“Romy! I need your head in the game, kid. Focus. Determination.” Marc snaps his fingers in front of my face.

All the fantasies I had conjured about donuts and non-diet cola evaporate into fat air.

How did he know I wasn’t thinking gymly thoughts?

I study his face as I run. From up here on the treadmill, it almost looks as if he’s a villainous cartoon character, his eyes dark under his thick brows.

“Romy!” he snaps.

“Yes, Marc,” I say, my hands still tight fists as my feet pump up and down, racing to nowhere in this gym.

Marc glances at the dial on the treadmill in front of me, then presses the button to increase the incline a little.

I feel it.

I feel it in my thighs, my calf muscles—I swear, even my brain takes on some of the load. The familiar ache of physical activity washes over my body. Pain in my side. Air tight and choking in my throat.

“Keep pushing for another two minutes. Come on, team. You. Can. Do it!” Marc raises a hand in the air, cheering on the group.

Around me, some of his trainees manage weak cheers, while others keep their eyes fixed straight ahead, as if they’re only on these treadmills due to the force of sheer willpower.

“One more.” Marc hits the increase button again.

“Marc,” I breathe, shaking my head. My feet race to keep up. This—this is too much. Too fast. Too soon.

“Come on, kid. Push, push, push!” he yells.

“Trying,” I breathe, but I can’t. My feet slip farther back on the ramp. My body is too weak.

I stab at the machine, searching for the button to slow it all down. I need out. I can’t keep doing this anymore.

“No!” he yells. His hands cover the dials on my machine.

“I—”

“Keep on keeping on!”

It’s not encouraging.

It’s scary.

My legs start to slip. “Marc, I—”

“Ah!”

I snap my head toward the long wail. Two machines over, a man in a bright pink tank—maybe he’s a Trevor? We’ve been training together for weeks, but names never seem important—is sprawled next to his machine, clutching at his ankle. In front of him, the machine whirs, the long board racing without any passenger.

“Shit,” Marc mutters under his breath before jogging to the older man’s side.

I use the opportunity to turn down the speed on my machine, slowing to a walk.

My body loves me for it. It’s as if all my muscles throw a party in celebration. They relax, kick off their shoes, and practically have a glass of wine as my lungs draw breath in slower, the height of my knees comes lower and lower as the machine whirs to an eventual stop. I grab my hand towel and swipe at my forehead, then the back of my neck, my chest. I’m a sweaty, heaving mess.

Marc helps the injured man over to the front desk, where a woman ducks out from behind reception and somehow lowers the giant patient onto a stretcher bed behind her chair. Does this happen so often they have a recovery mattress on standby?

“Okay, nice work, team.” Marc claps his hands, walking back to his students. “Gather ’round, gather ’round.” He waves us in, and like good little exercising sheep, we follow. “I know we’ve just seen one of our men go down, but that’s no reason to stop now. If we do that, we’re letting them win. The haters. The people who think you can’t do this.”

His dark eyes needle every member of the group as if this really is a war zone and we’re fighting for our lives. “You are here because you are determined. You are fierce. And you have . . .” He spins in a circle, his arms wide as he casts his gaze over his group of seven students. “And you haaaaaaaave . . .” He waves his hands, waiting for us to fill in the blanks of the motto he’s recited to us since day one.

“Hardcore strength,” we utter as one. A guy across the way from me fist pumps the air. A woman on her way to the locker room, yoga mat coiled under her arm, snickers.

“That’s right.” Marc nods, pleased. “We’re going to end the session tonight with some sparring work. I want you to team up and practice the combinations we ran through last week. Gloves and pads are over here.” He jumps once, twice, then heads over to the pile of blue foam and rubber in the corner. “Romy, since we now have uneven numbers, you can train with me.”

I nod, pick up a pair of gloves, and join him in one corner of the room. “How’s Trevor?”

“He’s fine,” Marc answers quietly, and I see a flicker of something in his gaze—uncertainty? Self-doubt, perhaps? “Hope he’s okay.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a shock.” I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. “Are you all right?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking vulnerable for a moment. Poor Marc. Maybe we don’t have that spark that I had when I was with Elio—that lying, rat bastard—but he’s a good person. He genuinely cares about his clients. I rest one gloved hand on his forearm.

He shrugs me off. “Romy, that thing’s not even close to clean.” He eyes the glove with disgust. And my hand is inside it? Gross! “And I’m sure it’ll be okay. I just can’t remember if I updated my insurance details when I moved to the bigger premises. So help me God, if I’m out of pocket because he was too imbecilic to operate a treadmill . . .”

I raise my eyebrows. That’s a little cold. “You’ll what? Push him until he collapses from exhaustion again?”

“That mouth . . .” He shakes his head, stepping closer. His voice lowers to a dirty husk. “I don’t want you giving me lip service unless you’re wrapping those babies around my big, hard cock.”

Holy hotcakes. I may not have butterflies, but I have a working and sex-deprived vagina, and she is so pleased to hear those words. He gazes at me, his muscles tense. So do mine.

“Let’s train,” I say, more eager than usual to get this session done. Maybe we could spend some time working out entirely different muscles of our body afterward.

“Okay.” He slips the pads around his hands and steps back.

Around us, the thud, thud, thud of gloves making impact reaches me, and I lean in and strike my first punch.

“Weak.” Marc shakes his head. “Harder.”

“Okay.” I bounce from foot to foot, my tired muscles protesting as I sway. I draw back my fist, skip a little closer, and—

“Harder!”

“’Kay.” I step back, tensing my muscles and preparing to strike again. He can be a real jerk when we train.

“Harder, Romy!” he yells at my next attempt. “Hit me like you mean it!”

“I’m trying!” I yell back. Anger builds in me as I tense for my next strike.

“Harder!”

Punch.

“Harder!”

Punch.

“Harder! You’re being a pussy!” he yells.

Something in me flips.

How dare he? This may be his place of work. That may be his training method—calling us out, pushing us for more—but calling me names when he’s supposed to care about me, when we’ve been on a date, for Christ’s sake? That’s going too far.

Since I started training, I’ve lost a fair bit of weight, but I’ve gained pounds when it comes to self-esteem.

This time, I don’t step back to prepare for my next attack.

I launch, like a rocket, straight at his fist.

Glove connects with pad. A resounding thud fills the air. Marc staggers ever-so-slightly, and yes. It feels good. Taking out my pain feels good.

“Better, but you can keep it coming,” he growls, and I do.

Because I am better than this.

Better than him.

Punch.

You push me too hard.

Punch.

I hate wheatgrass, and kale, and your stupid smoothies aren’t even as good as you think.

Punch.

Why does Elio have a wife?

Punch.

Punch.

Punch.

Punch.

Punch.

“Enough.” Marc nods.

But it’s not.

It’s not enough.

I punch at those stupid blue pads again and again. Tears prick the backs of my eyes as I let all the anger, all that rage inside of me loose. Because how dare Elio lead me on? How dare he make me think that maybe I was good enough just the way I was, then rip the rug out from under my feet with his surprise family reveal? And how dare he make me fall in love with him?

How.

Punch.

Dare.

Punch.

He?

On the last throw, I collapse. Energy leaves my body, and I hunch over on the floor. My breath comes heavy through my nose. My chest feels like a balloon with not enough air, struggling to stay inflated.

Slowly, I peel the gloves off my hands. I slump over my legs, my palms flat against the cool rubber matting. When did I get so angry? When did all that sadness over Elio turn into something else?

A warm hand lands on my shoulder, and I look up. Marc stands there, water bottle in hand, a kind expression in his eyes. “Here,” he says, holding it out for me.

Grateful, I nod, taking the bottle and bringing it to my lips. I can’t speak, not yet. Not when I’m unsure if words or sobs will be first to come out.

He squats beside me, looking me in the eye. “You’re getting better. Stronger.” He nods. “And I know that whatever it was that just made you so mad out there, you’re better off for letting it go.”

And as he walks away, I can’t help but wonder if he’s right.

* * *

I shouldn’t do it.

There’s no way that buying this book is a good idea, yet once again, I find myself lingering in front of the store window, staring at The Brothers Karamazov. The building’s awning protects me from the rain pouring down onto the street behind me, and I step closer to the shop front, partly to avoid the overflow, but partly because it’s still there.

No one’s bought it yet. Of course they haven’t. It’s Elio’s book, and the idea of someone else enjoying it seems foreign to me.

I’ve known the truth about his family for just shy of three weeks. That initial pain, that sting I felt when I realized he’d led me on, it’s disappeared. In its place is just a dull sort of hurt, like a bruise that’s been poked too often but is starting to fade. Maybe from all the times I imagined his face at boxing.

“The books don’t bite.”

I glance over to the short curly-haired woman leaning in the doorframe.

“You’re welcome to come inside and take a look.” She gestures to the store behind her. “I won’t follow you around and force you to purchase a heap of books you don’t want or need.”

I manage a smile and glance at my chunky wristwatch. I guess I could have a quick look before I head back home and finish work for the day.

Thirty minutes later, I’m in heaven and have no intention of leaving. This place is . . . it’s everything. There are so many different titles on display, some older, some newer, some autographed, some first editions—I even find a stunning illustrated version of Sleeping Beauty, and I hug it close to my chest. Mine.

But it’s the book in the window, the one that screamed Elio to me when I first walked past, that keeps pulling me back. I slide it out of the display, turning it over in my hands. The leather is worn butter-soft, and the gold embossing on the spine has faded to a dull glow, the last embers of a fire burning out. As I close my eyes, run one finger over the cover, I picture Elio doing the same.

He holds it reverently, as if it’s the most precious item in the world. Those long, graceful fingers slide over the cover, flicking the book open. He looks across at me with those liquid chocolate eyes, his voice low and deep as he thanks me—

And then I walk away.

That familiar anger still licks at the base of my mind, but the flames don’t burn as bright. He flirted inappropriately, but he didn’t cross any lines. It takes two to tango, and I all but threw myself at him. He probably figured I knew he was a family man the moment I met Coco.

And even though I know I’ll never go back to those daily café visits, and even though I know the magic I found inside Bittersweet has well and truly gone, I find myself hugging the book close to my chest and walking it to the counter.

Elio would love it.

And while I may finally be making progress when it comes to falling out of love with him, that doesn’t mean I can’t do this one nice thing.