Page 33 of Gym Bros
He immediately looks called out and defensive. His jaw locks, and his gaze drops. “I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”
“Well…I mean…you’re paying me.”
“Look, I know what I’m doing probably seems stupid to someone like you, but I’m not over here judging how you live your life or?—”
I hold up my hands. “Wait. You think I’m judging you?”
“Believe me, I know an exasperated sigh when I hear one.”
“I didn’t?—”
The look on his face stops me cold. “I wasn’t exasperated,” I say instead. “If anything, I was indecisive. I’m more hands on normally, but I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with that.”
He squints like he’s trying to decipher a tricky code. “Hands on?”
I’m getting flustered. I feel it in my rising heart rate and my suddenly sweaty palms. “I just mean helping you understand your body and your positioning better by pointing out the places where you’re tense or over-correcting.”
“With your hands?”
Swallowing hard, I nod.
He makes a noise like a scoff, and I feel like I might puke.
“I don’t care about that,” he says. “I just want to get better. I need to recover, and Idon’t need another injury like this. But what I also don’t need?—”
This time, he silences himself.
“You can say it,” I tell him even as I brace myself.
“Fine. You make me feel like an idiot.”
“Oh.”
Bailey’s words from earlier come to mind.
“Yeah, so it didn’t feel like a good fit.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but his expression is heavy.
“I was actually really excited to be able to help you,” I admit.
“Yeah? Well, it didn’t feel like it. Felt like you were doing my dad a favor. Under duress.”
“I am doing your dad a favor, but I believe in what I teach, too. Maybe I’m not a very good teacher.”
“I didn’t mean…” he trails off and looks down at the dog. “Maybe I take things too personally. It’s hard when I feel like I suck at something.”
“You’re new to it. I am, too. I mean, I’ve been doing yoga sinceI was twelve, but I only started teaching a few months ago. Feel free to tell me if something’s not landing right.”
“If I’m being honest, it’s not just that,” he says.
I find myself clenching with anxiety.
“You don’t seem to think too much of me. You think my name’s stupid, my questions are stupid, anything I try to talk about actually?—”
“I don’t,” I argue.
