Page 50 of Love…It's Complicated

Tara walks over to where Jillian and I are working out. “Less chitchatting from you hens,” Tara says to us. She’s the instructor of this class—something she started doing years ago and enjoys as a second job.

“We were just talking about Officer Bronson,” Jillian says through huffs. Even sweaty, she looks pristine in her Lululemon ensemble.

“Kent says Will’s been pretty miserable the last few months. He thought it was because of the injury, but apparently, Will’s been more relaxed lately. Interesting, considering no one in his family seems to be talking to him. Or his friends really. Just Kent.”

“How is Kent?” Jillian asks with waggling brows.

Tara grins and then turns down the music. “Okay, class, you have thirty seconds to grab yourselves a sip of water. A sip only. I don’t want you upchucking on the mat!”

Jillian and I walk to where we have our water bottles lined up. I grab mine and take more than a sip. I’m hot, sweaty, and parched.

Tara joins us by the wall. “Kent and I went to this sweet little French restaurant last night.”

“So, have you two …” I follow it up with a whistle to insinuatedone it.

“Not yet. If he’s not all in, then I’m wasting my time. If he’s dating someone else, then he’s a jerkface and should have his balls cut off. Speaking of …”

She walks to the front of the room and shows the class how to execute a knee to the groin. We’re given a three-step kick sequence to do.

The music kicks on, and we go back to our bags.

Jillian’s face is fierce as she slams her knee into the bag and turns into a roundhouse kick. For a reserved girl who doesn’t easily show her emotions, she’s using today’s workout to express whatever it is she’s feeling internally. I feel bad for whoever she is imagining the bag to be.

“Anything new going on in your life?” I ask over my shoulder.

“Nope. Same nonsense. Different day.”

Her tone is typical of the one gripe she has in her life.

“Your mother starting up again?”

“I think at this point in my life, I’d be surprised if she didn’t make a comment about my not knowing who the father of my daughter is.”

“Ainsley is three. By now, your mom should be ecstatic she has a grandchild, not caring how she was created.”

“Apparently, it’s too difficult to explain to her country club friends, or the Historic Society, or whatever group she’s decided to chair.”

“Most of those people are doctors and lawyers. I think they’d understand a successful single woman who wanted to have a child on her own and used medical advancements to make it happen.”

She pummels the bag. “Exactly. They’re not the problem.” Jillian strikes the bag so hard that she knocks the wind out of herself and has to turn around and lean against the bag to catch her breath.

I move from my bag to hers and place a hand on her shoulder. “Jillian, you can’t let your mom do this to you. I don’t know what she’s saying, but it’s the only thing in this world that gets you wound up like this.”

“You wouldn’t know. Your mom was amazing. Supportive. Kind. Funny. Mine’s just a …” She scrunches her mouth, as if the words are too vile to say so I say it for her.

“A colossal bitch. I think your problem is, you don’t say what’s on your mind. Trust me, as ridiculous as the things that come out of my mouth are sometimes, it’s very therapeutic.”

She laughs as she looks up at the ceiling. “You and Tara speak enough for an army. I was raised different. Be seen, not heard. Focus on academics, not fantasy. I’ve worked my ass off to become a success, opened my own business—”

“And made the selfless decision to bring a child into the world despite societal norms. I’m sorry your mom sucks at accepting that, but you are a badass woman with an amazing kid, kick-ass career, gorgeous face, killer body, wardrobe to die for—”

“Okay, Tony Robbins. The confidence-boosting adjectives are getting a little out of hand.” She stands up straight and gives me a slight punch in the arm. “I know what you’re trying to say though.”

“Good. Now, can we get back to kicking the shit out of these bags? And maybe not thinking that it’s your mom?”

She raises her brows in agreement. “Can I pretend it’s Tyler?”

I sweep my arm in the air and make a welcoming gesture toward her bag. “By all means.”

---