SYDNEY
I am not in love with Koa Mahina anymore.
He has no effect on my life.
I am moving on.
I repeat my daily mantra as I rip the tags off my brand new pair of purple leggings a little more aggressively than I should. I bought them at the beginning of the year when Charlie had the terrible idea to start taking advantage of the exercise classes available on campus.
After another failed relationship, I thought what the hell. I will need something to do to fill my time and keep me from thinking about a certain someone. Why not work on myself in the process?New year. New me. Blah blah blah.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I begin to stuff myself into the lycra fabric. As sweat begins to form around my hairline, I wonder if this counts as a warmup.
“What is taking you so long in there? We’re going to be late,” Charlie calls out to me through my bedroom door.
“I’m coming. Give me a minute,” I yell back at her in between grunts as I yank harder on the leggings I’m struggling to put on.
I don’t know how I let Charlie talk me into doing things like this. When I said yes to working out more at the beginning of the year, I meant yoga or maybe jazzercise.
Not joining a running club.
Who loves running enough to join a club for it?
A book club I can get behind. A club where you are required to bring a snack and beverage of choice sounds like a much better idea than one that is guaranteed to make me sweat and my muscles cramp.
I look longingly at the stack of books piled on my nightstand and on the floor by my bed. I think I would prefer to exercise my brain and stay home to read instead.
Bending my knees and swiveling my hips, I let out a deep breath when I finally get the pants on and positioned in the right place. I push my hair out of my face, and take a look at myself in my full length mirror. Not too bad. Working up a sweat to squeeze myself into these pants was worth it because my ass looks incredible. “You weren’t kidding about these leggings,” I shout.
The troublemaker in me wants to snap a photo and send it to Koa to irritate him. He always has something negative to say about where I work or what I’m wearing. It wasn’t always like this.
I remember when my parents let me have my own phone. I would send him silly pictures and random updates on my day. That all stopped when I found out how he really felt about me. Now I text him to make sure he has informationto report back to my brother and because I like to poke the bear.
If I was being honest with myself, I’m hoping that one day the bear might poke back. But not today. Because today I am not in love with him, I repeat over and over as I leave my bedroom.
“I told you. Now, let’s go.” She claps her hands. “We don’t want to miss them warming up.” Her smile stretches from ear to ear.
“What are you talking about? Who is them?” I ask, grabbing my water bottle and keys off the kitchen counter.
“You’ll see,” she says with a conspiratorial grin.
“You’re up to something. I know it.” I eye her over my shoulder as I lock the door to my dorm.
“This is all for my class project. I’m not up to anything,” she says nonchalantly, leading the way out of our residence hall. This is a red flag. Nothing about Charlie is nonchalant. “If I am putting together a charity fun run, we need to actually be able to hold our own and run during the thing. Right?”
We use the paths behind our building to cut across campus toward the tracks and open soccer fields that are available to all students, not just student athletes. It would be faster to drive versus trudging along the paths on foot but Charlie claims it would look bad pulling up to running club in a car.
“I guess,” I answer before taking a gulp of my water.
“If anyone knows how to make running fun, it’s the members of this club.” She hops like a bunny a few times whilesquealing. I’ve never seen Charlie this enthusiastic about exercising.
We’ve been going to Pilates classes when we can fit them into our schedule. They usually end with us in the last row lying flat on our backs counting down the minutes until we can reward ourselves with a sweet treat from the bakery.
Seemingly out of nowhere she’s been going to boxing and jump rope classes and now she’s springing a running club on me. It’s odd behavior even for her. There has to be an ulterior motive somewhere because I’m not convinced she’s jump roping for her cardiovascular health.
As I fight to get fresh air into my lungs walking up the hill, the muscles in my thighs burning with each step, I start to wonder if this is how I die. My brother Nash must have inherited all the athletic genes in the family because I am not cut out for this kind of life.
“Almost there. Come on babe. If you think your heart rate is pumping now, you are in for a surprise.”
