"It's literally lifting heavy things repeatedly."
"It has a purpose. Lifting heavy things in a room full of mirrors so you can watch yourself lift heavy things is a different activity."
"You don't have to watch yourself."
"The mirrors are everywhere, Zoe. You can't not watch."
I wait. She's sitting with her coffee, still in the shorts and tank she slept in, her hair flat on one side from the pillow. The mohawk needs maintenance. She looks like a person who has recently lost an argument but hasn't admitted it yet.
"I already signed us up for a guest pass," I say. "For you. I joined last week."
"You joined a gym without telling me?"
"I told you a few days ago. You said 'cool' and then played the Buzzcocks."
She squints. She's trying to remember if this happened. It happened.
"One hour," I say. "We go, we do some stuff, you make fun of the mirrors, we leave. I'll buy you a breakfast sandwich after."
"What kind?"
"Egg and cheese on a roll." I know I'm getting to her now. She's not going to say no to good food.
"From where?"
"Nico's."
She purses her lips. Her argument is failing. "Nico's uses real butter on the roll."
"I know."
She looks at me. I look at her. The negotiation is over and we both know it, but Teague needs to pretend the breakfast sandwich was the deciding factor because admitting she'd go anywhere I asked just because I asked would require a level of emotional honesty she's still figuring out. I don't need to take that long. I already know I want to spend all my time with her. Maybe I should be scared of that. But honestly? I'm not.
"One hour," she says. "And I'm not wearing spandex."
"Nobody asked you to wear spandex."
"I'm preemptively refusing."
She gets dressed. Black jeans that she rolls at the ankle, a band shirt I don't recognize, her boots. She looks at the gym bag I packed for her, which contains sneakers, shorts, and a t-shirt, and picks up the whole bag with the expression of someone accepting a prison sentence.
We walk. Foundation Fitness is twelve blocks south, past the Haverford bus stop and the hardware store where Dad buys his hinges and the bakery that smells like cinnamon at seven AM and diesel at noon. It's Saturday morning and the neighborhood is waking up slowly, people on stoops, someone hosing down a sidewalk, a dog tied to a parking meter looking bored about it while his person goes into the store.
Teague walks the way she always walks, hands in her jacket pockets, chin down, seeing everything. She identifies three things on the way: a sticker on a lamppost for a band called Burnt Offering that she saw in 2023, a crack in the sidewalk shaped like Florida, and a cat in a second-floor window that she nods to like they have an understanding.
"That cat's been there every time I walk this block," she says.
"You walk this block?"
"Sometimes." She doesn't elaborate. Teague's geography is private. She has routes and reasons and she doesn't share the map.
Foundation Fitness is on the corner of Barlow and Ninth. Brick building, big windows, a place that looks morelike a physical therapy office than a regular gym. The sign out front says FOUNDATION FITNESS in clean black letters, and underneath, smaller: RECOVERY SERVICES.
Inside, it's bright and open. Equipment along the far wall, a treatment area visible through glass doors on the right, and a front desk where a woman with dark hair is sorting through a stack of membership cards while a little boy sits on the floor behind the counter drawing on graph paper with a red marker.
"Hi," I say. "I'm Zoe Kimball, I just joined last week? And this is my guest, Teague."
The woman looks up. She's pretty, warm face, a smile that arrives before she decides to give it. "Zoe, right. I remember. Welcome back." She glances at Teague, taking in the mohawk and the jacket and the boots and the general posture of someone who would rather be anywhere else. "And welcome. Guest passes are free for the first visit. I just need a signature."
