Page 43 of Opening Strain

“I’m sure you lift much heavier.”

“Yeah, when I didn’t have this groin pull,” I grumble and switch the kettlebell between my hands.

“It’s only one kettlebell between your two hands. If you want to get better, you’ll need to add weight to this exercise. You need to be using weights on a barbell before you’re out of here.”

“You’re a sadist.” Now my mind conjures Jenna wearing skin-tight black leather and in all sorts of kinky positions. Fuck.

“I’m not, Bennett. You were the one who’s been harping on getting better for the tour, which starts in what? Less than a week now.”

“Yeah.”

“To do that, you have to keep pushing yourself. There’s another set of exercises I want you to try, but you need to master this one first.” Her chin lifts.

I pass the kettlebell between my hands again. “Another?”

“At least one.”

Knowing I need to do this for the sake of my career, I get into position. “Fine. I’m going to take this slow.”

She nods. “You can do it.”

Her confidence in me spurs me to try. My foot slides out and I bend down into the squat. The kettlebell takes me off balance, which forces my inner thigh muscles to work. And by work, I mean throb. I bite my lip to keep from crying out in pain as I stand.

“One. Awesome job,” Jenna encourages.

I repeat the exercise, willing myself not to cry.

“Two.”

With deliberate breaths, I force myself to do more reps. When I get to ten, Jenna takes the kettlebell from me.Thank God. I focus on breathing.

“Great job, Bennett. I know it was difficult, but you’re in great shape, so I knew you could handle it.”

She offers me a towel, which I use to wipe my face. Sweat drips down my neck and beneath my clothes. Out of frustration, I peel my T-shirt over my head and toss it toward the rest of my clothes. I dry my torso.

In a hushed tone, she says, “Oh.”

I glance over at Jenna, and her hand’s in front of her mouth. Her eyes are wide open and she’s staring at my chest. I look down and pluck at the necklace she gave all the members of UC that Christmas so long ago. “We all still wear ours, Jenna. Even gave one to Tris.”

She whispers, “You do? You did?”

“Yes.” I fiddle with the UC pendant. “You may not know this, but these necklaces mean a lot to the band. I wear it as a reminder of thething that took me away from a bad situation and gave me purpose.” Like real estate for King. “We always wear them.”

Darren was wearing his when he died.

“I have Darren’s,” she admits.

Her confession is so low I almost don’t catch it. “Really?”

She nods. “His mother gave it to me before the funeral. It’s in my jewelry box.”

I don’t know how to respond. Over the years, the band and I have often wondered what happened to his necklace, assuming he was buried with it. I’ll have to share this detail with them when I return for the tour.

“I thought you only wore it when you were performing. Like a prop with all your rings and bracelets.”

It doesn’t go unnoticed she admitted to knowing what I wear onstage. “The necklace means much more than that.” Case in point, my fingers and wrists are now jewelry-free. Following an awkward silence, I continue, “Well, I guess it’s ice time?”

Bit by bit, she brings herself to her full height. “Yes. You did great this afternoon. You’re making good progress.” She walks over to the freezer as I lie down on the table, my hand covering the UC pendant.

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