CHAPTER 2

Carlie

The shrill cry of my alarm wrenches me from sleep—a rude intrusion if you ask me.

Why did I do this to myself?

I bat at the clock with my eyes closed, miss it, and nearly tumble out of bed. With a little more vigor, and eyes semi-open, I reach out, silencing it with a loud slap.

It’s too early in the morning—or maybe I was too late to bed. Last night’s writing session stretched into the wee hours as I chased a muse that was as elusive as sleep is now.

Shaking my head, I force myself to sit on the edge of my bed. The darkness of my room seems to lean in close, whispering its doubts about this ‘new chapter’ of my life.

The borderline excitement from signing up for a personal trainer to help me get back into shape is a distant echo now. Instead, it’s been replaced by the groggy dread of reality.

Yeah, this might very well be a bad idea.

But there’s only one way to find out for sure.

I manage a quick shower—just something to wake me up. The water is nothing more than a cascade of tepid motivation.

When I step out and towel off, I’m no more alert than I was before. Thank goodness for my coffee date with Lily before the madness begins.

Swaddled in a towel, my reflection in the foggy mirror is a bleary-eyed stranger.

If I were writing this day into a novel, the protagonist would be facing her moment of comedic doubt, teetering on the brink of a decision that could change everything—or have her crawling back to bed.

Bed seems the better option. Not gonna lie.

Instead, I go through the motions, hoping I find my motivation hidden in the actions. Or at least at the bottom of a really strong cup of coffee.

* * *

Clothed in optimism—also known as new workout attire—I find myself outside of my favorite coffee shop ‘Bean There, Done That.’

It’s a cozy little establishment I sometimes like to write at and the place Lily and I agreed to meet up at this morning since it’s on the way to the gym. The windows are fogged with the warmth of fresh coffee and early morning chatter.

Taking a deep breath, I hoist the strap of my gym bag higher on my shoulder and make my way to the door.

When I walk in, Dylan, the owner, is offering up small talk to patrons with the ease of someone who’s found their niche in the early hours among the caffeine-deprived zombies of the world.

That wasn’t too bad of a description.

Good job, Carlie.

I mentally pat myself on the back for that one.

“Rough morning?” Dylan asks, his tone light as I walk up to the counter to place my order.

“Something like that,” I reply. I want to tell him that I’m about to meet my maker thanks to a personal trainer named Ada, but my mouth can’t seem to form the words without yawning.

I spy Lily near the window, her posture as straight as her peppiness is unwavering. She’s a morning person, bright and chipper like the first pages of a well-loved book—comforting and familiar.

Her smile beams back at me when our eyes meet and she has that mind-blowing sex glow about her. Oh, boy.

My mind instantly goes back to Friday night …

I pause at the memory, an unbidden smile flirting with the corners of my lips. Friday night was ... an adventure.

A story I might write someday, if I dared. But for now, I carry that evening close like a secret.

The feelings it evokes are a jumbled script of sensation and emotion—scenes that played out under cover of darkness, leaving my reality tinged with a dreamlike quality.

If I were to put it into words, they’d be all metaphor and innuendo—shadows dancing just beyond the reach of morning light.

“Carlie? Earth to Carlie—” Lily’s voice snags me from my reverie, pulling me back to the here and now.

I tuck the memories and descriptions away, like pressing a treasured flower between the pages of a book. “Sorry, I was just ... thinking about a plot twist,” I mumble, which isn’t entirely a lie.

Lily’s knowing smile tells me she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it slide.

For the next half hour, we chat about trivial things, about her job and my writing, carefully skirting around the edges of Friday night. There’s an unspoken agreement, it seems, that some chapters are left unshared, even between friends.

Though, I’m nearly certain she knows …

She knows where I was headed on Friday night and perhaps even why. I haven’t had the courage to ask her.

The coffee I sip is strong and grounding, a much-needed anchor for the day ahead. It doesn’t erase the images that flicker at the edges of my consciousness, but it dulls them and brings me back to my purpose today.

My workout attire seems like a costume now—like it’s nothing more than props for a role I’ve committed to playing. Much like the one I donned for the event at Nocté, if I’m honest.

While that was the role of a sexy, confident woman, the persona I’m trying on today is the healthier, stronger version of me I want to write into existence.

It’s all about taking control of the narrative, isn’t it?

Michael might have cheated on me because my weight was⁠—

I stop that thought in its tracks, not willing to give it the power of voice, even in my head. I’ve given it enough airtime over the past few months and I’m stronger now.

Lily interrupts my thoughts with a light touch on my hand. “You know, I’m really proud of you, Carlie,” she says earnestly, bringing me back to the moment. “This step—it’s a big deal. I don’t know that I could do it.”

I nod, the corners of my mouth lifting in a grateful smile. “Thanks. I was super nervous to sign up, but thankfully, I managed to get paired with a woman named Ada. Should be less intimidating. Less ... I don’t know, judgy?”

The word feels awkward, but it’s the best I can do to describe the relief I felt when I realized I could be training with someone who might understand the struggle and not some beefed up guy who likes to add protein powder to his coffee.

“I get it.” Lily nods. “And who knows, she might become a new friend. Or at least a cheerleader for the new Carlie.”

A laugh escapes me, short and slightly hysterical. “Hopefully, the new Carlie isn’t just a figment of my overactive imagination.”

Lily gives my hand another squeeze. “She’s real. She’s you. Just waiting for her cue to enter stage right.”

I mull over her words, turning them over in my mind like I would a particularly powerful line in one of my novels. My characters often surprise me, taking paths I hadn’t plotted, and developing in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

Perhaps I could do the same. Life imitating art and all that.

But first, I have to face Ada.

“Well, speaking of the new Carlie, it’s time to make her first appearance.” I stand, slinging my gym bag over my shoulder, a modern-day warrior armed with nothing but spandex and hope. “I’ll text you after,” I promise, my voice steady, though my knees feel like they’re penned in italics—shaky and uncertain.

“Go get ‘em,” Lily cheers, shaking her hands in mock excitement.

I smile, feigning my own enthusiasm.

Here goes nothing—or maybe, here goes everything.

Lily waves, then shoos me to go.

With that, I’m moving to the door, heading towards what I expect to be a battle with dumbbells and discipline.

I exit the coffee shop with the same determined stride one might reserve for approaching the gallows—or in my case, a gym full of potential humiliation and sweaty butt cracks.

I shudder that thought away.

Truthfully, the idea of physical exertion before noon seems more criminal than motivational, but here I am, trying to prove to myself that I can be one of those gym people—the kind who say things like, “I love the burn!” and “No pain, no gain!” without a trace of irony.

Seems unlikely, but I’m gonna roll with it.

I stroll into St. Mary’s Hospital—the VIP entrance to my very own workout apocalypse.

After a short elevator ride, the hospital’s gym looms ahead, a modern-day Colosseum where the gladiators are replaced with treadmills, and the lions are ... well, probably still lions if my imagination about personal trainers is accurate.

As I near the entrance, I can’t help but notice the variety of people going in and out. There’s a man with biceps the size of my head, and he’s drinking from a gallon jug of water. A gallon!

I wonder how many times he pees a day?

Is he part human, part camel?

Camel shifter. Yeah, I could go with that.

Maybe I should switch genres and write a story about a gym that’s actually a front for a shifter training facility. It would explain a lot.

The idea amuses me, and I almost miss the sight of a woman walking past with leggings so bright they could probably be seen from space.

Fashion at the gym is a whole new world—one where neon and spandex reign supreme. I look down at my own outfit, which is a less vibrant, more ‘didn’t want to scare myself in the mirror’ shade of black.

I snicker to myself.

It’s a wonder they let me in wearing such tame apparel.

Once inside, I’m greeted by the unmistakable scent of determination and disinfectant. I make my way to the front desk to check in, where a chirpy attendant with a name tag reading ‘Skye’ meets my gaze.

“First day?” she asks, her voice filled with the kind of pep that suggests she’s never faced the cruel betrayal of a snooze button.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask, attempting to smile, but it probably looks more like a grimace.

Skye just laughs—a sound so cheerful it practically bounces. “Don’t worry. You’re going to do great. You’re in good hands.”

“Oh, good.”

I hope Skye’s optimism is infectious because I need all the help I can get.

She hands me a schedule, and my eyes skim the bonus classes being offered.

‘Aqua Zumba.’

‘Kettlebell Khaos.’

And ‘Yoga for the Soul.’

They sound like a list of bands that would play at an extremely niche music festival.

With a few minutes to spare before my meeting with certain death—I mean, Ada—I venture further into the facility. Each area reveals new devices of torture.

There’s the weight area, which I promptly nickname ‘The Iron Jungle’. The cardio section is ‘Treadmill Territory,’ and I decide the less said about the free weights area, the better. I’m pretty sure the grunting noises from that quadrant are a form of communication I’m not advanced enough to understand.

There’s an aerobics class in progress, and through the window, I catch a glimpse of synchronized suffering. I entertain the thought of joining, but then I remember my coordination is on par with a newborn giraffe’s.

Instead, I find a corner to stake out—somewhere between a row of stationary bikes and a rack of dumbbells.

Here, I can observe, and possibly blend in with the surroundings. If I stand still enough, maybe I can pass as an out-of-place piece of equipment.

I check my phone, pretending to look busy as I wait for Ada to come find me, but really I’m drafting a mental will.

A man locks eyes with me, and I brace myself, only for him to ask if I’m using the dumbbells I’m leaning on. I shake my head, resisting the urge to apologize for giving the impression that I could actually lift them.

I’m about to hunt for a water fountain—hydration is key to survival, after all—when I see her.

Ada.

Or at least, I think it’s Ada. She strides confidently across the gym, a beacon of health and athleticism. She has that personal trainer glow, the kind that says, ‘I eat burpees for breakfast and have more protein shakers than friends.’

I watch as she nears, her gaze locked onto me with a serious intensity. Her physique is nothing short of intimidating, muscles defined under the skin-tight fabric of her gym attire that hugs her like a second skin.

Jealousy flares inside me.

She’s the embodiment of every fitness magazine cover that’s ever made me think twice about reaching for a slice of cake. I can’t help but compare the definition in her arms to the softness of my own, the tautness of her abs to the comfort of my belly.

My stomach knots with nerves, and I practice the smile I’ve been rehearsing—the one that’s meant to say ‘I’m friendly and totally ready for this,’ but probably screams ‘I’m terrified and considering bolting for the nearest exit.’

I wipe my palms on my not-so-spandexy spandex, hoping the sweat doesn’t betray my cool exterior.

This woman is everything I’m not, everything I aspire to be in those secret, vulnerable moments before sleep when the day strips bare my confidence.

My heart rate picks up, not from exercise, but from the sheer panic of having to match her stride for stride. I can almost feel the weight of her expectations bearing down on me, threatening to squash my newly found resolve like a bug.

Why did I think a woman trainer would be better again?

I’m honestly at a loss.

Thankfully, she veers off, heading over to ‘Treadmill Territory’ instead.

I exhale a little too loudly.

Dodged a bullet there.

Before I can breathe a full sigh of relief, my thoughts scatter as a man enters the room and stares right at me.

He’s tall, his build athletic but not imposing—instead, it’s the kind of fit that speaks of strength without intimidation. His hair is a sandy blonde, slightly tousled, as if he’s run his hands through it a few times.

But it’s his expression that catches me off guard—a look of shock or maybe confusion?

In a few fluid steps, he’s standing in front of me.

“Carlie?” he asks tentatively, his voice drawing me in like a seductive embrace. There’s something in his tone, a familiarity that shouldn’t be there, considering we’ve never met.

“That’s me,” I manage to say, feeling a little breathless and more than a little lost.

“I’m Adam,” he extends his hand, which I take, finding his grip firm and warm. “Your trainer.”

My brain stutters to a halt.

Adam?

He seems to read the confusion on my face. “I hope you weren’t expecting a woman. I noticed there was a typo in the schedule,” he explains with a chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are still studying me with that same perplexed intensity. “Unless you’d like to work with Jillian,” he points to the fit goddess across the room, “you’re stuck with me.”

I blink at him, trying to process this new information but my brain has completely malfunctioned.

Can you say plot twist?