The girls he’s into, he buys them baseball tickets, not crypts. I’m a charity case, not a crush. It meant nothing.

My Facebook feed auto-refreshes and at the top is a post from TIF’s newest client, WeHot. It’s a picture quote that says: You’re never more than 30 minutes away from a good mood. The caption goes on to explain that science shows a half hour of moderate exercise releases enough endorphins to change your mood dramatically, and invites their social media fans to drop in for a micro-spin class. I’m immediately attracted to the fact that they’ve backed their claim up with proved data, but more than that, I consider it a dare. Exercise-averse as I am, I wouldn’t mind the mood change. Seeing that I’m still rocking my signature fun-employment looks—leggings, T-shirt, and sports bra—I call an Uber and enter the address for the boutique gym in West Hollywood.

Chapter 16

Who knew that when exercise classes aren’t an hour long and themed to 2000s pop music, I’d actually be somewhat down for the sweat session? Read: That. Was. Fun. And the bonus? My client wasn’t working today, so she wasn’t looming over me, pressing for details on Gaga Glow—and I actually knew how to get my spin cleats off this time.

Like most things this week, WeHot kicked my ass, which was to be expected considering my aerobic capability caps at power walking to my Ubers before I get charged the late fee. But I stuck with it the whole time, and for that, I’m proud of myself—even if the motivation was just to test the theory that my mood would change after pedaling as fast as I could for thirty minutes. Did it work? Am I shitting out butterflies now? It’s too soon to tell. But either way, I’m hopping off that bike with two things: a much calmer mind and an email from Zareen.

All the rest of the girls from the class have sprung out the door to catch the mobile rolled ice cream truck that posts up across the street before they drive and park at an intersection closer to The Grove. Jennifer Lopez shops there a lot and it would be a great Instagram moment if they could get her to take a pic with a bowl of shaved watermelon ice.

I’m the last one in the locker room, sitting on a bamboo bench and dabbing my brow with one of WeHot’s signature iced-lavender rags. I open the email from Zareen, the first communication from her since being put on leave.

Good morning,

I hope you’re finding your time off restful and insightful! I’m writing to let you know that a gentleman named Warren Holmgren called the agency twice trying to reach you. I informed him you were on personal leave, hoping he’d relent until your return. Clearly, he isn’t one to take social cues and pressed on for a personal email address. I countered by offering to give you his details instead. I’m unsure what could be so urgent. Perhaps it is concerning your husband? Either way, Mr. Holmgren’s information is in the attached contact card.