Page 25 of Pumped

Sawyer looks skeptical, like he’s not buying what I’m selling. That irritates me even more. He’s supposed to be on my side, damn it. He’smyfriend.

“Maybe he’s just grieving in his own way. Like, he needs more structure or like, forward momentum, or else he’ll fall apart.”

“Or maybe he’s just an unfeeling asshole,” I mutter.

“Who’s an unfeeling asshole?” Logan comes bouncing over from the juice bar on the other side of the front lobby. He’s the barista and he’s always coming up with the weirdest—but oddly tasty—concoctions.

“Owen,” Sawyer explains. “They’re not getting along.”

Logan’s eyes go big. “Ooo… you mean that hottie? The one you’re living with now?”

I roll my eyes and scoff. “Not even. Did you know that he hasn’t given up his apartment yet? I’ve already moved all my things into the house, but he’s still going back to his place all the fucking time.”

“Maybe he’s got too much stuff to bring over all at once?” Logan offers unhelpfully. “Or maybe he’s got a pet tarantula he needs to feed. Or maybe he’s got a sex dungeon where he takes unsuspecting victims. Or you know, maybe he’s a spy!”

Sawyer and I exchange a guilty look. A few months ago, Logan’s boyfriend was being sketchy AF and we’d made up a bunch of wild theories. It turns out he was actually a spy. Oops.

“I’m like, ninety-nine point nine percent sure Owen’s not a spy. He’s nowhere near that cool.”

“Either way, you should talk to him,” Sawyer says. “You know, ‘cause you’re both adults? And communication is good?”

“Yeah.” Logan nods enthusiastically. “Communication is the key to every healthy relationship.”

Sawyer lifts a hand and Logan slaps it in a high-five.

I glare at my two best friends. “I hate you both.”

They burst into giggles.

With a roll of my eyes, I push away from the counter. “Whatever. I have a class to teach. Later, losers.”

The fitness studio I use for my classes is next to Mars’s spin studio. Donnie, the spin instructor, is just finishing up his class as I pass by. I give him a wave and he up nods in return. Most of my regulars are already warming up when I step inside the fitness studio, spaced out from each other with skipping ropes ready and waiting at their feet.

“Hey, hey, hey!” I call out, as much for myself as for them. My classes are upbeat and intense and I need to get myself into the right headspace before they start. Owen is a problem for future me. Present me needs to deliver the best fucking class I can. “You guys ready to get your skip on?!”

“Yeah!” They shout back, their enthusiasm helping to get my blood pumping.

“Hell, yeah!” I grab my own rope and pull out my phone to sync it up with the sound system. I take my hat off to loop the mic headset over my ears, then settle my cap on backward again. When it’s time to start the class, the room is at capacity.

“We’re gonna show the rope who’s boss!” I shout as I crank up the music and bop my head to the beat. “Let’s gooooo!”

This is one of my favorite classes. It’s almost like dancing, but with a skipping rope, which makes me feel like a kid again. I can get fancy with the footwork, do some neat tricks, put it all together into a routine. The music reverberates through my body, almost therapeutic. And it’s just so much damn fun. We’re all smiling and laughing and the hour flies by.

“Woooo!!!” I holler as we run through the routine I taught them one last time. “Good job, guys! Y’all did amazing!”

They’ll all feel it tomorrow—in their calves, thighs, abs, arms. It might not seem like it in the middle of class but skipping is a full-body workout.

I drop my rope to the side and hop over to the sound system to switch to the cooldown playlist. Except, when I wake the screen of my phone, a dozen notifications are waiting for me. What the fuck?

I scan them quickly as my stomach drops. They’re from Ivy’s school. Missed calls and voicemail messages and text messages—half a dozen of them. From Owen too, same thing. They’ve all been trying to get a hold of me while I was teaching.

“Everest, you okay?” one of the regulars in the class asks me.

“Uh…” I stare at my phone, paralyzed with indecision. There are only a few minutes left of class and cool down is an important part of any workout. I should stay and finish out the hour.

But Ivy. Something’s happened. Probably something bad. I’ve already missed so many messages, I shouldn’t waste any more time, right?

“Hey, you alright?” The regular—Willis, I think his name is—comes up to ask quietly.

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