"Alright everyone! Fifteen burpees, then five laps around the gym." Bianca claps her hands twice, the sound echoing off the walls around us. "Get to it! Ryah!" She hollers my name just as I had dropped to the floor for a push up. I continue the movement but I lift my chin to look at her." Come over her for a second."
I huff, jumping back up to my feet and hustling over to where she stands near the bleachers, her olive-toned arms folded over her silicone chest.
"What's up, coach?" I ask, keeping my tone light and airy.
"You tell me," she says, arching a perfectly-sculpted brow. "Where's your mind at? 'Cause it sure isn't on this practice."
I plant my hands on my hips and shrug, knowing damn well that it won't take much for me to convince her things are fine. I'm a pro at this by now.
"I don't know what you mean." I know exactly what she means.
She's not buying it. I can tell by the way she's looking at me.
"You know, Ryah, you can always talk to me if you need to. About anything." I can tell she's being sincere, and I find myself wishing I could divulge some things to her. I'm sure she's had her fair share of boy problems in her life, and I have no doubt that she would offer me some useful advice for how to navigate this thing with Halston.
But I can't talk to her. I won't. That only leads to trouble.
I shake my head and flash a forced smile. "I'm fine coach. Really." She's silent for a moment, inspecting me with her gaze, trying to break me. It won't work, and eventually she comes to that realization and huffs.
"Alright, then. Whatever it is that's on your mind, I expect you to leave it at the door. The only thing that should be on your mind in my gym is this practice. The only thing you should care about while in my gym is this squad. There are no room for distractions here. That's how people get hurt. Understand me?" She's playing tough now. I have to stifle a laugh, imaging how she'd feel if she knew I didn't give two shits about this squad or my role in. But I decide to indulge her, for no other reason than to get her off my back.
"Yes ma'am," I reply with a nod.
"Good," she barks. "Now run through a tumbling set and then get the hell out of here."
I do as I'm told, sulking back onto that blue mat and thrusting my body into a mix of handsprings—front and back—ariels, and flips. I land each move perfectly, and the satisfying sound of my sneakers slapping the mat does enough to quiet my busy mind for those few minutes.
I finish the set with a sharp exhale and hustle to the bleachers to gather my things. My phone vibrates as I pull it from my bag, and the few minutes of clarity I had are swiftly stolen.
Halston: You need a ride after work?
He knows my schedule already, knows I have a shift at the student center this evening, despite the fact I never told him. He's observant like that.
A touch of anger flares inside me—he's doing just what I knew he would, what he always does. At first it was a little endearing, I felt like we were kindred spirits, but now it's flat out infuriating.
Me: A coworker offered to give me a ride. But thanks. See you later.
I throw his words right back at him, hoping it makes the impact I intended it to.
******
The campus begins to fade away, turning into residential area as the bus lurches through the mostly-desolate streets. My forehead rests against the cool glass, music wafting through my headphones. Home isn't too much farther, thankfully—sleep is threatening to take over with every bump and turn.
In a way I feel bad lying to Halston—there is no coworker, I work alone, and even if there was I certainly wouldn't accept a ride from them—but I can't get back in that truck with him. Not right now, anyway. Not after what happened this morning.
I can still feel him on my lips, can still taste him, can still smell his woodsy, fresh scent.
But I can also still feel the sting of him pulling away and running off like he was physically pained by what had happened.
And it is for this exact reason I have avoided developing feelings or emotional connections with anyone since I was seventeen years old.
Caring about people, or things, makes life too hard. It's a surefire way to get hurt. I've been hurt enough. I'm done hurting.
I hear the squeal of the brakes as the bus jerks to a halt, and I gather my things knowing this is my stop. As I shuffle down the aisle I realize I'm the last person on the bus, and I'm thankful that the prying eyes that watched me as I entered the bus are no longer following me as I exit.
I tip my chin at the driver and jump to the pavement, the bus sputtering to life and taking off before I even made it onto the curb.
Once I do I force my eyes from my boots to the sidewalk, and I can't help but jump when I notice a figure leaning against the glass enclosure that holds the bus bench.
I yank my headphones from my ears with force.
"What are you doing here?" I hiss. Halston pushes off the awning and stalks over to me, arms tight over his chest.
"I'm not an idiot, Ryah." He yanks my bags from my hands without asking. "I knew you'd never ask a coworker for a ride."
"Well," I huff, mocking his earlier stance and wrapping my arms around myself. I decide not to say anything else, but rather take off walking in the direction of our apartment complex.
"Ryah, hold on," he grumbles.
I spin around quick to face him, fire igniting in my chest. "Why, Halston? So you can kiss me and then run away again and leave me standing here like a fucking idiot?"
My voice is loud and harsh, but this time I don't feel bad for how I spoke to him. He deserves it.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. I roll my eyes and pivot back toward the direction I was heading, picking up my pace, bound and determined to turn this five minute walk into no more than three.
No more words are spoken between us, not even when we enter through the lobby and climb the stairs to the fourth floor, not when we approach our rooms, and certainly not when I yank my bags from his grasp and turn my back to him to unlock my door.
My door clicks open but I don't hear the same sound from across the hall. I toss my bags inside and when I turn to shut the door I see he's still standing there, watching me, his eyes glossy, his lips slightly parted.
He looks hurt. As he should. I'm hurt too.
I shut the door with a loud thud, leaving my bags to gather dust there where I dropped them, not in the mood to mess with them tonight.
I'm not in the mood for anything. Not for music. Not for company. Definitely not for feelings.
As I trudge to my room I spot the half-empty bottle of Makers Mark, still occupying the same spot on the counter where it was left.
Without much thought I grab it and take it with me to my room, deciding the only thing I'm in the mood for is to forget.
I guess I am my father's daughter after all.
