Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling—the darkness of the room doing nothing to soothe the whirlwind of thoughts spinning through my mind. The faint moonlight seeping through the curtains casts ghostly shadows, mirroring the turmoil inside me.
I basically got zero sleep and it’s all because I can’t shake off the feeling from last night’s date with Adam—the haunting sense of familiarity that’s now clinging to me like a second skin.
He smelled like the guy from Nocté, or at least so similar that it leaves enough room for doubt to creep in, making me question my own senses.
And that kiss ...
It sent the same electrifying thrill through me, a sensation I thought was unique to that mysterious encounter.
Before our lips touched, there was an inhalation from Adam—like he was bracing himself for the inevitable. It was a small, yet significant detail. One that jolted a memory so vivid, so potent, it left me reeling.
I mean, when I first met him the comparison was there. But I thought it was because the memory of that night was so fresh.
Every man I met was suspect.
But now…
I roll onto my side, hugging the pillow tighter.
The idea that Adam might really be the guy from Nocté feels both exhilarating and terrifying.
I wasn’t the same person that night.
I mean, physically, I was. But mentally …
Zoey was my ride-or-die and if he is the guy from Nocté, I think dying might be my only option.
I’m not that woman.
But he could certainly be the man.
How is it even possible?
The coincidences stack up, building a case my writer’s brain can’t ignore.
Lying there in the early morning shadows, my thoughts are chasing their tails.
Adam.
That kiss.
The tantalizing possibility that he’s Mr. Nocté—it’s like a plot twist in one of my novels, except I can’t peek at the last page to see how it ends.
I’m wide awake, despite my best efforts to trick my brain into slumber.
With a groan, I roll out of bed, feeling every bit the protagonist in a romcom who’s accidentally switched lives with a circus clown.
“Let’s hope Jillian’s bootcamp today is more forgiving than my overactive imagination,” I mutter, pulling on my workout clothes.
Of course, in my sleep-deprived state, I manage to put my sports bra on inside out and backward.
“Fantastic start, Carlie. Super job,” I mutter under my breath.
After a quick change and a glance in the mirror that confirms I’m at least presentable, I decide to grab coffee at ‘Bean There, Done That.’
I need caffeine if I’m going to face Jillian’s torture—er, training—session.
Plus, it’s on the way to the gym. Win-win.
* * *
As I enter the coffee shop, Dylan, Adam’s apparent best friend and the world’s most infuriatingly smug barista, greets me with a grin that’s too cheeky for this hour.
“Morning, Carlie. I’m assuming the usual?” he asks, already getting on it as if the half-awake look on my face already told him yes.
“Hey, Dylan. Make it strong enough to resurrect the dead, please,” I say, attempting a smile but probably looking more like I smelled something foul.
His grin widens, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about Adam and me.
Does he know anything? Did Adam talk to him about our date and the way it ended? Do guys discuss that sort of thing? Or is that reserved only for hookups?
My face heats.
Oh, god. If he’s the guy from Nocté, would he have told Dylan about that night?
Is this all a part of the cosmic joke the universe is playing on me?
As Dylan hands me the coffee with a casual flick of his wrist, his expression is playfully sardonic. “Strong enough to wake the dead. Keep it up, and we might start calling you the local necromancer.”
I grin back at him. “Thanks, Dylan. If it works on me this morning, you can call me anything you want.”
I turn to leave, only to collide with another patron in my haste. The lid pops off my coffee cup, and hot liquid cascades down my front.
“Ouch! Hot, hot, hot!” I dance back, dropping the cup as I fan my now coffee-stained shirt.
Dylan rushes over, napkins in hand. “Whoa, are you okay?”
“Just peachy,” I grumble, dabbing at the boiling hot liquid and tugging my shirt away from my body. “And they say writers lead boring lives.”
He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You sure you don’t want to switch to iced coffee?”
I shoot him a look that’s half annoyance, half amusement. “Hilarious, Dylan. I’ll remember this the next time you want book recommendations.”
On the upside, at least my mortifying mess didn’t expand to the brick wall of a guy I ran into. Instead, he just steps around me and my disaster, and walks up to the counter.
“Don’t worry, sir, it’s not you, it’s me,” I mutter under my breath. It really doesn’t matter if he hears me or not. “I’m just a walking calamity.”
I help Dylan clean up the mess on the floor while the other barista helps the guy oblivious to my plight. When every trace of coffee is erased, Dylan heads back to the machines and makes me another drink.
With a little luck, I’ll be able to actually swallow down some of that resurrection potion this time.
* * *
Rushing back home, I’m a chaotic whirlwind. The idea of being late for Jillian’s session, especially after my coffee debacle, sets my nerves on edge. I take quick sips of the scalding coffee, wincing as it burns my tongue.
“Great, now I’ll be tasting everything with a side of charred tastebuds,” I mutter, fumbling with my keys.
Once inside, I hustle to my room, peeling off the coffee-stained shirt with a grimace.
“You had one job, shirt. One job—” I toss my shirt into the hamper, hoping it doesn’t hold a grudge. Grabbing a fresh workout outfit, I hop around trying to get the old one off as quickly as possible, nearly face-planting in the process.
“Balance, Carlie, it’s not just for flamingos,” I scold myself, finally getting the new shirt over my head.
I gulp down more of the coffee, feeling it jolt my system like a live wire.
Caffeine goodness … yes, I need that more than life itself right now.
“Who needs a functioning tongue anyway?” I muse out loud.
But then last night’s kiss flashes into my mind.
Okay, yes, a tongue is useful …
I shudder the thought away, tossing on a pair of leggings and nearly tripping again.
“At this rate, I’m going to need a helmet just to make it through the day,” I mutter.
With one last glance in the mirror—a quick assessment that I’m not inside out or back to front—I make a dash for the door.
The coffee cup is now half empty, or half full if I’m being optimistic. I take a big gulp, trying to channel its caffeinated power—willing it to bring me to life.
Necromancer, indeed.
As I lock the door and hurry down the stairs, I can’t help but think, Jillian is either going to be impressed by my commitment or convinced I’m a lost cause.
Finally ready (again), I make my way to the gym, my mind still a whirl of questions and coffee stains.
If this is how my day is starting, I shudder to think what Jillian’s workout has in store for me. At least I can’t accidentally spill a treadmill.
Take a spill and have my face sanded off, though? Sure.
I groan at the thought. Knowing my clumsy capabilities, that’s a total possibility.
After a quick walk, St. Mary’s looms ahead—a place where I’ll either find my focus or provide entertainment with my newfound uber-clumsiness.
I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the former and secretly praying it’s not the latter.
Jillian, of course, is already in full drill sergeant mode when I arrive. Her piercing gaze zeroes in on me the moment I step through the door.
“You’re late, Carlie,” she chides, though I’m perfectly on time.
By two minutes.
Hallelujah.
“Sorry, Jillian. Traffic,” I lie, not wanting to admit the way my morning has technically gone.
She doesn’t look like she buys it but simply nods, directing me to warm up. I start with stretches, but my movements are jerky and uncoordinated.
I can literally feel Jillian’s eyes on me, scrutinizing every awkward movement.
“Focus, Carlie. This isn’t a dance recital,” she barks, and I can’t help but wish it was. At least then my two left feet might have a fighting chance.
As we move on to more rigorous exercises, it’s painfully obvious my mind is elsewhere, replaying last night’s kiss, the lingering scent of Adam, and all the questions in between.
It doesn’t help that every time I glance at Jillian, I half expect her to morph into a demonic trainer from one of my more vivid nightmares. She’d fit the part perfectly.
“Carlie, for heaven’s sake, lift your knees higher,” Jillian’s voice cuts through my daydreams.
I try to comply, but my coordination is off. My foot catches the edge of the mat, and I stumble, barely catching myself before my face splatters onto the gym floor.
I can’t even bring myself to care.
I just lay there, like hugging the mat is my number one priority.
“Seriously?” Jillian exclaims, her tone mixed with frustration and disbelief. “What is with you today? You’re not even trying.”
Slowly—so slowly, I push myself up, feeling a flush of embarrassment heat my cheeks.
“I am trying,” I protest, but even to my own ears, it sounds weak.
Jillian shakes her head, her hands on her hips. “This is a gym, not a playground. If you can’t take this seriously, you shouldn’t be here.”
I bite my lip, trying to focus, but it’s like my body has forgotten how to function properly. Well, properly might be a stretch for me, come to think of it.
With a huff (from both of us), we move on to weights, and that’s when disaster really strikes. My grip slips and the weights clatter to the floor with a resounding thud that echoes through the gym.
Everyone’s attention snaps in our direction and Jillian’s patience snaps like a rubber band.
“That’s it! You’re a hazard to yourself and others. Get out—” Her index finger points in the direction of my walk of shame.
Her words sting, but part of me feels relieved to have an escape route. I gather my things, my hands shaking slightly.
As I walk out, I hear Jillian muttering something about “hopeless cases.”
And “can’t believe he’d be seen with that.”
I can only assume she means Adam and the whole Instagram thing. Unless rumor has already reached the gym that we went on a date last night. Wouldn’t be surprised, actually.
Outside, I lean against the wall, taking deep breaths.
“Great job, Carlie. Really nailing the whole fitness thing,” I mumble to myself.
The thought of going back home and working out there, where the only judgment comes from my grandma, suddenly seems very appealing.
As I walk home, my mind is hijacked by the blur of embarrassing and frustrating memories at the gym. Jillian’s words echo in my head, but there’s a small, defiant part of me that whispers, “I’ll show her.”
Maybe I’m not cut out for gym life, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find my own way to stay fit.
By the time I reach my apartment, I’ve made a decision.
I’m going to cancel my training sessions and start working out at home.
It might not be as fancy, but at least I’ll be in my element. And who knows, maybe I’ll actually enjoy it more without the fear of public humiliation.
As I step inside my apartment, the quietness envelops me like a comforting blanket. Dropping my gym bag by the door, I let out a long, tired sigh.
My reflection in the hallway mirror catches my eye. Hair disheveled, outfit sweaty—I’m a hot mess in the most literal sense.
Kicking off my shoes, I shuffle towards the kitchen, the desire for fresh coffee and the promise of solitude pushing me forward.
After brewing a fresh pot, I fill my mug with coffee, the steam rising in lazy swirls. Taking a cautious sip, I wince as it scalds my still-fuzzy tongue.
“Perfect,” I mutter, setting the cup down. I lean against the counter, closing my eyes for a moment trying to center myself.
From the my pocket, my cell phone buzzes, jolting me from my thoughts.
It’s a text from Adam.
My heart leaps, then sinks.
What if he heard about the gym fiasco? What if Jillian’s comments were about us and he knows?
I hesitate, then open the message.
I can’t help but laugh. The tension eases from my shoulders.
He’s just as human, just as prone to mishaps as I am. It’s strangely comforting.
And maybe …
Just maybe—he was up last night thinking about me, too.
Quickly typing a reply, I tease him about joining the ‘clumsy club.’
I don’t fill him in on today’s fiasco, hoping that’s something he never has to learn about.
His response is immediate and light-hearted.
We banter back and forth, and for a brief moment, I forget about Jillian, about the gym, about the doubts plaguing me.
Setting my phone aside, I glance around my apartment. It’s small, cozy, a reflection of my life—a little chaotic, a lot colorful.
I make my way to the living room, pulling out my yoga mat. Maybe it’s time to take my fitness into my own hands. Since I never got the chance to cool down at the gym, I’ll start by stretching..
As I reach for my toes, feeling the tension leave my body, I can’t help but think about Adam and our partner yoga session.
The mystery of Mr. Nocté still hangs over us, but right now, it doesn’t matter.
I’m Carlie, a writer, a hopeful romantic, and a survivor of the most disastrous gym session in history.
I’m also ready to embrace whatever comes next.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I finish my routine.
There’s a story waiting to be written, a life waiting to be lived. I grab my laptop, open a new document, and start typing. The words flow a little easier today, mirroring my newfound resolve.
No matter what the future holds, I’m ready for it. With or without Adam, with or without the gym, I’m just getting started.
Bring it on, universe.
I’m ready.