You and Everything After

“I don’t really have any goals,” she says, pushing the barely-filled-out checklist back at me.

“That’s fine. We’ll come up with those together after today,” I say, giving a quick glance at her history. My clients are all supposed to be working through something—injuries, disabilities—but she didn’t write anything down. “You rehabbing something?” I ask, my pen hovering over the line to fill it in for her.

“No, I’ve got nothing. I mean…my joints pop from years of soccer, but that’s about it,” she answers fast, and now I’m worried that she’s not supposed to be working with me.

“You…sure you’re supposed to be my client?” I ask, hoping like hell that even if she’s not, she’ll stay.

“Oh, I’m yours; I requested you,” she says, her eyes flashing wide quickly with embarrassment. I pounce on this.

“Ohhhh, I get it,” I say, turning around and filing her paperwork in the lock drawer.

“Get what?” she asks, her eyes squinting with hesitation.

“You’re a stalker,” I smile, just in case she doesn’t realize I’m bullshitting her. “I mean, it’s understandable. This happens all of the time.”

“What does?” she asks.

“Me. Stalkers,” I say through a feigned sigh. “I’ve had…many.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she says, folding her arms up in a challenge. I like this. I like this a lot.

“Oh yes, there’s an entire cellblock at campus police for the women who have tried to get to me in the past and failed,” I say, grabbing my gloves and urging her to follow me to the bench for some basic weightlifting. “You’re the first one to completely make up a name and sign up for my…ahem…services, though.”

“I did NOT sign up for your services!” she chokes, half playing and half real. I can tell she’s a little offended.

“Uh…” I start, looking at her—taking in her entire body, which is wrapped perfectly in those tight-ass workout pants and a matching tank top. Then I turn to the side and gesture to the sets of weights on either side of us. “You sort of did.”

“Well, yes, I signed up for your personal training. But I’d hardly call that services,” she says, straddling one leg over a workout bench and positioning herself in a way that has me feeling a lot less like working out. I’m staring; I’m staring and I’m thinking and I’m…not hearing a single thing she’s saying right now.

“Sorry?” I say, suddenly aware of how fucking creepy I must look.

“I said I actually thought I could learn a thing or two from you. I want to get into rehab work,” she says, and for some reason, her purpose for being here, for choosing me, makes me…sad. She wants to learn from me. And I know it’s not because I’m some rehab workout king. It’s because I’m disabled myself, and that makes me unique. A novelty. I’m fascinating to her, but not the same way she’s fascinating to me.

“Oh,” I say, not really in the mood to play anymore. “Well, let’s start with a good upper-body combo, something that is good for leveling. We’ll see where you’re at, and then work up from there.”

I guide her through a few exercises, and every time I’m in a position to touch her, I don’t. It just feels weird now, and I don’t know why. She’s gotten serious, too, and a few times, I catch her looking at my eyes while I’m going through a motion. I’m used to people watching me lift myself from my chair, and they usually say something about how strong I am and how amazing it is that I can do things like this with only my arms. But that’s not the way Cass is looking at me. Her gaze is…different. And I’m frustrated by it.

“We should go out,” I say, overcome with this urge to get back to me, and everything I know. “Tonight. We should go out. Hang, you know?”

She stares at me, still finishing up her bench press, her lips barely moving with a silent count of each number until I barely hear her utter, “…fifteen.”

“No,” she says, standing quickly and dragging her long leg back over the bench; I swear she’s teasing me with it.

“No?” I question. I’m not used to no.

“No,” she says, picking up her small pink towel and wiping the sweat from her forehead and the back of her neck. I’m actually left speechless by her rejection.

“Well, all right then,” I say, blinking and looking out at the other students lifting around us. No. She said no.