Opaque

06 | Ready, Set, Smile!

"Worrying is like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere." - Glenn Turner

                Chapter Six

One would think that an intense workout session with Dex, my two hundred pound, hunky and gorgeous, over-caffeinated personal trainer, for two straight hours and an hour long lunch with him, during which he did nothing but eat and excessively talk, my mind would be too occupied to think about the text. I wish I forgot, but the harder I tried, the more I remembered.

My phone, whether it was in my back pocket, in my purse, or in front of me, consistently reminded me of the mysterious text. I was tempted to throw it against the wall, smash it into a million pieces, just so that it would be out of sight and I would've done exactly that if all of my contacts weren't in it.

"Would you stop glaring at your phone? I feel like at any given minute, your eyes are going to transform into lasers and you're going to roast the poor thing," Dex said, as he laid sprawled out on the yoga matt.

I looked away from my phone and glared at him. I did not want to be here, especially not after I had spent three consecutive hours with him already, but I was out of options.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, "Hey! Don't make me a victim of your all powerful, killer, glare. By all means, go back to staring at your phone."

I shook my head at his theatrics.

"Go back to doing your push-ups," I said, shooing him away with my hands as I stood up from the corner of the room and took out boxing gloves from the mint green, dented, steel closet.

"Only if you promise to never give me 'the glare' again."

"I don't make promises," I said, my face void of emotions.

Wearing the medium sized, black leather, boxing gloves, I punched the air a few times before walking over to the punching bag. It hung from the ceiling by a thin, but sturdy looking rope and, though I had used it a hundred times before, I still felt uneasy. I was in no mood to get hit by punching bag. I had enough injuries as it was, so the last thing I needed was another one to add to the list.

"Do you want to practice with me," Dex asked, positioned in the plank position on his yoga matt.

"No, I'm just going to punch this for a while," I said after glancing at him. My body was still sore from our workout session.

"Don't hurt yourself."

I scoffed.

"I'm not a kid. I'll be fine," I said, holding the punching bag, positioning myself.

"I'm just warning you because we already did intense workouts, you might h-"

"I'll be fine," I said, emphasizing my words. He didn't respond after that.

I began punching the bag, gaining momentum, pouring out my frustration into it.

Who was the text from?

Punch. Kick. Punch.

Stop. Focus, Angie.

I shook my head and continued punching the bag as my mind continued to have an argument of its own.

Look at your phone. It took every ounce of energy in my body to keep my head from turning towards my purse, which, at the moment, held my phone.

No. Focus.

Punch, punch, kick, punch, punch, punch.

I held the bag in my hands as I tried to steady my breathing. My mind was on overdrive and no amount of swearing, punching, yelling or ass kicking was calming me down. It was downright pitiful.