WOMAN LAND

MIRANDA KENNEALLY

DAY ONE

The very first time I set foot on this side of the gym, Josh McConnell smirks at me.

My physical therapist’s office is attached to Xsport Alexandria, and it turns out a bunch of guys from school lift weights here. I spot Rafael Garcia from the baseball team doing biceps curls. Caleb Nelson balances a weighted barbell on his back, completing some complicated lunges.

Then there’s Josh, a junior like me, and the football team’s star defensive tackle. He’s lying underneath a machine resembling a medieval torture device, using his legs to push it up and down, up and down. If he lost control, it would flatten him into a pancake. After he finishes his set, he slides out, adjusts his glasses, and locks his pretty gray eyes with mine.

That’s when he smirks.

An embarrassed heat fills my cheeks. I feel totally out of my depth here on this side of the gym that Mom refers to as Man Land, but I can’t let Josh know that.

I raise my eyebrows and look at him as if he’s an ant I could squash under my sneaker.

The smirk melts from his face and his gaze sweeps toward the floor.

Good. That’ll teach him to make fun of me.

Guys of all ages are lifting superheavy weights and breathing hard and grunting while staring at themselves in the mirror. It must take serious skill to do so many things and still have time to objectify yourself.

This one man with the Hulk’s bulging muscles could probably rip a tree trunk in half. A gray-haired guy who looks Papa’s age is squatting a bar full of weights. A shirtless man who has the physique of an Olympic swimmer is pressing a plate above his head. I realllllly want to tell him to put his shirt on.

As I peer around, I count at least twenty men and exactly one woman.

Frankly, I don’t come to the gym much, other than using the treadmills when the sidewalks are too icy for running and that one ill-fated attempt at yoga with Mom.

“Are you sure I should be doing this?” I mutter to my physical therapist, Kayla, as we walk past a guy swinging a kettlebell the size of a watermelon.

“Definitely. This is the best way to get your arm back in shape.”

I wrap a hand around my left wrist, squeezing it. The pain is still there. It’s always there. Two months ago, I fell during track practice. As I hit the ground, I braced my fall with my hands, fracturing my wrist. The doctor surgically repaired it.

Now? It’s always stiff. It always hurts. Some days I worry my hand and wrist will never be flexible again. When I was a kid, I thought there was nothing cooler than wearing a cast and having your friends sign it with a Sharpie. How wrong I was.

“Plus,” Kayla says, “powerlifting is great for building all-over body strength, too. It’ll help your running muscles activate faster.”

I trust what she’s saying. I mean, she has the fittest body I’ve ever seen in real life. She’s Black, short, and made of hard muscle.

I follow Kayla over to the bench press area. There are four benches, all of which are occupied by men. One man has three plates on each side of the bar and is effortlessly pumping it toward the ceiling as if he’s doing something simple, like lifting a pen to write a note.

“How much weight is that?” I murmur to Kayla.

She glances at the bar. “Three hundred and fifteen.”

What! That’s, like, three times my body weight. I imagine this guy lifting three of me above his head at once. If he were to lose control of that weight or suddenly didn’t have the strength to push it up, I bet that bar could easily kill him.

I rub the side of my neck as we wait until one of the benches opens up.

“Okay,” Kayla says. “Lie down on your back and brace your feet on the floor. I’m going to lift the bar to you.”

“Wait. How heavy is this?”

“The bar is forty-five pounds.”

This doesn’t mean much. I haven’t lifted weights before, unless you count Mom’s little five-pound dumbbells she keeps next to her Peloton. But forty-five pounds seems like a lot, considering I find carrying groceries in from the car to be difficult, especially when the bags are filled with heavy things like milk or jars of spaghetti sauce.

As Kayla told me, I lie down on the bench. Bright lights on the ceiling make my vision spotty.

“Okay, grab the bar with both hands and squeeze tight.”

She lifts the bar off to me, keeping a grip on it herself.

“Now bring it down to your chest and push up.”

I lower the bar to my chest, but when I try to push it up, it doesn’t budge. I kick a foot out, struggling under the weight. It’s like a car is on my chest.

“C’mon, push,” Kayla says in a calm tone.

I focus all my strength into my arms. The bar slowly begins to rise into the air, but only with the help of Kayla. She keeps her fingers beneath the bar to guide it up. Her friggin’ fingers are stronger than my arms.

“Again,” she says.

Blood rushes to my head and my vision blurs as I lower the bar to my chest and push it up three more times. The right side rises before the left, like a seesaw.

“Good,” Kayla says.

I sit up, suddenly panting and out of breath. Shit. I can’t even push up the bar. I study my puny arms. They always remind me of the time I tried to push someone away when it really mattered, and I couldn’t do it.

I shake my head. “I don’t think this is for me. I’m not strong enough.”

Kayla touches my shoulder. “You can be. I started with the bar, too.”


SIX MONTHS IN

Week by week I learn new things:

  1. This side of the gym is not only for guys.
  2. I suck at bench press, but I really enjoy squat and deadlift.
  3. Whatever you do, do not make eye contact with the creepy old man who lives on the ski machine. He takes it as an invitation to talk.
  4. People at the gym love to stand around gossiping between sets.

Seriously, gym bros chitchat more than old ladies at church.

People talk to me about everything from the best place to eat pizza to who is hooking up with who. Apparently gymcest is a total thing here.

The only person I don’t talk to is Josh McConnell. Not since he smirked at me, as if I’m not supposed to be here.

That’s why I’m so surprised when he comes over to watch me finish my squats. He observes me carefully as I move up and down, not in a leering way, but more like how a doctor examines an X-ray.

Kayla, spotting me from behind, pats my sides. “Focus, Emma. Eyes straight ahead.”

How could she tell I was looking at him?

I take a deep breath to brace myself, then perform my final squat and rack the bar. The weight is so heavy, it makes a loud crashing sound like a garbage truck dropping a dumpster onto pavement.

I grin. “I did it! I’m alive!”

“Of course you’re alive,” Kayla says.

Josh steps forward and holds his fist out to me. I glance at his face before quickly fist-bumping him. “Your squats look really good, Emma.”

I pause for a moment, to make sure he’s not teasing me and my light weights. Well, light compared to his 450-pound squat. I’m very proud I just squatted 185 pounds. “Thanks, I think.”

“Excuse me,” Kayla says suddenly, and rushes to help lift a bar off a guy struggling on bench press. It’s a pretty common occurrence here, that someone tries to lift too much weight and Kayla has to help. Some people are not as conscious about gym safety as they should be.

I expect Josh to turn back to his own workout or go talk to some of the guys, so it surprises me when he loiters. Before I started powerlifting, I always thought you were supposed to keep exercising without stopping. In running, it’s all about endurance. You keep going and going and going.

With strength training, it’s important to take breaks to give your muscles time to recuperate, but I always feel guilty standing around talking between sets. And there’s always someone to talk to. A college girl, Salma, who works out in a hijab, waves and says hi. Caleb from school comes by and makes like he wants to give me a hug, but I sidestep him and put out my hand for a fist bump. I don’t mind touching other people’s hands or arms, but I’d prefer they didn’t touch me. It’s a thing I have.

I glance at Josh out of the corner of my eye, then walk over to my water bottle.

“Did I do something to piss you off or what?” Josh says.

“Huh?”

He waves a hand toward the gym. “You seem to have no problem hanging out with people here, except for me.”

He thinks I’m avoiding him? “You never talk to me.”

“You’re the one who gave me the dirty look.”

“You’re the one who smirked at me! Acting like I’m not supposed to be here.”

His mouth falls open. “What? What are you talking about?”

“When you first saw me here, you were making faces like I wasn’t supposed to be on this side of the gym. Over here in Man Land.”

Man Land?” He shakes his head. “First of all, don’t assume you know what I’m thinking. Second, I, uh, was just surprised to see you here, is all.”

His voice is a little shaky. It’s not confident like when he’s sitting in the cafeteria at school, surrounded by kids listening to his stories, or when he’s shouting into a megaphone at a pep rally, pumping up the crowds before one of his football games.

Dylan, this guy who graduated from college last year and now works at Target, wanders over to talk to us. He has a beard and a man bun, and he’s chewing on a Twizzler. He is seemingly always at the gym—it’s like he lives here.

Dylan fist-bumps me. “How’s it going, Emma Emu?”

He assures me he gave me this nickname because it sounds cool, and not because he associates me with a giant bird with sticks for legs.

Josh drops a hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “How about Emma? For the second spot?”

Dylan shrugs, ripping off another piece of Twizzler and gesturing at me with it. “You can ask her.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

Josh clears his throat; his cheeks turn pink. “There’s this team powerlifting meet next month. Me and some of the guys are in it.”

“Yeah?”

“And, well, we need two women on the team. I think you’d be great.”

“What, like, compete?” I watched weightlifting on TV during the Olympics. There’s no way I can do that. “I don’t lift very much compared to y’all.”

As Dylan finishes his last bite of Twizzler, he adds another weight to his squat bar. “It’s not about how many pounds you can lift compared to men—it’s about how much you lift for your body weight.”

“And you don’t weigh a lot, but you can lift a ton!” Josh rushes to say.

“I didn’t know you competed in this,” I say, gesturing around the gym.

Josh shrugs. “I’ve done a couple competitions. It’s fun. So how about it?”

“You’re asking me because you need another girl, right? Not because I’m good.”

He pauses to run a hand through his coppery hair. “I’m asking for both reasons. Because you’re a girl, and because you’re good.”

“Who’s the second girl?”

“Kayla.”

She comes back over from saving that guy’s life, and Josh tells her he invited me to be on the team.

“Don’t you think Emma would be great in competition?” Josh asks Kayla.

“Emma’s still learning how all this works.” Part of me is relieved that Kayla says this, while the other half is disappointed. She knows I’m not cut out for this. I can barely bench-press ninety pounds, and she could probably lift a car off a person trapped under it.

My head is starting to droop when suddenly Kayla says, “But you’re right, I think she would be good.” She studies my eyes. “But you’ll have to ask your parents.”


IT’S ALL ABOUT ME

It takes a couple of days to find a chance to talk to both of my parents at the same time.

Dad is a lawyer for a health-care lobbyist downtown, and Mom works for the U.S. Patent Office. Both jobs require regularly working late, so we don’t often get to eat dinner together with my younger sister, Ava.

But they make sure we go out every Friday evening. It’s something we make time for, even if we have something to do later. Like, tonight I’m going to my school’s football game.

Dad lives for this steak place called Great Plains, and he never wants to go anywhere else, no matter how much Mom, Ava, and I beg to try something new. We’re sitting at the table, with Dad happily eating the same ole chicken wings he always orders as an appetizer, while Mom digs into the dinner rolls she says she’s sick and tired of but nevertheless manages to inhale anyway, when I gather the courage to bring up the competition.

“Mom, some people at the gym invited me to compete in a powerlifting competition.”

Dad sets down his chicken wing to look at me. Mom lowers her glass of wine.

“You?” Ava finally says.

“Is that one of those competitions where men have to pull a semitruck by a rope, and carry trees on their backs?” Dad asks.

“No—”

“I don’t think you should try to pull a semitruck,” Dad says.

“It’s not a strongman contest, Dad, it’s only squat, deadlift, and bench press.”

“Don’t you have to have giant muscles the size of bowling balls?” Ava cuts back in.

I give her a look. “It’s based on your body weight.”

“Is it safe?” Mom’s forehead crinkles up. “I saw that video you posted of you lifting two hundred twenty-five pounds off the floor and it worried me.”

Dad shakes his head, with a far-off look in his eye. “Wow.”

Mom gestures with her wineglass. “I understand you need physical therapy, but it seems like you’re going way beyond that.”

I like getting stronger and stronger. Kayla was right: Having stronger muscles has improved my speed on the track. Over the past six months, I’ve taken three seconds off my 400-meter hurdles.

And I feel a bit safer walking down empty corridors at school.

“Are you sure you want to keep doing this?” Mom asks.

“I mean, your butt’s getting huge,” Ava says.

“You’re just jealous,” I snap back, and Mom purses her lips while Dad is suddenly interested in Sarita Solís’s boxing match on the bar TV that I know for a fact was on last night and is being replayed today. Dad clearly doesn’t want to think about his daughters’ butts.

“I don’t want you to get bulked up,” Mom says.

“I’m not! Kayla says I’m getting leaner and stronger.”

Mom cradles her wineglass in her hands. “I just worry about you getting hurt.” She is coming up with every excuse in the book.

I’d be lying if I said injury wasn’t a low-grade worry at the back of my head. Josh texted me competition videos to watch. I’ll have to wear a strange little singlet and lift weights in front of a big crowd. I looked up more clips on YouTube, finding some where people fail. In one particularly scary video, a girl faints while she’s trying to squat a huge amount of weight, but luckily she’s saved by the spotters who catch the bar and help hoist it back onto the rack.

“There’s always a chance I could get hurt, sure, but Kayla spends a ton of time with me working on technique. Plus, you can get hurt doing anything. I broke my arm running hurdles! Look … They really want me to do it.”

Dad points at me with a chicken wing. “The question is whether you want to.”

My whole family looks at me. That’s a really good question.


HOW TO DECIDE

On Saturday morning at the gym, I’m lying on the turf, stretching, when Josh appears. He looks comfortable, dressed in running tights and shorts and a baggy football sweatshirt.

“The worst thing ever just happened,” he announces, plopping down next to me.

“Oh yeah?”

“I was in the locker room getting ready, when this guy came in and started doing lunges. Naked.”

“Naked lunges.”

“Yes, naked lunges.”

“Nooooooo!”

He bursts out laughing. “The weirdest shit happens at this gym.”

“Hey, good game last night,” I tell him.

He looks at me sideways, a smile peeking out. “You saw it?”

“I never miss a home game.”

I twist to the side to stretch my hip, letting out a groan.

“You all right?” Josh asks.

“Something is always sore, you know?”

“It gets better, I promise.”

I shift to stretch my other side. “How long have you been powerlifting, anyway?”

“A few years now. My grandpa brought me here to work out, so I’d have more explosive power on the football field, but now I like it even more than football.”

“Really?”

He kneels on one knee to stretch his quad. “Yeah, I’d totally put all my focus into this, but my dad and grandpa want me to get a football scholarship.”

“Wow, I mean, I figured you loved football more.”

“I do love it, but there’s something about powerlifting that’s perfect for me.” He digs his thumb into his thigh, pushing at a muscle. “This is probably going to sound selfish, but I love that it’s just me competing against myself and trying to become better.”

I love it for those reasons, too.

Saturday mornings at the gym are quiet compared to weekday nights. On Saturdays, it’s usually older people using the stationary bikes and free weights. Today, it’s only Josh and me lying on the turf. Normally, I wouldn’t stay this close to a boy. I’d find some excuse to vamoose.

It makes no sense that I don’t feel that impulse to run, because it’s been there since that one time at school between classes.

I shake my head to rid myself of the bad memory, then let out some air. It’s almost relaxing, listening to the loudspeakers, even though they’re strangely playing some old Taylor Swift ballad that in no way, shape, or form could pump someone up through a cardio workout.

My phone beeps with a text from Kayla: Sorry Emma, my dog is sick and I can’t make it today. See you Monday for bench?

“Crap,” I say.

Josh nods at my phone. “Everything okay?”

“Kayla isn’t coming and I was counting on her to spot me. I’m supposed to do squats today.”

Josh rubs his palms on his thighs. “I could, you know, spot you.”

My skin flushes hot. Nobody but Kayla ever spots me. It’s not because I don’t trust other people—especially the strong ones—but most of the people who lift here are men, and I don’t want them standing right behind me.

“I mean, if you’re okay with that,” Josh rushes to add.

I’ve known him for years because his name comes after mine in the alphabet. We’re in the same homeroom. But he’s always run in a different crowd from me. I’m the kid who stands at the side of the school dance making jokes with my friends, while he’s out in the middle of the floor taking the lead. So it seems like I should be nervous or feeling weird about sitting here with him, but I don’t.

Other than that time he smirked—which we are now past—he’s been nothing but respectful. I look over at him and rub the side of my neck.

I was really looking forward to squatting today. Truth be told, I’ve been excited for it all week. I can’t avoid the possibility of touching boys forever, can I?

My fear can screw off for a day. Josh can spot me for one workout session.

“Yeah, that would be good, if you could give me a spot.”

As Josh and I carry our bags over to an empty squat rack, he waves at Sean, who’s working on bench press. He has gray hair and always wears the exact same Nirvana T-shirt to work out. Everybody calls him “Gym Dad.”

“Sean’s going to compete with us next month,” Josh says.

“Who else is on your team?”

“We can have up to seven people. So far it’s me, Sean, Dylan, Kayla, Gael, and Theo … And we still need one more girl … Have you given more thought to competing?”

Not meeting his eyes, I sit down on a bench to put on my knee sleeves. “Yeah. I talked to my parents about it.”

“And? Did they say yes?” he rushes to ask.

“They told me it’s my decision.”

Josh squeezes onto my bench to pull on his own knee sleeves. He doesn’t say anything as he rolls the first one up over his leg. I get the feeling he’s dying to push me for an answer about joining his team, but is also trying to seem nonchalant and give me my space.

Once I have my knee sleeves on, I step under the bar, secure it on my upper back, and lift off. I warm up with the bar, squatting as low to the floor as I can go. They call it ass to grass.

Next I move up to 135 pounds. This weight is relatively easy for me now, but the set after that at 175 pounds is where things get difficult, when I’ll need a spotter.

Once I have a belt on, Josh steps behind me and braces under my arms. At first I gasp at his touch, but then I remember where I am, what I’m doing. Focus, Emma. After taking a huge breath to brace myself and the heavy weight, I squat low, my muscles on fire as I push up through my legs.

“C’mon, c’mon, push!” Josh says in my ear.

I push to the top and rack the bar, thanking the heavens I didn’t hit him with my butt. It went okay. He touched me, and I didn’t freak out.

“Really good,” Josh says.

I help him add a bunch more weight to the bar for his set.

Finally he asks, “So what are you thinking? Will you do it?”

I do love lifting. It’s something I do for me, because I like being strong. But competing is like performing a choir solo in front of other people. Track doesn’t make me nervous, so why do I feel this way about powerlifting? Maybe it’s because I feel like a poseur, as if I don’t belong here?

“It just seems like powerlifting is something strong people should be doing,” I say.

“You are strong.” Josh drops a light, warm hand onto my shoulder and looks me in the eye, and I pull a deep breath. He’s really close to me. I wait for a prickly sensation of warning, but there’s nothing.

“It seems like there are an awful lot of rules.” I bite my lower lip. “I’ve been watching the videos you sent, of how people bomb out of the competition because they don’t make their lifts. I’d be embarrassed if that happened in front of a crowd.”

Josh nods. “I’ll help you learn all the rules.”

I decide to trust my gut. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Woo-hoo!” Josh celebrates.

People from around the gym peer over at us, but Josh continues to whoop, so I whoop back at him, which is so unlike me, but I can’t help it. His excitement is infectious.

Josh bumps my fist. “Let’s do this!”


STUCK

During study hall on Monday, I’m sitting in the library typing on my laptop when Josh suddenly appears next to me.

“Emma Emu.”

“You’re calling me that now, too?”

Josh shrugs, and adjusts his glasses. “It’s cute … Hey, I wanted to show you a few videos so you can learn more about the competition commands.”

I shut my laptop cover. “Okay.”

He sits down next to me, and leans his head toward mine, shifting his body to angle his cell phone where we can both see the screen. I’m acutely aware of how close he is. I can smell the cinnamon gum he’s chewing.

Ashi Parker, the basketball player sitting at the next table, gives me a sour look.

I nudge Josh and nod at her. “What’s up with that? Are you going out with her?”

“No,” Josh blurts. He sits up straighter in his chair. “Uh, are you with anybody?”

I shake my head.

He pauses for a moment, then nods and drums his fingers on his table.

When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to get to high school and find a boyfriend. But now that I’m in high school, I’m not ready for that. Not after what happened.

During sophomore year, I went to the restroom during class one day. A senior guy I didn’t know cornered me in the empty hall and kissed me. I wasn’t interested and put my chin down and looked at the floor to try to show him it wasn’t happening and to get lost.

Still he pushed me up against the wall and ran his hands over my hips as he tried to kiss me again. He was so strong, and nearly a head taller than me, and I didn’t think I could fight back. I snapped “No!” in his face, startling him, which allowed me to wriggle away and run as fast as I could down the hall to class.

Ever since, I’ve jumped away when boys have tried to get close to me.

I can’t get stuck again.


THE BIG DAY

The night before the competition, I wake up at 2:00 a.m. with racing thoughts.

What if I squat and get stuck at the bottom? What if I go to deadlift and the plates don’t budge from the floor? What if I pass out, like in those videos?

I have a poor night’s sleep.

Luckily, by the time we pull into the parking lot at the Richmond gym where the meet is taking place, I’m wide-awake thanks to adrenaline and the giant latte Dad bought me.

My mind flashes back to the first day I learned how to bench-press. My body overheated, my hands turned clammy and slippery on the barbell.

Today as I walk into the gym, my body does the same thing, but it’s a totally different type of nerves. It’s like when you’ve studied and studied for a big test. You know all the material, but as you sit down at your desk, your mind goes blank. Suddenly you can’t remember two plus two equals four.

Mom, Dad, and Ava stand with me as I gaze around. Loud music blares and lights flash.

“I feel like I’m at the 930 Club,” Dad says.

“You haven’t taken me there in years,” Mom replies.

“We should go sometime.” Dad scrolls on his phone. “I’ll check the schedule to see who’s playing.”

Ava and I roll our eyes at each other. As if our parents would ever do anything besides go to Great Plains on a weekend night.

There’s a stage set up in front of the chairs, with a big powerlifting logo in the background. My mind suddenly flashes back to first grade, when this boy in my class, David Kraft, locked his knees during a choir concert and fainted in front of everyone.

I take a deep breath, promising myself I won’t fall off the stage in front of all these people.

“Emma,” Ava says under her breath. “Is that really Josh McConnell waving at you?”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess we’re friends now?”

“He is so cute,” Ava says. “Just look at his glasses. And look how hot his ass looks in those shorts—”

“Ava, stop!” I lightly smack her arm. “He’ll hear you.”

He comes jogging over and gives me a quick side hug. I gasp, and pull away a little.

A hurt look crosses his face. Shit. I touch my cheek and bite my lips in embarrassment. Why can’t I be normal?

Josh watches me carefully. “I’m sorry. I should’ve asked.”

Before I can react, he’s moved on to shake hands with my parents. As he glances back my way, I touch the place on my hip where his hand just sat. And I’m okay.

Ava raises her eyebrows.

Josh gestures for my family to follow him. “I’ll show you where to sit so you can see. My parents are there, too.”

My family finds seats in the second row off to the side. Mom keeps patting her neck and temples with a tissue, as if she’s sweating profusely.

“Please be careful,” Mom says, hugging me.

“I promise.”

Josh takes me back to a weight room designated for warm-ups, where I discover so many other girls and women. One team, wearing T-shirts that say Valkyries, is mostly made up of girls and only has two men.

Kayla hugs me, and the men on our team give me fist bumps.

Kayla looks down at her clipboard. “All right, Emma. You’re up first.”

“What?” I touch my throat. “I thought I’d get a chance to watch, to figure out what’s going on.”

“It’ll be okay,” Sean the gym dad says. “You’ve practiced the commands and you’ll know what to do. Let’s get you warmed up!”

Before I know it, it’s time for the meet to start. All of a sudden I can’t catch my breath. Josh stays with me as I get in line for the stage. I tighten my belt.

The announcer yells “Emma Masterson!” into a microphone like I’m walking out onto the floor at an NBA game. “Emma’s opening at one hundred ninety-five pounds.”

When I step out in front of the crowd, I’m in a fishbowl. So many eyes peering at me. The spotlights are blinding, and I have to squint to see where I’m stepping on the stage. Three spotters stand by the rack: two college guys and one superbuff woman.

Having people watch makes me nervous, so I zone out and pretend no one is there. This is just for me.

I approach the squat bar. My team is yelling my name and clapping, reminding me I can do this.

I stand under the squat bar, grip it hard, lift it up with my upper back, and step backward. With a huge breath, I squat down as low as I can. At the bottom, I momentarily question whether my legs are strong enough—whether I’ve trained hard enough—and then all my hard work flashes before my eyes. Week after week of consistent training over eight months.

I push through my feet. It’s so heavy my eyes go blurry and I worry it will never end, but then I’m standing at the top and my team is screaming.

The announcer says, “And Emma’s lift is good.”

It counts! I did it.

“Woohoo!” I hear Josh scream.

I throw my hands up in the air and jog off the stage to my waiting team. They pat my back. Josh, however, keeps his distance as he claps and smiles. He believed in me. He believed in me so much he invited me to join his team.

Taking a deep breath, I stride to him. Get up on tiptoes and give him a little smirk. “Can I hug you?” I ask quietly.

His gray eyes widen, then he folds his arms around me. Letting out a deep breath, I relax against his chest. When he pulls back and smiles, I expect to feel a sense of relief, and I do, but there’s something else, too: I want to hug him again.

I have two more attempts to best my earlier squat score. I’m able to squat one time at two hundred pounds, which just about makes my dad’s jaw hit the floor. Ava cheers my name. Even Mom stands up to clap for me, making my eyes tear up.

But on my third and final attempt, at 210 pounds, I do get stuck at the bottom like in my nightmares. I can’t push through the squat. My legs aren’t strong enough. I’m gonna fall forward. I’m tipping. The bar rolls up on my back. It’ll hit my neck!

Then the spotters lift the bar and help me rack it.

“Good attempt,” one of the spotters says with a nod. “You’ll hit it next time.”

I failed the lift, but everyone’s still clapping, telling me I did a good job.

But I don’t need their cheers to know it.

As I walk off the stage, unclipping my belt, Josh comes to congratulate me. I surprise him with the biggest bear hug. When he lets go, I reach down and squeeze his hand once. My heart beats one, two, and three times, as I make a decision. I decide to leave my hand in his, praying he doesn’t drop it. A century passes as I wait.

Then he smiles at me, and squeezes my hand to hold on tight.