Page 12 of Rush of Jealousy

“Knee pads?” I whisper to Claire.

“To protect your knees.”

“Well, that is obvi. But what could we be doing that would require their use?”

I am unable to hear her answer because we are each being handed a pair. I am sandwiched between Claire and Blake. Even though this is an introductory course, they seem to be well-versed on what to do. I slide my pads on and am surprised they are not more cumbersome than they initially appeared. The smooth fabric bands that stretch around the protective pads make it feel like they are a second skin. I don’t mind them at all.

When Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love” starts thumping through the sound system, and the instructor begins to gyrate her ass to the rhythm—making the room go wild—I know that this is not going to be a traditional workout class.

I turn to Claire who has already started to mimic the moves and is dropping to her knees and then spreading them wide to show everyone her crotch. Wonderful, just wonderful. This is so awkward.

“Claire,” I hiss. Lovely, I am now the only one standing. I throw myself to the floor, thankful for the knee pads. I’ve been here for three minutes, and I can already appreciate their usefulness. As soon as I adjust my weight to a comfortable position so I don’t pull a muscle in my groin, everyone is back to standing. Shit. “What is this, Claire?” I try again, hoisting myself up ungracefully.

“Good ol’ cardio.”

“My ass!”

“Oh yes, your ass,” Blake chimes in, making me jerk around to glare at him.

“What is this class?” I ask again.

Claire shrugs. “Twerking. Fun, huh?” She bounces around like she is in a strip club.

“Oh, yes, like a carnival,” I respond sarcastically. “I can’t believe you signed me up for this. I have no freaking clue what I am supposed to do.”

“Just feel the music,” Blake says. “You can’t mess it up. It’s all free-form.”

The song changes to something raunchier. I take a deep breath and let go of these high expectations I set for myself. When I do, I relax and get into the groove. It really is therapeutic, and after about thirty minutes of flaunting my ass and rolling my body, I am thankful Claire surprised me into attending. There is no other way I would have come unless she tricked me into it.

“So what did you think?” she asks, wiping sweat from her face using one of the little white gym towels.

“I’m going to be so sore tomorrow. The move where we all did the handstand booty dance against the wall was so much fun.”

“Yeah, Ethan is going to enjoy that one when I replicate it later.”

We all laugh and make our way out of the building. The freshness of the night’s air coats my skin like the smoothest silk. I feel invigorated and recharged.

As Claire drives us back to the townhouse, I read through the messages on my phone.

Graham: What can I do to fix this mess?

Graham: I miss you baby.

Graham: I am sorry.

Graham: I know you are mad. But please just text me so I know you are okay.

I type out a quick response—I’ll never be okay. Then I just delete it and decide that being silent is a better punishment than any words I could ever construct into thought. They might get misconstrued or taken as positive feedback. So instead, I say nothing.

I do not miss Graham. Instead, I miss the illusion of the man he created. He brought out a different side of me and helped me to start to trust again. He knocked down my walls that I built from the pain of my past. But he did this on false pretenses. It was all a lie.

Claire breaks the silence in the car ride back. “Don’t make plans for tomorrow night.”

I shift in my seat to look at her. “Why?”

“Just starting another chapter in the book on how Angie gets her groove back.”

“Should I be worried?"

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