“It’s just a family thing,” I said, attempting to fix my expression. “My mom has some issues. I wouldn’t normally abandon you like that while we were training.”
“Do you need to go?”
I didn’t want to go, or deal with any of Mom’s bullshit. I wanted Britta to give me a hug, and not the sexual embrace I’d been imagining when I helped her with crunches, but an honest-to-God hug. I hated that feeling, like I needed someone to take care of me, even though I knew deep down Britta would. She’s probably a good hugger. “I’ve got time. Let’s finish.” The gym was something I knew how to do.
Britta gave me another of her skeptical looks, that familiar crease forming between her brows. “Are you sure? Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m sure.” I motioned back to the weight room, careful not to let our arms brush. “Let’s try a few of the machines.”
31
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One of the first things I told my coach was that I didn’t want to do yoga. I know so many of you love it, but I never saw the appeal. That is to say, I never did until I found the YouTube channel of a woman who looks like me leading yoga instruction. I saw this beautiful, fat Black woman and thought, “Maybe me, too.” Guess what, readers? I love it! Representation is so important in all aspects, but three cheers for fat representation in fitness. We’re out here doing it, friends. Having someone I thought I could trust show me the ropes meant everything to me giving yoga a try. What pushed you to try something new?
* * *
A HAZE HUNG over the park, and the slick grass was still the dingy brown of winter. I’d arrived early, wanting to give myself extra time to stretch, and make sure my laces were tied well. I’d lived here for years but never paid close attention to the runners in the park.
I was so focused on observing the other people, the familiar voice saying “Good morning!” made me jump, much to Wes’s amusement.
I clutched at my chest. “Where did you come from?”
“You weren’t paying attention. Too busy checking out those guys?” Wes pointed to two men in their seventies wearing velour tracksuits and bucket hats power walking the perimeter of the park.
I swatted at him, the back of my hand making contact with his chiseled midsection. “Shut up. I wanted to learn the rules.”
He feigned injury, clutching his stomach, and backed away. “Rules?”
“You know. How everything works. I don’t want to look like a doofus.” I was planning a before-and-after post for my first run, and I’d taken the before video earlier in the day, already nervous about what I was getting into.
He stretched while giving me a crooked smile. “You think I’d let you look like a doofus?”
I loved that smile, kind of silly and sexy at the same time. It was also evidence that he wasn’t perfect, a reminder I sometimes needed.
“I’ll show you the ropes,” he said, patting my shoulder and scanning the park. The warmth of his hand lingered, even though he’d only given me a reassuring pat. “Ready?”
I nodded. I was up to running for nine minutes at a time on the treadmill, which I was proud of. Wes said running outside was different, and it might be easier for me, because I got so focused on the digital readout. We started off at a slow jog, and I sucked in the fresh air. It was different to move forward—to make progress. Wes set his watch for eleven minutes, and it felt doable.
“Don’t forget to keep breathing,” he reminded me. We weren’t going fast, but I didn’t want to jinx myself by using up any breath to respond.
Wes shot me a suggestive look when we passed the velour tracksuit pair. Despite my plan to not use breath for anything but running, I let out a bark of laughter at his playful expression.
My coach wore a long-sleeve shirt that hugged his body. It was bright blue, which looked great against his skin and showed his well-developed chest. Since we’d been meeting in person, I’d started writing less and less about FitMi and more about my personal experiences. Claire had, too, and no one seemed to mind. I figured I’d be writing about that whether or not my coaching was in person. Another glance at Wes, where I saw the hazy sunlight was making his skin appear even warmer, made me question if that was true.
Each time we passed someone, I tensed. The gym was a safe place—they knew us there. Out in the park, though, what would people think? Are they laughing at my slow pace or wondering what this hot guy is doing with me? I glanced from left to right, hating that insecurity trickled in even when, logically, I knew better. There was something about being out in the open, being vulnerable to criticism, that still distracted me.