break a sweat.
I’d started coming to the Fitplex the previous fall, just as all my college stuff was really heating up. I kept waking up in the middle of the night, heart racing, panicking about essays and applications, unable to get back to sleep. I tried not eating before bed, giving up coffee, and making other major sacrifices, but nothing worked. Finally, my mom convinced me to go to the doctor, who diagnosed “situational anxiety” and told me to get some exercise. From then on, when I woke up super-early and couldn’t calm down, I came here.
There was something oddly soothing about working out while the rest of the world was asleep. I drove down empty streets, past dark houses, the only stoplights blinking yellow. The Fitplex opened at six sharp, and invariably some of the Klatch was already there, getting the coffeemaker going, as I slipped in, scanned my membership card, and untangled my headphones from around my iPod. On the most stressful days, I hit the treadmill and ran for three or four miles. Other days, I did the elliptical or the bike. As long as I was moving, my heart pumping for reasons I could understand, I felt better. So much so that, once all the applications were in and I started sleeping through the night more regularly, I still dragged myself out of bed to work out a couple of mornings a week.
Now, as the older woman flexed her wiry, bird-like biceps at her reflection, I got on one of the open treadmills and cranked up the speed, starting with an easy jog. Because it was Saturday, and later than I normally showed up, the place was a bit more crowded, with people dotting the rows of machines here and there. The line of TVs were all on, some turned to morning news, one to a foodie show (which always seemed counterintuitive to me, watching people cook while running), another to a rerun of the same modeling reality show Amber always watched. With my music filling my ears, I alternated among them, which resulted in one crazy quilt of a show: headlines, celebrities, photo shoots, and corn bread preparation. When it got to be too much, I upped my speed and stared straight ahead at nothing. That’s when I saw Luke’s mom.
She was on one of the leg machines, doing a Klatch-like light and short set. As always, she looked totally put together: stretchy black pants, an East U T-shirt, and bright white running shoes, her hair pulled back in a pert ponytail. I suspected it was one of her first times at the Fitplex, both because I’d never seen her there before and by the workout she was doing, the same one they set up everyone with on the welcome tour. After a minute, I stopped watching her and put my head down, hoping that somehow this would also make me invisible to her.