Page 47 of Legs

After giving her shoulder a squeeze, I approached the old man slowly, worried I’d scare him off. His grumbling had other guests casting frowns his way. I tipped my head into his view. “Looks like the machine is acting up again.”

He stabbed his index finger some more, hitting every button on the screen. “It is broken.”

I could have run through the same routine, unplugging and plugging in the treadmill, but that wouldn’t help him the next time he showed up. I did the next best thing. I hopped on the machine beside his and hovered my finger over the program key. “It could be broken, or maybe it’s jammed. I just did a workout with my friends, and I was planning on finishing with a cooldown. So I’ll just hit the Start button here”—I made a show of pressing the middle button—“and walk for a bit, until my heartrate slows.”

He side-eyed me, scrunching his large nose as my walk began. “I am not an idiot,” he said abruptly. “I was waiting.”

Waiting, my ass. But he copied me. He hit the Start button, lifting his feet like last time, and I bit back my grin. The crotchety man was too cute.

Exaggerated in my movements, I pressed the upward arrow, increasing my speed. 911 grumbled under his breath, but followed suit. Next I raised the incline a notch. His treadmill mirrored mine. I picked up speed. As did he. A few minutes later, I brought the platform level with the ground, and he copied my move. Since he hadn’t offered his name last time, I tried again. “I’m Rachel, in case you didn’t remember.”

“I am not senile.”

His tone was stiff and formal, the tiniest accent under his tongue. That didn’t stop me. “Do you have a name? In my mind, I keep calling you 911. So if you have a name that isn’t 911, I’d love to hear it.”

He pressed the arrow key (on his own!), but didn’t acknowledge me. A minute later, he said, “George.”

Houston, we have progress. “Well, George, it’s nice to have someone to chat with while working out. Helps pass the time.”

He stomped along, his Frankenstein impression spot on. “You are too skinny. Women these days are always too skinny. You shouldn’t exercise so much.”

My cackle escaped, the birdlike squawk ricocheting off the walls, and I clamped my jaw shut. It was my nervous laugh, the kind that hid the emotion clawing at my throat. My mother had often said I was too skinny. Then my father would jump in and tell me Marilyn Monroe’s curves may have driven a generation of men wild, but Twiggy had decorated every high school locker in the sixties. He’d said I was exactly as I was meant to be. He had been a one man pep rally.

And I missed him.

I swung my arms faster, needing to keep George talking, moving. Pumping his heart. Keep mine from shriveling. “I exercise to keep healthy, not lose weight. Looks to me like you could stand to slim down.” I looked pointedly at his belly, the solid bulge stretching his white T-shirt and keeping his sweatpants from circling his waist.

He tried to stop marching, but the platform didn’t slow, sending him jogging to catch his stride. He slowed and shot me a look. “My wife is an excellent cook.”

“Must be nice. Do you have kids? Grandkids?”

His breathing seemed labored, that quick run pumping his lungs too hard. I slowed my treadmill, hoping he’d do the same. He did and took a few cleansing breaths. “I have one son,” he said.

He didn’t elaborate, but talking kept him exercising. The next best option was to blabber about myself. “I have a brother. And a dog. Our family’s dog, actually. Stanley. She’s part schnauzer, part poodle, and all adorable.”

His mustache twitched. “She?”

“She has a beard, white fur on her muzzle. Stanley suits her.”

He grunted.

My mother had bought me our schnoodle when my father died, hoping the furry friend would lift my twenty-two-year-old heart. When I’d moved out, I made her keep him. Because I don’t have room, I’d told her. Because she needs the company, I’d thought.

Mom pretended it was a burden.

I loved Stanley, though, and didn’t trust people who wrinkled their noses at dogs. I’d bet Jimmy loved animals, too. He probably sponsored the Humane Society and fostered iguanas, had a farm for injured llamas. Before today, while fighting our connection, I would have told myself he hated cats and dogs and spent his free time kicking puppies. I'd have invented stories, pathetic attempts to reverse my growing affection for him. Anything to forget the way he’d cupped my cheek one night, looked into my eyes, and said he’d dream about me.

I had to find the strength to mute my father’s last words and trust my own judgment. Stop revolving my life around my mother’s preferences, worried she’d cut me off again for dating the wrong guy.

I snuck a glance at George. What was left of his gray hair had frizzed up, giving him that old-and-wise look. “So…George,” I ventured tentatively, “if your son dated a girl you didn’t like, like really didn’t like, but he seemed happy, would you be upset?”

As he was about to answer, he stubbed a toe and tripped over his feet. I jumped off my treadmill and slammed my palm onto his Stop button. 911 wouldn’t eat dirt on my watch. He gripped the handrails until his erratic breaths evened out. His eyes were glassy, though, the exertion too much.

“Maybe you should walk slowly awhile.”

He nodded, his hand still over his heart. He pressed Start on his own and resumed a leisurely gait. I returned to my treadmill, walking beside him, ensuring he was okay.

I assumed my question had been forgotten, but a moment later, he said, “Children are impulsive. They do not think ahead. As parents, we must be firm. If my boy dated the wrong girl, they would not be welcome in my home.”