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It wasn't possible to see from my place on the bed because of how dimly lit the room is, but there are bruises on his body. On his ribs, on his abdomen. He's hurt.
"Are you hurt?"
"No. I just work out this hard."
"Owen, what happened?" I say, forgetting all about the fact that, ten seconds ago, I wanted to throw him out the window.
"It's nothing. Like I said, when I work out, I work out. You have to break yourself down in order to build yourself up."
Owen's obviously lying to me. You don't get fist-shaped bruises on your ribs from any workout plan I've heard of. Not unless Crossfit’s gotten a lot more hardcore than I remember.
But, as well as I know Owen, I know it will take a lot to get him to open up. In reality, he may never open up about the actual source of his injuries, but it's clear to me he seems a little more relaxed in his working out just by me being close to him.
Before I know it, I'm mimicking his movements.
Push-ups, into some weird bicycle-kick exercise, into jumping jacks, finishing with a manly grunt, and then starting all over again.
I do it all.
Even the grunt.
Which is a close approximation of the Marine's Ooorah call, a guttural sound I became grossly familiar with when Dixon first came back from boot camp, with patriotism burning in his veins and when even most inane question could provoke a stormlike kill-call of a response.
The first Oorah makes Owen look over at me and roll his eyes.
The second, he smiles.
The third, he doesn't even look. Between us, we're in a silent rhythm; just him and me, our bodies in time, sharing sweat and primal punishment.
Around the fifteenth set, I falter. Mainly because I'm not a Marine used to working out at ass-early in the morning.
He looks over at me as he powers through a ridiculous leaping exercise.
"You keeping up, or should I slow down for you?"
"Dream on, Jarhead. I'm just getting started."
We don't talk after that.
We don't need to.
There's nothing but complete understanding in our silence. He knows I know he's hurt; he knows I know he won't tell me; but just as importantly, he knows I care about him.
Past the point where my muscles are screaming at me that they're breaking down and even my stubborn pride is ready to submit, he stops and pats me on the back gently.
"Not bad for a rookie."
I titanically roll my eyes at him again and walk over to the room's espresso machine. With the insertion of two pods, I make two cups and bring them over to him. We clink glasses.
"Don’t get used to it. I’m not your workout buddy. This... this was a one-time thing."
"Appreciate it all the same. It's good to have someone to share this with. Someone that I..." His voice trails off and whatever he was planning to say, he hides behind a slow drink of coffee and a wince he cannot disguise.
It's a wince that makes me worry about him.
Just what else is going on here?
What is he involved in where, one moment, he's going to sleep on the floor, and the next, he's waking me up with his ridiculously macho morning exercises while he's all covered with bruises?
