“Thanks for a great class, everyone!” I call as my students filter out the front exit into the parking lot. “Hope to see you next week!”
When the door finally swings shut behind the last girl, I glance around the empty studio. It’s a familiar mess — foam blocks and free weights scattered haphazardly across the hardwood. I flip on the stereo and hum along to the refrains of an ‘80s love ballad as I stack the equipment in the racks on the left side of the room. My mind makes a slow loop through my daily to-do list.
Stop by the Farmers Market.
Long run along the Charles River.
Cook a new that new butternut squash soup I’ve been meaning to try.
Eat a bowl alone while watching a rerun of Chopped I’ve already seen twice before falling into my empty king-sized bed, pretending not to notice the crushing sound of silence in my empty house.
And repeat.
I’m stacking the last of the free weights when I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror dominating the far wall of the studio. Bare feet, high ponytail, pink sports bra, black leggings. My posture is tense despite the past two hours of deep breathing exercises. My bow-shaped mouth is set in a frown. My light brown eyes appear flat and empty. God, I barely recognize my own reflection.
When did I become this unhappy stranger staring back at me?
Maybe around the time I served my husband Paul divorce papers six months ago. Or maybe further back, when he stopped coming home for dinner, or sleeping in our bed, or spending any time with me whatsoever. Then again, if I’m being totally honest with myself… maybe it happened long before then. So far back, I’m almost afraid to look, for fear of what I’ll find. Because the stark naked truth of the matter is…
Maybe I’ve never been happy with him.
Not ever.
Not one year, not one day, not one hour.
Not one single second of this marriage.
I’m so caught up in my own thoughts, I barely register the sound of the studio door swinging open until I catch a blur of movement in the mirror on my right. Spinning around, my mouth starts running on auto-pilot before they’ve even cleared the threshold.
“Sorry, you’ve just missed our morning session. The next class is core aerobics with Aimee, but it doesn’t start until noon…”
I trail off, sucking in a sharp gulp of air as I get a good look at the men who’ve just stepped inside. My tongue feels suddenly made of lead, unable to form words as my eyes scan them from head to toe. Which, frankly, takes quite a while becauseholy shitthese men are enormous. Well over six feet tall with brawny builds to match, I’d guess they’re somewhere between thirty and forty but it’s hard to tell with their hair buzzed so short and their faces set in such scary expressions. Their massive muscles strain the seams of their matching black suits as they stride toward me, gun holsters clearly visible beneath their jackets.
Call me crazy, but I don’t think they’re here for core aerobics.
“Uh, hi there,” I say, striving for a calm tone as I take in their intimidating expressions. “If you’re looking for the law firm, it’s actually in the building just around the corner… sometimes the GPS mixes up the addresses and people get confused…”
There’s no answer. No sound at all except for four black shoes rapping like gunshots across the hardwood floor as the men come to a stop in the middle of the room. Well,thatand the steady thumping of my own heartbeat between my ears, growing louder as the giants level me with those icy, thousand-yard stares.
I fight the urge to backpedal, abruptly aware of the fact that I am alone here in this soundproofed studio, wearing nothing but a hot pink sports bra and a pair of ultra-thin leggings, with two very large men who, it must be said, are the scariest dudes I’ve ever seen in my life.
Chill, Shelby,I chastise myself, squaring my shoulders with a confidence I don’t feel.You don’t even know what they want.
“Can I help you with something?” I force myself to ask, glancing from one giant to the next, my eyebrows arched in speculation. They must be brothers. They’re so similar looking, I can’t tell them apart.
“We’re looking for someone,” Righty says in a flat, faintly accented voice that sounds vaguely Slavic.
“Shelby Hunt,” Lefty jumps in, narrowing his eyes on me. “Wife of Paul Hunt. Ring a bell?”
My mouth goes dry. Out of nowhere, I feel like a fifteen-year-old girl again, caught in the act of breaking curfew. “Um…”
Two sets of dark eyes burn into mine, searingly cold, and I try not to shiver.
Lie,an inner voice whispers out of nowhere, irrationally afraid to admit my identity to two men who make the gargantuan casino bouncers I encountered in Las Vegas a few years back seem chill in comparison.Lie your perfectly-toned ass off.
“Well?” Lefty prompts impatiently. “You Shelby?”
“Sorry — afraid not.” I swallow hard. “Shelby called me this morning and said she wasn’t feeling well. Asked me to step in and cover her class.”