Why are they called dumbbells anyway?
That’s such a weird name.
Dumbbells.
Dumb bells.
Bells can’t be dumb, they aren’t even alive!
Psh.
The person who came up with that was dumb.
A real dumbbell.
Haaaaaa.
I giggle to myself and lean back on my elbows. I feel strange — like I’ve stepped inside an impressionist painting. It’s all one big pastel smear of light and sound.
I’m living in a Van Gogh!
Huh.
Van Gogh.
He probably smoked a lot of weed.
There’s no way he painted Starry Night sober.
When I share this observation with Chloe, she hiccups out a laugh. “Dude, you’re so high.”
I glance at my legs, extended out in front of the mats we’re sitting on. “We’re actually pretty low to the ground.”
“Not exactly what I meant.”
“Chloe.”
“What?”
“Serious question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why are they called dumbbells?”
She giggles and the sound is so infectious, I can’t help laughing too. The sound of my laughter only spurs her on and, soon, we’re both bent over, gasping for air, tears in our eyes. It’s not until Galizia finds us a few moments later that we’re finally able to pull ourselves together.
“Really?” My bodyguard looks down on us, her expression radiating disapproval. “I leave you two alone for ten minutes and you hot-box the training center?”
We dissolve into giggles again.
“Come on. Up you go.” Galizia yanks us both to our feet and starts herding us toward the gym doors. Her deep sigh barely permeates the fog in my head as we move toward the exits. “I guess you won’t need this ice for your hand, Princess — my guess is, you’re not feeling much pain anymore.”
“None!” I grin, lifting my bruised hand triumphantly overhead in a fist-pump.
“You’ll feel it tomorrow,” Chloe announces cheerfully, looping her arm through mine. “In your head, at the very least.”
Galizia snorts, holding open the exit doors for us. Chloe glances at her as we slip outside onto the dark grounds.