Page 46 of The Boyfriend List
"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 makesomekind 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,forceis 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.
