He hasn’t answered my texts. He hasn’t called me back. He hasn’t called Ben back. He hasn’t shown up at Mom and Dad’s in the week since he stormed out of Ben’s office, which is the part that really twists my gut because they didn’t do anything to deserve this.
So here I am, walking into the church he actually attends. He won’t neglect the gym. He never has.
The front desk is a glossy slab of white with a matte black logo—RIVERTON ATHLETICS. Behind it stands a guy whose smile could be used to sell whitening strips. Early twenties, brown curls pushed out from under a branded cap, the name tag on his polo reads BRIAN in cheerful block letters.
“Hey there!” he chirps. “Welcome to Riverton. Checking in for a class?”
“I’m looking for Jason,” I say, hugging my bag strap too tightly.
“Owner?” he asks, like there might be a dozen Jasons in rotation. “What’s your name? I’ll give him a call.”
“That’s all right,” I say, leaning in a little. “I’m Paige, his sister.”
Brian’s face lights. “Oh! Paige. Totally. Yeah, he’s in his office. You can head on back.” He points past the turnstiles toward a hallway lined with framed black-and-white photos of the river at different seasons. “Second door on the left, office row. Want me to buzz you through?”
“Please,” I say.
He taps a button; the waist-high glass panel slides aside with a soft hum. “Congrats on the bakery, by the way,” he adds as I pass. “Jason brags about you all the time. Even brought some of those cinnamon things in. Unreal.”
“Thanks,” I manage, because my throat’s closed up on a fresh wave of guilt.
The gym opens up to my right, and I slow without meaning to. It’s beautiful. Polished concrete floors flecked with something that catches the light, rows of treadmills facing the river like each runner gets his or her own postcard view, weight racks that gleam. Everything is perfectly organized and functional.
A couple of people occupy the treadmills: a woman in a matching sage-green shirt with her hair twisted in a sleek bun that doesn’t move as she breaks out into a run. A silver-haired man holding the side rails as he raises the incline, his eyes fixed on a muted TV.
Past the cardio deck, a trainer in a fitted Riverton tee cues a couple through sled pushes on the turf lane. The man is laughing and pretending it isn’t hard while his partner—a woman, late thirties, city haircut—leans into the sled. The trainer jogs backward in front of them, clapping quietly, calling, “Nice—drive through the feet—hips under—yes.”
A glass-walled studio glows on the far side, soft light pooling over a dozen people moving through slow, controlled Pilates work on reformers. It looks like a sea of elegant insects, arms arcing, springs singing in little metallic sighs.
Beyond that, another studio pulses with a spin class—the muffled thump of bass through the glass, fans whirring overhead, a charismatic instructor bouncing in and out of the saddle while a row of people in branded tank tops try not to die.
Riverton merch lines one wall near a smoothie bar—tees and crewnecks in river blues and soft grays, hats with stitched coordinates. A couple in athleisure looks at the chalkboard menu.
The barista—yes, barista—pours a perfect shot over ice and tops it with cold foam. Of course, Jason’s gym has its own barista.
I keep walking, pretending like I’m just admiring the design choices and not obsessing over what I’m going to say, what he’ll say. If he’ll throw me out bodily.
My palms are damp. My stomach keeps doing a slow, uneasy roll that could be nerves or could be my body’s new way of reminding me a tiny person is using my blood as a waterbed. I breathe in through my nose and try to catalog neutral details, like I can inventory my way out of nausea.
There’s a wall of black-and-white portraits on the way to the offices—members smiling, sweat-slicked, hands on hips, forearms striated. Under each portrait is a tiny plaque with a name and a quote: “Stronger at 60 than I was at 30.” “I do this so I can lift my grandkids.” “The river runs, so do I.”
I glance left and catch my reflection in a mirrored column—pony tail gone frizzy in the humidity, a light dusting of flour on the sleeve of my tee I hadn’t noticed before, those stubborn under-eye circles that no concealer in the world can kill after a week of tossing and turning. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear, then tuck it again when it springs right back out.
The hallway Brian pointed to also bears frames along the walls. Permits and certificates, but pictures too. I stop at one of Jason and Dad at the ribbon cutting, both of them in sports coats. Jason’s grin is so wide, it makes my eyes sting. I blink them away.
What’ll I do if he really never wants to see me again?
I reach the offices and slow, reading names on the doors. Member Services. Programming. Storage. Jason Richards. The letters are clean against the frosted glass.
My fingers go cold. The nausea swells, quick and unwelcome. I brace my palm against the wall just under the frame and breathe, trying not to think about the last time I saw my brother’s face—hard, shuttered.
Behind me, someone laughs near the smoothie bar; a blender whirs and dies. Out on the floor, a barbell kisses a rack with that heavy, satisfying clink.
I could turn around. I could. Go home. Wait him out. Pretend time will solve this because it solves everything. But I might not have time for that. I have a due date to contend with now.
We told Dad a few nights ago. He was a bit baffled initially at the fact that Ben’s the father, but then he hugged me, lifted me off my feet, and spun me in the air, telling me he was happy for me. Then he shook hands with Ben, and I knew that the look he gave him was a warning of some sort. But overall, he took it well.
I could’ve cried with relief and guilt. It was not how I had pictured telling him. It was not how I had pictured any of this.
