And I realize I actually mean it, even after such a short period of time.
I clear my throat of its sudden tightness. “Just don’t start spouting worldly mysticism. Telling me to go to my happy place or something.”
“That’s actually one of the relaxation techniques—using imagery to promote a sense of well-being. What’s something you find peaceful?”
“Boxing.”
She huffs. “You can’t use a violent sport as your happy place.”
I keep at bay the grin that wants to break free. “Well, too bad. That’s the place I’m most at peace.”
She considers it, tapping a thumb against her chin. “What’s relaxing about it?”
“The repetition. Your mind can’t drift off. It has to stay focused on what’s next.”
“And that’s not stressful?”
“It’s a break from everything else.”
“Well, to each their own.” She shrugs. “Okay, imagine you’re in a boxing ring…” Her face scrunches up in frustration. “All right, I’m out of my depth. Describe it to me.”
I close my eyes. “I’d be using the punching bag, not in the ring.”
“Okay,” she says easily.
“It’s just me and the bag, working on combos, hitting it over and over until everything else disappears.”
My words drift off, and when I open my eyes, she’s grinning at the monitor. “See.” She points excitedly. “Your muscle tension is the lowest it’s been since we’ve started. Weird that talking about something you tense your muscles for would make it lower, but whatever works.”
I actually do feel more relaxed. Huh.
“What boxing is for you,” she says, still looking at the screen, “that’s what biofeedback was for me. A lifeline when my mind was out of control. That and therapy.”
I sit up straighter in my chair. “You did therapy?”
“Mm-hmm.” There’s no shame in her voice. “I still have anxiety and flare-ups during stressful times but nothing like it used to be. Keeping on top of it helps. Kind of like preventative maintenance.”
“You don’t mind telling people you went to therapy?”
“Sometimes,” she admits. “There’s certainly a stigma surrounding it. But I figure another psych major can relate more than most.”
I nod noncommittally but stay silent. My mom put me in therapy in high school, but I refused to talk. Ironic now that it’s my major, but I’ve never been interested in talking about my feelings or becoming the kind of psychologist that says, And how does that make you feel while sitting in an overstuffed armchair. Personally, I don’t believe discussing your problems will solve them. Only doing something about them does. And there are some things you can’t do anything about. They’re out of your control. Like family.
My plan is to go into the research side of psychology. Where concrete facts and data rule, not emotions and feelings.
“So how was the biofeedback?” she asks, bringing my attention back to her. I glance down, trying to think of a way to word it.
“You liked it, didn’t you?” she teases.
I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
“We could keep doing it every week if you’d like. It might help.”
“You think I need help? There’s something wrong with me?” It comes out more harshly than I intended, my mind still on that period years ago of my own therapy, and she flinches back.
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“No, sorry,” I mutter, pulling the electrodes off me. “We don’t need to do it again.”
“Okay,” she says in a small voice, shrinking in on herself.
Guilt courses through me immediately. See, this is why I don’t get close to girls. They’re too fragile, try to worm their way under your skin. Well, I’m not inviting her in, no matter how much she keeps knocking.
I undo the band around my chest and set it on the desk, then gather my things. “See you.”
She nods silently, eyes wide, and turns her back to me to put away the parts of the biofeedback machine.
Good, that’s how it should be. Little to no fraternization.
Still, she catches me looking at her as she turns around once more and I quickly exit, ready to box for real.
I inhale deeply the smell of sweat, of hard work. Wins and losses, triumph and failure.
I’ve never thought of Marty’s Boxing Gym as my happy place, but I guess it is. At the very least, it lets me forget about everything else for a while.
I wrap my hands, winding the long strip of cloth over my knuckles and through my fingers, then head over to a free punching bag, building up my speed until I’m going full throttle, in the zone. Whenever those moments from the lab creep back in, I punch them out, focusing on the soreness of my arms, the ache in my hands.
The hurt on Mia’s face.
No, not that. I don’t care about that.
Why should it matter to me if I hurt her feelings? Jesus, working with her is making me soft already. Next thing I know, she’ll have me lying on a therapist’s couch, discussing how my childhood traumatized me or some shit like that.
I mean, it kind of did, but whatever. I deal with it. And when it gets to be too much, I box it out, lose myself in the work, the sweat. I don’t need help from anyone else. Even if it worked for her. I have my own methods.
“What are you so mad about?”
I startle out of my reverie, surprised Ethan was able to sneak up on me. “Nothing,” I mumble, wiping the sweat out of my eyes with the back of my hand.
His dark brows rise but he otherwise lets it be. “Figured you’d be here when you never came home.”
My first instinct is to make a snide comment, but I’ve already pissed off my quota of people for the day. “You here to train?” I ask instead.
“Lawrence is busy today.” He nods to the heavily muscled man in his mid-forties in the ring right now guiding Kevin, one of the gym’s many aspiring boxers.
“You looking to spar?”
“If you’re willing.” He grins, knowing full well I never say no. I was the one who got him into boxing after all. And he’s somehow become even more of a fanatic than me.
Ethan moved into the house we rent a year and a half ago at the beginning of his freshman year, replacing a senior that had just graduated who was a real douche. Though I tried keeping my distance, we somehow ended up becoming friends. He’s the type of guy that somehow gets along with everyone with his easy grins and booming laughs.
I grab two boxing pads off the shelf as he wraps his hands and slips on his gloves, then call out combos for him. I’m no Lawrence or Marty, the owner of the gym, but he can make do with me for the time being.
We’re only a few minutes in before Erickson comes slinking around. With his shaved head and unnaturally big arms with tattoos running the length of them, he thinks he’s some kind of badass instead of just an annoying snot. He’s always seemed to have it out for me, though I’ve never done anything to deliberately provoke him. I think it’s just because he can tell I don’t give a fuck about him.
“Jenkins, still sitting out? When will you be ready to fight me for real?” he sneers, looking me up and down.
I glance over, barely acknowledging him, then continue giving commands to Ethan. It kills Erickson to be ignored.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” he says, puffing out his chest, as if that means anything to me.
I don’t reply and after a few moments he gives up, huffing angrily as he stalks off.
Ethan pauses in his punches after he’s out of sight, green eyes crinkling at the corners. “When are you going to give him the approval he so desperately craves from you?”
“Over my cold, dead body.”
I go in early for our next shift at the Stress Lab and set everything up, making sure everything is just so. It’s only because I have extra time today. Not because of… anything else.
Mia enters ten minutes later, meeting my eye as she sets h
er backpack down and unzips it, bringing out a sealed container. There’s something dark inside. It’s not more cupcakes, is it? I could eat those things all damn day.
“What’s that?” I ask, too curious to contain myself.
“Brownies.” She takes off the lid to reveal decadently dark chocolate brownies, the aroma of pure cocoa wafting out of the Tupperware making my mouth water.
I reach in and take one, the inside rich and gooey when I take a bite, exactly how I like it. Damn, that’s good. “Why’d you make them?”
She fiddles with the lid, scratching her nail against the plastic. “I just— I felt bad about the other day. I wasn’t at all implying that you need help, but that I’ve personally found it helpful, so I thought you might too.”
I stare at her, pausing my chewing. I was the one that practically yelled at her, and now she’s apologizing to me? “Why are you so nice?”
She startles. “What?”
“Is it some kind of mind game? Where you kill me with kindness?”
Her eyes widen, like a deer trapped in headlights.
“You’re rewarding my bad behavior, you know.” I grab another brownie, this one as delectable as the last.
“I’m doing what?” she asks, belatedly finding her voice.
“Every time I’m nasty with you, you’re nice about it. You invite me to co-author the paper, you bake cupcakes, now brownies. It’s almost like you’re asking me to do something else.”
She narrows her eyes, finally picking up on what I’m saying. “So you recognize the way you’re behaving and actively choose to continue doing it?”
I shrug, finishing the rest of the dessert. I reach for another one but she closes the container before I can stick my hand in. “Hey, I thought you made those for me.”
“You have to say something nice before you get any more.” She stares at me defiantly, the same way she did that day at the library.
My mouth turns up at the corner all on its own. “You bake fucking delicious desserts.”
Her lips twitch. “Something else,” she says, holding the brownies hostage.
“I like your hair.” The words escape before I even realize what I’m saying.
Her eyes widen again and she reaches a hand up to her curls contained in a high ponytail on top of her head. “You do?”
“Yeah,” I say softly, watching her loop a finger through the strands, glints of sun-kissed bronze among the brown. Then I realize the brownies are up for grabs and snatch them out of her hands, popping off the lid to inhale another. “How many of these did you make?”
“Enough for all the participants today.” She releases her hair and peers into the container. “If you stop eating them all.”
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “It could skew the results.” Crumbs inadvertently spew out of my mouth, but I ignore it. “With the way these taste, they’d automatically be in a better mood after eating them.”
She purses her lips, looking off in the distance for a second. “You’re right. I didn’t think of that.”
“More for me now.” I grab another and she finally takes the Tupperware back, claiming one for herself before closing it up and stowing it in her bag.
“Hey, I’ll be good.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” She smiles. “And I’ll bring more next week if you keep being good.”
“You trying to train me like a dog or something?”
“Your words, not mine.” She smirks as our first participant knocks on the door.
Chapter Five
Mia
“I never said that!” the woman on the screen yells. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Oh, you totally said that,” Kelsey laughs, her attention rapt on the television.
I carefully rinse the dish in my hand and place it in the drying rack. The kitchen sink is directly in front of the breakfast bar, which gives a full view of the living room, which also means I have a prime view of The Real Housewives of Whatever Kelsey loves watching.
I can’t stand it, but she always turns her nose up when I suggest binge watching The Office or Parks & Rec. I guess a bunch of catty ladies having manufactured fights is more interesting to her.
“When will dinner be ready?” she calls out from her spot on the couch.
I glance behind me at the timer. “The noodles will be finished in five minutes.”
“You didn’t put onions in the sauce, did you? I’m allergic to them.”
Allergic, my ass. She just doesn’t like the texture. “I’m aware of your aversion to them.”
I finish the dishes and serve up the spaghetti, paying more attention to playing an anagram word game on my phone than the two blondes on screen arguing about someone’s wedding.
I ignore Kelsey’s commentary and retreat to my room afterward, bringing up the shared Google Drive with the results we have so far from the study.
Tyler has created a spreadsheet much more organized than what I would have expected from him, every piece of data neatly in its place, the columns and rows filled with numbers. It all seems so overwhelming until I start isolating it into individual participant responses. No one’s name is on the spreadsheet, just a unique ID number, so I can’t match up a person with the readings, but overall things are looking good. There’s only a couple weeks’ worth of data, but everyone’s levels are stable or on a downward trend, particularly the physical activity group.
Looks like you picked the wrong topic. Tyler’s doing better.
It’s not a competition. Besides, I want us both to succeed.
Dr. Price will see how much better Tyler’s idea was and invite only him to continue working in the lab senior year.
It’ll take time for the participants to build up the necessary skills for biofeedback to truly help. Speaking of, I consciously release the tension in my shoulders, shaking my limbs out until I’m loose, and go back out to the kitchen, pulling out the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.
Someone has to train Tyler right.
“Thanks, Brad, I’ll see you next week.”
“All right,” Tyler declares, folding his arms across his chest once the door shuts behind our last participant of the day. “What’s in there?” He nods toward my bag, where my red Tupperware full of cookies is peeking out.
“What’s in where?” I feign confusion.
“I’ve been good the whole time.” He makes like he’s going to reach into my bag and I slap his hand away.
“You’ve been neutral. I don’t think you’ve said two words to me.”
“That’s me being nice. Trust me.”
I pull out the cookies, opening the lid, and my mouth immediately starts to water. I take a single cookie out, holding it under my nose and inhale deeply. “Mmm.” I sigh as I bite into it, the chocolate melting on my tongue.
“I feel like I’m watching food porn,” he comments, looking longingly at the container in my hands.
Cookie crumbs spray out of my mouth and onto the floor as I choke a little bit, thumping on my chest so it’ll go down. “You can’t say stuff like that when I’m eating.”
“Guess you should have shared, then.”
I hold out the Tupperware to him and he gleefully grabs two. “Fuck, that’s delicious,” he says around a mouthful as he crams the first one in. “How’d you get to be such a good baker?”
I nibble on a second cookie, taking small bites in case he decides to say something ridiculous again. “I’ve been baking as long as I can remember. Everyone always likes dessert.”
“So you bake for others?”
I tilt my head, thinking about that for a moment. “Yeah, I guess so. I like sharing.”
He steps closer and grabs another cookie. “Do you do it so people will like you?”
I startle slightly. “What?”
“If you give things to people, they’ll like you for it.”
Is that what I do? “I-I’ve never thought about it that way.”
“You don’t have to keep bri
bing me. But I won’t say no to whatever you bring in.”
I raise my brows. “So it’s working, then?”
“Unfortunately.” He grins.
My breath catches as he unleashes the full force of his smile. His brooding faces and little half smirks here and there don’t hold a candle to the real thing.
I clear my throat, grabbing one more cookie before closing up the container. “So are you actually going to say anything nice?” I wave it in front of him enticingly.
He eyes me carefully, that intelligent mind of his working. “You’re good at the biofeedback stuff,” he says finally, and I get the sense that compliments from him come few and far between. “You have the kind of bedside manner that people respond well to. You plan on specializing in therapy?”
I nod.
“You’ll be good at it.” He grabs the cookie out of my hand while I’m not paying attention and stuffs it in his mouth. “And if it doesn’t work out, you can start a second career as a baker.”
My cheeks heat at his praise, even though I asked for it, and I turn toward my backpack to hide my face from his, trying to jam the Tupperware back in. But of course it makes everything fall out instead.
I bend down and scramble to pick up the loose papers and textbooks, heat licking at my cheeks. Tyler surprisingly bends down to help, handing me my textbook for my Psychology of Motivation class.
“You’re taking Motivation?”
“Yeah.” I glance around on the floor and underneath the desks. Did I miss anything?
“With Clark?”
“Huh?” I look up at him, his bright blue eyes trained on me. “No. Professor Hoskins.”
“Clark’s killing me. She just assigned this stupid project. We have to keep track of what we do and our motives behind them. And that’s on top of the quizzes and papers and everything else.”
I gather the last of my things and tuck it all away, zipping up my backpack tightly. “Maybe it’ll give you some much needed insight into your psyche. Oh and now you can add something to your log. Was nice to Mia to get cookies.”
Under Pressure (Lessons Learned Book 1) Page 4