Page 28 of The Comeback Summer

Stifling a laugh, I walk into the gloom of her bedroom and push back her curtains. Morning sunshine bathes the room in glorious golden light, and I sigh happily. But when I turn backaround, Libby is frowning at me from her nest of covers on the bed. Next to her, her cat glares like he would scratch my eyes out if he had the chance.

“It’s normal to be sore after doing something new and different,” I say.

“Normal?” she moans. “My palms are blistered and my armpits are killing me!”

Mine, too, but it’s a good hurt, in my opinion. A sign that our bodies are changing in response to the challenge.

“Today’s workout is just an interval walk-run. It’ll help with your muscle soreness,” I promise.

Libby groans again. “All I can do right now is walk-hobble. It hurt to sit on the toilet last night.The toilet, Hannah.”

To her credit, she climbs out of bed, wincing. Libby can be dramatic, but she’s not faking this; she looks miserable, and I feel a twinge of guilt for pushing her too hard. My big sister has always been such a force of nature that sometimes I forget she’s not invincible.

“Okay,” I say, acquiescing. “But we still need to do some physical activity today. How about yoga?”

Her mouth twists in a horrified grimace. “The one time I did yoga, I spent the whole class trying desperately not to queef.”

“Everyone queefs during yoga,” I say, shrugging. “First, let me get you some Advil and coffee. In thirty minutes, we’ll start.”

•••

AN HOUR LATER,we’re at the end of our yoga workout, lying flat on our backs in Shavasana pose (now dubbed the thank-fuck-it’s-over pose by Libby). On the TV, my favorite virtualyoga teacher, Lyn Liao, encourages us to imagine our bodies floating on the surface of a vast, empty ocean. Easy for her, given that she’s doing yoga on a beach in Kauai while we’re on our living room floor.

When I open my eyes and glance over at my sister, she looks exhausted but somehow radiant.

“How’re you feeling?” I ask her.

She opens her eyes a slit. “Better, actually.”

“I’m proud of you.” I smile.

She rolls her eyes. “Blah blah blah. I still hate you.”

“Don’t hateme—this is Lou’s fault!”

“Lou, short for Louise, not Loser,” she says, mimicking Lou’s voice. “Short for lunatic is more like it.”

“Or ludicrous,” I say, laughing.

“Lugubrious,” she says.

“Lu...”—I search for a word—“...brication.”

“Gross,” Libby says, weakly slapping at my hand.

I catch her pinky finger in mine and we stay there, our pinkies linked, floating together.

•••

WHEN WE EVENTUALLYget up, I can tell Libby’s not quite as stiff. While she showers, I head to the kitchen to wash dishes from the feast she cooked us last night. My sister is taking her commitment to fueling our workouts seriously. She’s always fed us well, but this week she’s added more protein, colorful vegetables, and complex carbs to the menu. I’ve had to remind her that our grocery budget has shrunk along with the pay cut we’re taking.

Despite the yoga session, I’m restless and fidgety. I need to do something more intense or I’ll feel this way all day.

An idea pops into my mind, and my heart thumps. Ever since I saw Josh, he’s been on my mind—not in the background, where he’s been for the past five years, but front and center.Josh. Josh. Josh.A drumbeat in my head. I keep thinking about him, then ordering myselfnotto think about him, which makes me think about him even more.

Maybe the only way to interrupt that cycle is to see him. I’m supposed to be stepping outside my comfort zone, and it would bemorecomfortable to pretend like Josh doesn’t exist. So seeing him again would count as crushing that comfort zone.

That’s logical, right?

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