Chapter Nine

Sophie

The patterns and images in the gym ceiling panels all look like Amy. As I lie on the bench between sets there’s the curve of a woman’s hip over my head, an areola and nipple, the curl of hair between two lean legs.

“You ready?” Natalie slides into my field of vision, her hands on the bar above my head.

“Yes.” I grab the bar again and set up for my next set of bench presses.

“You sure?” She keeps her hand on the bar.

“Promise.” But my voice shakes, ruining any credibility I might have had.

The entire concept of sleeping with Amy to rid me of the distraction was bullshit. I’m more distracted than ever.

I set up for my lift and pull the bar off the rack. Natalie’s hands hover between mine, ready to catch the bar in case I falter, but I know I won’t need her. I have never felt stronger, more powerful.

If I told Amy this she’d say it was thanks to her magic pussy. I giggle as I rack the bar.

“What’s so funny?”

I blink up at Natalie. “Nothing,” I say. “Just...happy.”

Turns out Amy is the best distraction ever.

“You should be. That’s another PR.”

I look back at the bar as I sit up. Huh. She’s right. Again.

“You sure I can’t convince you to do a powerlifting comp this spring?” Natalie asks, spraying down the bar and weights with the cleaner.

“No way. I do this to reduce my stress. If I started competing it would feel too stressful.”

“That’s fair.” She leans against the rack. “There’s something different about you. Did you...” She pauses, doing a full body scan of me. “Cut your hair or...something?”

“Nope.” I laugh again. I know what she means, though. I am different. Turns out, there’s something incredibly freeing about being your true self.

She shrugs. “Whatever it is. It looks good on you.” She checks the big red digital clock installed over the door. “Can you stay for a bit more accessory work?”

My stomach sinks. “No. Sorry.” My mom has probably already blown up my phone. “I’ve got to meet someone for breakfast.”

Twenty minutes later, I walk out the gym a little taller. My muscles are sore in the most satisfying way. My new mascara makes my eyelashes look epically long. And despite having to endure this visit from my mother, I’ll get to see Amy tonight. There have been no more panty shenanigans since I got Amy off in the back seat of my car last week, but I’m not the only one who’s different since then.

Amy has been as close to an ideal restaurant owner as I could hope for. She communicates like a pro. I’m desperate to believe that we can do this without the help of reality television, but the way Amy pores over her spreadsheets late into the night after dinner service makes me think we’re not even close to being able to save the restaurant ourselves.