Page 38 of Knot So Fast
The dress shows off my collarbone tattoo, delicate script that I can't quite remember getting but somehow feels important, as well as the elaborate back piece that's visible thanks to the deep slit that runs from the base of my spine to just below my shoulder blades.
I'm about to reach for the mashed potatoes when a butler materializes at my side like a well-trained ghost, alreadyanticipating what I was reaching for and offering me the dish with practiced efficiency.
Right. Butler service. Rich people problems.
I accept the potatoes with a polite nod, trying not to let my discomfort with all this formal wealth show too obviously.
The dining room we're sitting in could probably house three families comfortably, with its soaring ceilings, crystal chandelier, and artwork that I'm pretty sure costs more than most people make in a year.
"So, sweetheart," my father says, breaking the careful silence that's been hovering over our meal like a storm cloud, "how have things been going for you lately?"
I pause in my potato-serving to consider the question.
"Smooth, I guess," I answer honestly, setting the dish down and picking up my fork. "Still don't remember much of anything useful. I've been looking for some kind of employment to pass the time, but nothing's really connecting, especially when I can't recall what I was actually good at before the accident."
My mother delicately dabs at her lips with her cloth napkin, the gesture somehow managing to look both elegant and disapproving at the same time.
"Perhaps you should try exploring some new hobbies instead of focusing on employment right away," she suggests, her tone carrying that particular brand of maternal authority that brooks no argument. "Pilates would be perfect for you, darling. It's an excellent way to stretch, work out, and strengthen muscles you're not accustomed to using. Plus, it's highly approved of in our social circles."
My father nods in agreement, cutting into his own steak with the kind of precision that suggests he approaches everything in life with the same methodical control.
"Your mother's right. It would be beneficial because wealthy Alphas tend to appreciate a woman who takes proper care of herself and maintains an appropriate level of physical fitness."
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth, studying both my parents with growing irritation.
The idea of even doing Pilates, slower movements that would be better for ballerinas than a girl who used to drive fast or even dare believe competed in anything, seems like going from one spectrum to the other.
The very suggestion of Pilates—those slow, controlled movements, every motion measured, every flex and pulse of muscle deliberate and precise—grates against something essential in me.
I know, objectively, it's supposed to be a great workout, but it feels more like a performance for approval, a trend for the kind of women who grew up in ballet studios and spent their adolescence perfecting arabesques rather than slamming gears and burning rubber. I might not remember every detail of who I used to be, but if muscle memory is any indication, I wasn't built for delicate stretches and soft, ladylike exertion.
I want to scoff, to roll my eyes, but I catch myself just in time.
Instead, I watch the steam curl off my mashed potatoes, the butter melting in a slow, hypnotic spiral, and let the silence stretch. There’s a stubbornness in my bones the Pilates girls probably wouldn’t understand—the kind that wants to run entire mountain passes just to see if my lungs hold out, or swim open water without looking back at the shore.
I’d rather spend two straight hours on a rowing machine than contort myself into a candle pose, and the thought of being forced into any box, let alone one lined with yoga mats and brand endorsements, makes my skin prickle.
My mother would never understand this.
I can sense her disappointment hovering just beyond the reach of her carefully neutral expression, the same way I sense my father’s rigid expectations coiling through every compliment, every offhand remark about what “real Alphas” value. I keep my tongue bitten, at least for the moment, and try to picture myself in a Pilates class.
All I see are mirrors, sterile white walls, a roomful of women in matching leggings and sports bras, perfect hair piled atop their heads.
All of them stretching toward a version of themselves that’s more flexible, more toned, more perfectly contained. I feel like I’d snap in half before I ever fit in.
The memories are fuzzy, but I know I liked things fast and hard.
The simple satisfaction of a heart pounding out of control, cement dust and sweat in my nostrils, legs burning like they're dipped in acid.
I can’t overlay the memory of a spin class or a 10K mud run with the pastel serenity of Pilates. The contrast is almost nauseating.
But maybe that’s the point, for them—make me soft, make me slow, file off my edges, tuck me into the neat little box that says “marriage material.”
Maybe that’s why the idea of Pilates feels so much like defeat.
I set my fork down—gently, but with enough force to make the tines ring sharply against the edge of my plate. I look up, meet both their eyes, and let the iron in my voice show.
"I don't really look like a 'Pilates' kind of girl," I point out, gesturing vaguely at myself. "Let alone someone who fits that whole graceful, zen aesthetic they're going for. I'm more into cardio—like Hyrox training and running. You know, the kind ofstuff that makes sure you're actually fit for anything life throws at you."
