“Well, no, but . . . do I have to?” She raised her eyebrows the same way she had when I’d pushed her to go longer or faster on the treadmill.
“Yes. Now, c’mon.” I helped her onto her back to begin crunches, showing her how to move her body. My hand hovered over her and I swallowed, cognizant of how much what I was about to say connected to her poem. “Do you mind if I touch you to show you where you want to feel it?”
“I don’t mind.” Britta rested on her elbows as I settled my fingertips on her abdomen. I could have moved my fingers, pulled them away once she had the idea and then talked her through it, but I didn’t. Instead, I pressed lower, letting my fingers splay over her belly, feeling her tense. “Right here,” I said, my voice huskier than I planned when I met her eyes. “When you do the crunch, you’ll contract your muscles here.”
She nodded, cheeks reddening.
I slid my hand away, swallowing what felt like a plum. I cared about Britta, about helping her reach her goals, and she was my friend. Even if I lay awake thinking about the sound of her breath hitching, I was getting too close to crossing unprofessional lines.
“Great,” I said, scooting back and beginning to count out loud. Sitting back on my heels, I tried to watch her body not too closely like a guy who wanted her, but as a professional teaching her to do crunches. “Awesome,” I cheered for her when she collapsed to the floor. “Knew you could do it.”
“I hate you,” she panted, staring up at the ceiling.
“You’ll thank me someday.”
“Not today.”
“I’m patient.” I walked her through several other exercises, working obliques, doing planks to strengthen her core, and trying a Pilates move where she held her legs off the ground for intervals of ten seconds. Somewhere in the middle, she stopped telling me she hated me, and I wondered if she was enjoying it. She still got excited when she pushed herself a little further or did a few more reps than she thought she could. It reminded me why I loved doing this; that sense of accomplishment was contagious.
“Whew!” She exhaled loudly after the last set of bicycle kicks. “I’m spent.” She lay on her back, breathless.
“Let’s stretch,” I said, hurriedly reaching a hand to help her up again. In the sterile, muted colors of the gym, she was full of color and life, and the moment her hand was in mine, things felt right.
A battle raged among my self-control, my desire to be professional, and my pulsing need to be closer to her. Self-control was losing as I considered just blurting out . . . what? That I liked her? Wanted her? That I was ending our professional relationship because I planned to ask her on a date and hold her hand? I brushed a tendril of hair away from her neck, and her eyelids lowered. “Britt—”
At the sound of my phone, I jumped, digging in my pocket to retrieve it. The only calls that rang instead of vibrating were from my mom, the lawyer, and Libby, if she were ever to call.
“Mary, is everything okay?” My pulse sped at the lawyer’s voice on the other end of the call.
Britta’s expression was filled with concern, no doubt reading the worry on my face.
“Yes and no. Your mother is fine as far as I know, but she just fired me. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Can she do that?”
“She can. We haven’t made progress yet with the petition to seek guardianship, and she is a legally competent adult.”
Britta tilted her head, but I didn’t need to share this with her or anyone else, so I held up a hand indicating I’d take the call in the hallway.
“Her choices are her own, though I reminded her that firing me would not change the terms of her electronic monitoring.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, leaning against the wall in the empty hallway. It smelled of stale sweat, and the echo of a spin class instructor’s cheers rang around me. I wanted to be shocked, but I didn’t have that in me, either. “Thank you, Mary.”
“We’ll talk soon, Wes.”
I tapped out a quick text to Kelsey.
Wes: Need to cancel tonight. Thing with my mom.
Kelsey: That sucks. Talk to you later.
“Everything . . . okay?” Britta’s voice behind me was tentative, and she took a cautious step forward.
“Sorry.” I dropped my phone into my pocket. “We can get back to your session.”
“You look like someone just sucker punched you. What’s wrong?” She took another step closer, concern and a new take-charge attitude coloring her face. We were alone in the hallway, quiet save the exhortations from the spin instructor.