“Right.” My mother frowns at her computer. “Those emails can wait. I think I’m going to add something in my signature that any questions concerning material stated plainly in the syllabus will be automatically deleted.”

Amina laughs. “Good luck with that.”

“Marlitt, will you be okay the rest of the afternoon?”

I frown, not liking the assumptions buried within the question. One, that I might not be okay on my own, and two, that I will ever be okay again.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Yoga,” Amina says, adjusting her dress as she stands.

“At the Ramsey gym?”

My mother nods, and grabs the keys off her desk.

“I thought you didn’t like working out in front of students.”

They both laugh.

“When I was younger. True.” My mother turns to Amina. “I always said I wanted to keep a respectable distance.”

“I remember. You didn’t want them to see you sweat,” Amina grins. “Or in stretchy pants.”

“But now…” My mother shrugs. “The gym’s free to faculty, and they have classes all day so I can squeeze in a little me-time.”

“Me-time surrounded by all those needy students?”

She grimaces. “It’s the one place where no one bothers me. In my office, at home…” She sighs. “There’s always questions, or something that has to be done right now or your father—” She hesitates. “But at the gym, I have time for myself.”

“Why don’t you join us?” Amina suggests.

I shake my head. I hate gyms. All those people and machines. Give me a pair of sneakers, headphones, and some old-fashioned asphalt and I’m good to go.

“Families get a reduced rate,” my mother tells me, “but I think you might have aged out.”

“Funny,” I say, drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair, thinking of being seen, but not bothered, in a public place where most people keep their heads down, everyone equally as self-conscious or self-centered, eyes on the floor or on the mirrors. I think of sweaty gym clothes and that empty block of time on Jay’s call log. “If I told them I wanted to join, do you think they’d give me a tour?”

“You’re really interested?”

I know she’s thinking this is a good sign—self-care and something to focus on other than work—but my mind’s speeding ahead to the East Campus Village and the sprawling gym with its indoor pools and basketball courts, hundreds of stationary bikes and elliptical machines with everyone staring at tiny built-in screens or their biceps.

I blink at my mother, already forgetting the premise of my visit.

“Right,” she says. “Didn’t think so.” She clicks out of her webmail and stands. “You can come if you want, but we have to hurry.”