Nemesis

by Skye McDonald

  Which, I guess, it was. God, maybe I was losing it.

  Megan and I were nervous about keeping up at our first “all levels” CrossFit class the following week. Tuesdays were for novices, but this Wednesday was our 3rd time. It would be a true test of how dedicated we might be to this new adventure.

  “I’m mentally in the pub already,” Megs declared on our way into the gym.

  “You’re mentally already flirting with—you’re kidding me.” My dig about Adam died the same moment that my feet stopped moving. “Oh, god, please no.”

  Megan’s blonde ponytail whipped her face when she spun to me. “What’s wrong?”

  “We have to leave. Come on, find the fire escape.”

  “We are not leaving! What’s wrong with you?”

  I nodded pointedly and spoke without moving my lips as if stealth would somehow help the situation. “See that guy in the blue shirt and black shorts?”

  She pulled me forward but followed my gaze. I dragged ass, watching her brows lift when she spotted the target. “Might you mean that hot guy in the blue shirt?”

  “Megan Riley, shut up!”

  “Woman, have you lost your sense? That man—”

  Was striding our way. She squeezed my arm while I braced against the annoyed gaze locked on me.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Will said.

  “Took the words out of my mouth. What are you doing here?”

  “The same thing I’ve done every Wednesday for two years. Don’t remember seeing you around before.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “This is our first all levels class. We got the intro package.”

  Will hummed. Megan still gripped my arm. I lowered my hand, and he sighed and turned toward the class. “Good luck keeping up,” he said as he walked away.

  I glanced at Meg, who finally released me. “Have I ever mentioned Tom’s friend, Will?”

  Her lips twitched. “Mr. Douchebag Know It All who’s invaded your house for the summer?”

  “That’d be him.”

  She laughed. “Well, slap me twice and call me Shirley, he was not what I’d pictured.”

  I pinched her, but she just laughed again and hurried us to the group.

  We warmed up with jumping jacks and push-ups. Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care, repeated rhythmically with every clap of my hands or bend of my elbows. Halfway through, I changed to Screw him, just to shake things up. So what if he was into my newest thing? I could kick ass and pretend he wasn’t there.

  But then the instructor announced that the workout was a partner activity. I latched onto Megs, but died inside when we heard, “Newer people should be sure to buddy with a more seasoned friend.”

  “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I turned, more than a little surprised Will had voluntarily approached me. The cocky smirk on his face didn’t dismay me in the least. He crossed his arms, the contours of his thick biceps straining the deep blue fabric stretched across his broad chest.

  Wait. No. His stupid arms were crossed over his stupid chest. End of story.

  Megan laughed. “You two have fun.” She blew me a kiss and vanished.

  I squared to Will. All around us, friendly-looking people paired up and gave each other pep talks. In my icy corner, I shivered and stared my nemesis down. “You think I’m scared?”

  He chuckled. “Never. But I’ll make sure you can’t move when you’re done.”

  “You’d love to put me in traction, wouldn’t you?” His brow lifted, and I huffed. “Whatever. Bring it, Langer.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Kettlebell swings, jumping jacks, pull-ups, and burpees sound like a reasonable workout, but a WOD, aka workout of the day, is killer. This was an “AMRAP,” as many reps as possible for one minute each. We would do each exercise three times over with a minute rest in between. The point of partners was for support, both physically and emotionally, but I expected very little of either.

  We took our place in the circuit to wait for the starting buzzer. I bent in half and touched my toes, my ponytail cascading over my head.

  “You should tighten that elastic so your hair doesn’t distract you.”

  I righted my posture. Arguing was pointless because he was right, but no way could I let Will Langer tell me what to do. “Should I tuck my shirt into my pants, too? Or maybe just take it off?”

  His eyes glinted. “Your words, not mine.”

  I ignored that and gestured at his clothes. Stepping closer, I pointed to the matching blue headband that kept his black hair off his forehead. “Whatever. Not all of us can afford a designer gym outfit.”

  Will swatted me away, but he seemed very far from his usual annoyed self. “A, I don’t call my clothes outfits. B, you should. It’s hot as balls in here, and the shirt helps with wicking sweat. The shorts, well,” he shrugged. “They’re just really comfortable. Like wearing a hug. I mean, a hug for my ass, but still.”

  Giggles bubbled out of me without warning. I clapped a hand over my mouth and doubled over. Since when was Will funny?

  His words replayed in my head, and I stopped and made my hands into a T. “Hold up. A week ago, you were asking me what tripping balls meant, but now it’s ‘hot as balls’ in here?”

  He blinked several times. “Er, well, I suppose it was a funny phrase. Must’ve stuck in my head more than I realized.”

  “My my, what have we here? Looks like I might be rubbing off on you a little bit.”

  Despite his dark complexion, Will flushed. His eyes sparked with mischief, though. “Now there’s a phrase.”

  “Oh shut up, you know what I meant.” I laughed again, glad to let it be an excuse for why my own cheeks were warm.

  A grin was clearly trying to break free on his lips when I wiped my eyes and reached to tighten my ponytail. He managed to keep it in check. Shame. When he’d smiled on the 4th at my South Park joke, it really had been a pleasant sight.

  The countdown clock to start the workout went to under a minute. Will glanced at it and nodded at me. “Game face, Milani. Let’s do this.”

  The whistle blew. Side-by-side, we swung the kettlebells, threw them down, and went straight into jacks before running to the pull-up bar. Will did a bunch of reps while I fumbled with the assist strap. He looked over, and I scowled.

  “Don’t tease me. I need the support.”

  “It’s okay. Wait.” He stepped close and placed both hands on my waist so I could steady my feet in the strap. “Is that good?”

  A little too good. I nodded, battling to stay focused on the task when I could still feel where his hands had been on me. Why were my sides so warm? Did he squeeze me a little, or did I imagine that?

  He stepped away, and I finished my first pull. Will assessed my form with an approving nod before he finished his reps, but he helped me down when the whistle blew. He definitely squeezed me then… Or I’m delirious already. Probably that one.

  “Now, drop for burpees,” he said.

  Jesus, this was tough. By round three, my imagination had no time to surface thanks to the hectic pace. Even the jumping jacks were a struggle. I became convinced they were shortening the rest minute more and more every time. “Pick up your feet” and, “Hold your form” were the only encouragement I received, but Will’s gruff directions did make me grit my teeth and push harder.

  My hands could barely hold the bar when he steadied me for the last time, but Will seemed to be able to go forever. He curled up and called me out when I failed to get my chin over the bar.

  I wailed. “I’m gonna vomit.”

  “Not until after the whistle. Final set, come on-umph,” Will grunted when I basically fell into his arms as he helped me out of the strap.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I gasped. I clutched his shoulders and scrambled to get my footing.

  We took a mutual step back. “Burpees,” he muttered.

  Jump back, pushup, jump up, high-five my partner. Again, again, again. My lungs burned, breath wheezed, and twenty
seconds were still on the clock. “Can’t…”

  “Hell yes, you can. You will not quit.” He smacked my hands with more force, and my hatred for him momentarily distracted me from the fact that I was dying.

  The whistle blew for the last time. Everyone applauded, but I collapsed on the mat, gulping air. “Shit,” I rasped. “Shit.”

  Will dropped beside me. “Well done.”

  My head lolled to the side to look at him. “Huh?”

  “Not that I’m surprised. You’ve always been good at what you want to be good at. And when you want to be good at something, well,” he shrugged, his gaze on the mat between his bent knees. “You’re incredible.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  I struggled to sit up. “Uh, thank you?”

  Will got to his feet in a single motion and pulled me up. He looked me in the eye, nodded once, and walked away.

  I was still reeling from his words as Megan and I hobbled to the showers. She tried to bring up my partner over beers and burgers, but I simply didn’t have the energy for the frustrating confusion that was Will Langer.

  Weirdest of all, neither of us mentioned our run-in to Tom.

  8

  Will

  I walked into the house deep in thought, barely saying hello to Tom and Maddie. Upstairs in that pastel-hued bedroom, I stretched out on the futon. I opened Google Photos and scrolled through old albums, way back to twelve years ago. Freshman year of college.

  I got my first cell phone before I boarded the bus out of Dallas. It was one of those prepaid deals that cost almost nothing and had terrible service. But it had a camera, and so the start of life in Tennessee was the start of my recorded history. Everything before existed in memory.

  Photography had quickly become a favorite hobby. I still enjoyed it, especially since now I could afford a top-of-the-line phone with the best camera available. The only problem was I worked too damn much to make good use of it anymore.

  But back in those early days of independence and learning to make my way, I roamed around Knoxville on weekends taking photos. Buildings, nature, and tiny details I spotted that no one else seemed to notice filled these old albums. At first, I’d sorted them by topic. As time went on, I’d reclassified them into years.

  My eyes skimmed over the shots as I scrolled, looking specifically for—

  Yep. That one.

  Tom’s and my dorm room on move-in day. The photo was of the two of us, standing together in the center of a freshly unpacked room. Our tight smiles said that we barely knew each other, but Claire had wanted a photo of her son and his new roommate, and so this pic had been snapped.

  My grin faded as I lowered the phone. The photo was a moment, but that day was what had been on my mind as I watched Liv crush tonight’s workout. Move-in day was the first time I met Liv Milani, and good god was I unprepared.

  Skinny body, disproportionately strong arms and shoulders, I walked on the University of Tennessee campus as an awkward, shy 18-year-old. All around me, station wagons were lined up. Fathers and mothers shuttled boxes into the dorms, smiling bittersweet smiles at their babies going off to college.

  I had a duffle bag, backpack, and two $100-dollar-bills in my wallet. I’d gotten off the bus downtown and walked about four miles to campus. After 20 hours on a Greyhound, the exercise had been welcome.

  According to the slip of paper tucked next to the Benjamins in my bifold, my dorm number was 514 of Morrill Hall. The elevator was packed, so I took the stairs and found myself in the common area for the floor. Kanye West and Tim McGraw vied for top billing from speakers in different rooms, but it all sounded like a cacophony to me. I didn’t even know who Kanye or Tim was, had never heard either of them in the home I grew up in. It would take a while to find my interest and taste in music.

  Mercifully, my wing of the t-shaped floor was quieter. I hurried to the end of the hall and slid my key into 514 to find half of the room partially furnished. Boxes were stacked, some still unopened, but posters were already up. The bed was neatly made.

  And occupied.

  All I could see from the doorway were legs, crossed at the knees and bent so one foot rested on the bed. Even from my angle, there was no question that the person on the bed was female. Her Converse sneakers were sideways on the floor, her socks were lime green, and she was reading Slaughterhouse-Five—one of the life-changing books I’d gotten my hands on Sophomore year of high school. One of the books that pushed me to break out of the ranch-and-religion world of my upbringing.

  I wasn’t thinking about that, though. My stomach was too busy knotting up in dismay. “Um,” was all I could manage.

  She snapped the book shut and sat up. Earbuds were yanked out as the novel was tossed aside; she swung her legs into a cross-legged pose.

  “Oh, hi,” she said with a smile.

  “Hi.”

  I didn’t know what else to say, and she seemed to be waiting for me to talk. This equated to us staring at each other for an eternally awkward moment before I forced myself to shuffle into the room. I skirted the perimeter to the empty bed, realizing as I did that I probably looked like a man in a lion’s cage. The girl watched me curiously, but I didn’t speak—or take my eyes from her—until I’d dropped my bags on the bare mattress.

  “Um, I… I didn’t…” I stumbled into silence, knots in my tongue. I hadn’t spoken in over a day, and besides that had no practice talking to unexpected strangers.

  “Sorry, uh, I didn’t realize this was a coed dorm,” I managed at last.

  Her eyes flickered back and forth quickly, but then she got to her feet and crossed her arms. “Well, obviously.”

  “Yeah, but I mean… it’s just that…” I scratched my head and reached for the slip of paper in my wallet with my dorm info on it. My roommate’s name was Tom Milani. As far as I knew—which wasn’t very far, honestly—there was no female name that Tom was short for.

  I looked at the girl again. She seemed young for a college freshman. She was tall, but her limbs were a little skinny for her hourglass figure. Besides that, she had braces. I frowned and looked at the paper again.

  She cleared her throat. Her voice was lower, rougher. “Yeah, we got lucky on that, huh? Plenty of chicks right here in the building. I know security can be a bitch, but I bet they’re not that strict, right?”

  My jaw unhinged when she winked at me.

  “Besides, I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine. We’ll make a code and shit, right buddy?”

  “Um.” Words didn’t even try to come to me.

  “What’s your name, pal?”

  “William.”

  “Billy, good to meet you. I’m Tom.”

  I cringed at the nickname but slowly stuck out my hand. She took it, gripped me so hard I thought my fingers would break, and then began to laugh. Her grip relaxed, but she didn’t release me. I stood there like a helpless dope—not like, I was a helpless dope—and she giggled like a schoolgirl.

  Which was exactly what she was.

  While we stood there holding hands, the door swung open. A guy stepped in. His head cocked in surprise at this absurd scene. A suspicious smile formed as he looked at my companion. “What are you doing?”

  She dropped my hand and tried to stop her laughter. “Just joking with your roomie,” she said sweetly. Behind Tom, a man and a woman appeared, loaded down with Target shopping bags.

  And me? Still the helpless dope.

  I shoved my hand into my pocket, only to take it out again when Tom crossed the room. “Hey, you’re William, right? Tom Milani. Good to meet you, dude. These are my parents, and I guess you already met Livi.”

  The girl scowled and pushed his shoulder. She stuck out her hand again. “It’s Olivia,” she declared with a spark in her eye.

  I hated her in that first moment.

  No, that’s a lie. I hated myself in that moment. Liv was, then and always, funny and brash and bold—the total opposite of me. I hated myself for bein
g so woefully unprepared for life on my own. I hated that I couldn’t find my tongue or have the sense to realize this kid was joking with me. I hated that she made me want to laugh at myself when I didn’t know how.

  I hated it—and I admired the hell out of her for it.

  As the years of college went by and I got to know the family, I moved past that hatred. I grew into myself, and then anytime Liv popped up in my life became an event. I was never sure what she’d say, how she’d make me laugh with some absurd remark, but she never failed to deliver.

  She was, from that first day on, exactly what she wanted to be. And whatever that was in the moment—from a prank-pulling smartass to a sweet little sis to Tom—she was incredible at it.

  Just like I’d told her.

  9

  Liv

  Me on Friday: “That’s right, Vanessa, my hair is brown and pink. Raise your hand if you have brown hair. Good! Now, what letter does pink start with? Good, Ryan! And what are some other things we can think of that are pink?”

  Me on Sunday: “Do you think that I need your help? Get over yourself. I don’t need your sympathy. You’ll be history in no time.”

  This summer was wild.

  The Sunday night fiasco was one of those moments where I knew I should’ve just walked away and didn’t, but damn. Megan was hell-bent on seeing Celeste’s ring and gushing over it while I was still getting my head around how this wedding would change the crew. Running into some redhead chick that was apparently Nick’s flavor of the month had been a bit too much for this girl to take. To be fair, she handled my attitude with a lot of style. I felt a little remorse at being so harsh, but screw you, Nick Field. Ghosting was for Tinder dates and guys you met on a night out, not for best friends.

  My cranky mood followed me into the next day. Tom’s shift was noon to midnight, so he got Maddie ready to stay with Mom and Dad while I stomped around the kitchen that morning. He gave me a concerned frown when I appeared with my purse and keys.