Chapter Eleven - Lucas

I’d been in such a good mood following my meeting, and now my day has taken an annoyingly dramatic downhill turn. I’d assumed Samantha would figure out who I was eventually, but her confronting me like this? Acting like her failing business is my fault? It’s ridiculous, and spending time in this conversation is the last thing I want to be doing right now.

I wasn’t looking for a fight. But Samantha clearly is, and she’s going after everything about my business and what we do.

“Your way is the only way, is that it?” I ask, annoyed. Maybe more than annoyed. I can’t help but think she’s being really unfair and unreasonable here.

“It’s certainly better than your way! I help people feel good about themselves!” Samantha says.

“So do I!” I say.

Samantha glares at me. “No. You help people feel ‘hot.’ You yell at people and surround them with intimidating machines and people with perfect bodies. You make people feel like shit unless they fit your mold of what exercise should be,” Samantha says scathingly.

“You let people move their arms around for an hour and pretend that’s exercise!” I snap. “You let people delude themselves into thinking they’re getting in shape when all they’re doing is ‘feeling positive.’”

“So, it doesn’t fit your mold of what exercise should be?” Samantha asks, throwing her own words back at me like she thinks I’m proving her point.

I’m frustrated and more than a little irritated. I’ve just spent the morning hearing all about how exercise my way literally saves lives. Hearing Samantha talks about it like this puts me on the defensive.

“You can be self-righteous with me all you want about how I’m destroying a neighborhood with my shit brand of exercise. It won’t help you with your problems!” I say.

Samantha visibly bristles. “My problems? What problems are those?” she asks, her voice low and sharp. I don't really know her, but I can tell she’s really angry.

“Come on. You wouldn’t be this mad about my business being a success if yours wasn’t failing!” I say. I’m probably crossing a line. I’m being a jerk, and I know I am, but I think I have a right to be angry. I might be being an ass, but I’m being provoked.

“My business,” Samantha says with her hands on her hips, “is doing great, for your information.”

“Good to know,” I say, “although we probably have different definitions of great.”

“I’m sure we do. Mine involves helping the community and giving back, and yours involves providing hot tubs after workouts and charging people double for the luxury,” Samantha says.

“We don’t have hot tubs, but sauna use is actually included in all memberships. Interested in joining up?” I ask sarcastically. The last thing I want to hear today is a guilt trip from a woman who’d crossed a street to yell at me.

“Do I get a good neighbor discount?” Samantha says back, just as sarcastic.

“Do you need one? I thought your business was doing well,” I say. Samantha flushes. I’m being an absolute jackass, but I’ve never been good at backing down. My temper has always risen quickly. People tell me I’m too stubborn for my own good. Maybe I am, but I’m really not sure I’m the one who is out of line here.

“It’s doing better than you’d like it to be,” Samantha says. “We’ve been here for years, and we’ll be here years after you open. Maybe years after people get tired of you and you shut down.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” I ask.

“We will,” Samantha says, stiffening. “I’m sure you’ll see it firsthand with all the spying on me you do.”

“Don’t be sanctimonious. You were obviously spying on me too,” I say, scoffing. “You seem to know an awful lot about me – or think you do, anyway.”

“I don’t have to spy. I can see right through your giant windows!” Samantha says. I laugh darkly. I try to picture Samantha standing outside the complex, glaring in at me through the windows. It’s so outlandish that it’s almost funny.

“My windows are an internet search engine? They showed you pictures of my other gyms?” I say.

“I was just getting information on the competition,” Samantha says, throwing my own words back at me.

“Competition,” I repeat, making it as dry and derisive as possible. Samantha’s face gets even redder.

“Probable more competition than you can handle,” she says with a bravado that would be impressive if it weren’t so irritating. “Now, If you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run.”

“As do I,” I say.

Samantha glares at me again and then turns on her heel and walks away, ending the conversation.

I’m still annoyed as hell as I walk back to my car. Samantha has no idea what my business is actually like. I’m sure she’s never set foot in one of my gyms. She’s making assumptions about me and my business based on nothing and then throwing them in my face.

I’d been feeling almost guilty about the idea of shutting Samantha and her center down. But right now, I’m so angry that I don’t feel guilty at all. I make a snap decision and call my real estate agent. I tell him to put in a call to the owner of the fitness center’s building. I wonder what amount of money it would take to get him to part with it. I wonder if I couldn’t just end this for good.