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To do anything not to obsess over me…and my imperfections.
For some reason, I have a burning need to write down this liberating feeling. It’s proof that I can laugh. That I can relax. And have a life outside my obsessive angsting. As stupid as these pranks have been and as annoyed as Ryder has made me, I sort of have to thank him. I haven’t been able to unwind and just exist in the moment for a long time.
So that’s what I do.
I sift through the journals, months of gloomy, lonely thoughts, where I burned Stephan on many pages, until I find a fresh, untouched notebook. Mel enters my thoughts, and I think about writing her an old-school letter. I was waiting until I didn’t feel so…lost. So dismal, before I contacted her. Maybe that time is now.
I write the first sentence that starts nothing like the one’s I’m so used to writing.
And surprisingly, it doesn’t start with “I”. Already it’s not as narcissistic as my former entries. There’s also a description of beautiful blue eyes I can’t quite get out of my mind.
* * *
When the adrenaline wears off, and I’m all out of words, I decide to head to the gym. I need to do something to tire myself out. I try not to feel bad about going to the gym twice today.
No small change is ever permanent. One thing I learned while in treatment? You have to repeatedly apply the change—over and over—until it decides to stick. Until you no longer have to remind yourself to do it.
Baby steps.
Exercise, though it’s not a bad thing in general, but rather the opposite, has at times gotten out of hand for me. To the point where I couldn’t walk the next day after a ruthless workout. A form of punishment if I’d indulged, or couldn’t suppress the need to binge eat. Exercise is supposed to be rewarding, giving you endorphins and energy, and helping you stay positive, creating a good, healthy self-image.
Well, anything good can become a vice. An addiction. Or even unhealthy.
But right now, I just need the rigorous routine to wipe me out so I can sleep. I don’t feel the need to punish, just deplete the excess, over stimulated energy.
The steady chirr of crickets greets me along the winding path toward the campus gym. It’s almost eerie, this still quiet that is usually so full of hustle and swarm. The chilly wind stirs the elm branches, adding to the effect with a hushed rustling.
I glance behind me, totally creeped out. This is the first time I’ve been to the gym at night, and I’m wondering if I should just head back before I’m featured in some slasher flick.
But the drive to get my workout in overpowers my rational thoughts. Of course. So I powerwalk. And I’m already to the gym doors by the time I think of turning around again.
The building is empty. Which, despite the earlier creep out, is nice and convenient. No one to worry about hitting on you or judging you. I don’t really enjoy gyms in general, but there’s no way to fit exercise equipment in our small dorm room. This is when I miss living with my parents. Wherever their current home may be.
Although the tradeoff of not having to deal with their constant analysis of me is a huge benefit in favor of living on campus.
I set my water bottle and gym bag on the floor in the corner, then set the speed and pace for the treadmill. I plug my ear buds in and scroll through my playlist on my phone until I find Adagio for Strings, Op. 11a. One of my favorite classical pieces performed by the London Philharmonic Orchestra. I need the soothing help of classical right now.
Which is just odd, I know. Most people want an upbeat, motivational tempo, with lyrics to help them kick ass during their workout. But I’m always wound tight. My heart rate feeling as if it’s forever climbing with the ever-pressing anxiety. When I get my twenty minutes to myself to just be me, I want to float away. Walk my mind completely away from my own thoughts.
As I walk, I let my mind drift, lost in the orchestra. Relaxing. My heartbeat ramps as the stress melts away like hot butter through my pores. Sweat drips down my back, and I imagine every disgusting thing I’ve eaten today liquefying and being purged from my system.
Something touches my arm, and I yelp. Then my legs go weak and my feet no longer keep tread on the walker. I land on my butt and am pushed right off the machine. One ear bud is lost, and I quickly move the wire from the track so it doesn’t get sucked under.
“Jesus, Arian.”
I know that smooth voice. My head whips up. Ryder stands above me, his dark hair falling forward over his creased forehead, eyes squinted in laughter, and his hand extended.
“Give me your hand,” he says, wriggling his fingers. When I don’t move, my heart still knocking hard against my chest—whether from the scare or his presence, I’m not sure—he groans and reaches down to grab my arm.
“I got it.” I yank my arm free and push myself up. Then I look at him while I pat my aching butt. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”
His features change instantly. From concern to amusement. He shakes his head and begins walking toward one of the weight sets. “I don’t know, Arian. Probably the same thing you’re doing here.” He looks back at me and raises his eyebrows challengingly.
Yeah, well. Okay. I get a grip on myself, putting my fingers to my neck to check my pulse. Then I climb back on the machine and set it to a slower speed so I can bring my heart rate down properly.
“Damn. You were really giving that machine a workout,” he says as he lifts a weight from the stand. He adds it to the bar. “Like it had wronged you in some way. I have to admit, I feel a little better knowing it’s not just me that gets your wrath. Inanimate objects be damned, huh? We all pay for the ire of Arian.”
Ugh. This guy. God, but he’s so cute in his dumb sweatpants and tank. I divert my gaze and look down at the monitor of the treadmill. “Ari,” I say. “That’s what I go by.”
