The Truth About Happily Ever After by Karole Cozzo
He has to shout for me to hear him. “What the hell are you doing?”
I spin around, see Miller in the doorway, and lose my balance, collapsing against the bag, which is as unyielding as ever. My chest is heaving uncontrollably, and I bend over in a useless attempt to catch my breath. Eventually I manage to stand up. And make a face at him. “Do you have some sensor that allows you to catch me at my absolute most humiliating moments?” I have to ask.
“Actually,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, “this time it wasn’t just me. You were attracting quite the crowd, because a class is about to start across the hall. I scared them off, though.”
I cringe, feeling my cheeks heat up. I must’ve looked like a crazy person.
“So, seriously, what the hell are you doing?”
I look back at the bag. I hate it. “I just wanted to … move the damn bag,” I tell him, throwing my hand in the air. “It’s refusing.” I give it a little kick for good measure. Still nothing.
Miller is very evidently biting his lip to keep from laughing at me. But he does manage to contain it. “Okay, well, first thing,” he tells me, coming into the room, walking to the corner, and selecting a pair of pink-and-black gloves with the Everlast logo on them from the shelf, “you need these.” He holds them up, then comes over to me. “And these ones are pretty and pink.” Miller raises one eyebrow. “Otherwise, at this rate, you’re going to break your hand, okay?”
“Right. I forgot that part.” I take the gloves from his outstretched hands.
A hint of a smile plays on his lips. He ducks his head to hide it, reaching past me to grab a roll of something that looks like colorful gauze. “You might as well wrap your wrists while you’re at it.”
“Seriously?” My brow furrows. “I just wanted to throw, like, one punch.”
Miller looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “If you’re gonna do it, do it right. Plus”—he glances back toward my nemesis—“that looked like more than one punch.” He gently taps the back of my right wrist with two fingers. “I’ll do it for you. Put your hands out.”
I put the gloves on the ground and extend both arms, and Miller snorts, then pantomimes the way my hands are dangling limply from my wrists. “Not like that.” He extends his hands so they’re lying flat and spreads his fingers. “Like you mean business. C’mon.”
I comply and he nods, satisfied. “Better.” He hooks the end loop of the wrap around my right thumb and circles the wrap around my wrist about three times. Then he pauses, gently sliding his thumb inside the wrapping, running it back and forth across the underside of my wrist, right where someone would take my pulse. “Not too tight, is it?”
It takes me a second to answer him, because I’m startled by the unexpected intimacy of the subtle motion of the pad of his thumb tickling my skin. “No. Don’t think so.”
Miller continues, concentration focused on my hand, slowly and carefully wrapping the tape around my thumb and then winding it around each of my fingers. Meanwhile, he coaches me. “You’ve gotta put your body behind your movements, too. You were only using your arms, and your stance was all wrong. You were way too close to the bag to get any momentum.”
He finishes with my fingers, then doubles back to my hand, taking the tape in diagonal paths until he reaches the end of the roll and secures the Velcro tab near my wrist. He taps the back of my left hand. “Next up.”
The process is repeated, in silence this time, and I’m hyperaware of his breathing as he stands within my personal space, head lowered as he wraps my hand, which lies in his. In turn, I become aware of my own breathing, which automatically starts to sync up with his. A giggle makes my torso tremble, and Miller glances up, his eyes going from focused to amused. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.” I hold the finished product up for examination. “I’m officially a mummy.”
“Go like this,” he instructs, tightening his hands into fists and then releasing them. “Feel okay? Not too tight or like it’s falling off?”
“I think we’re good.”
“Good stuff.” He bends to retrieve my gloves and slides them on my hands. Then Miller gestures for me to step back and away from the bag, coming around behind me and guiding my hips into proper position. Just like that, his breath is back in my ear. “Are you a lefty or a righty?”
“Righty.”
“Then you’re going to want to throw the first punch with your left hand.” He quickly tugs on a pair of black gloves and models the correct ready position. “Throw the punch in a direct line from your chin. And keep your hand relaxed until just before you make contact, then make sure it’s fully clenched.”
Miller moves in front of the next punching bag in the row and demonstrates the proper technique, throwing three punches, making his bag swing. He nods toward me. “Now try.”
I bring my fists up to my chin. It’s silly, but just wearing the tape and the gloves makes me feel more capable, and I concentrate on the bag before me with renewed focus and determination. I think through everything Miller told me and put my weight behind my movements as I step forward and extend my arm.
The bag moves half an inch.
“Better,” he tells me.
I throw a few more punches, stepping back each time, eyeing up the bag. Even though my hands feel ten pounds heavier, I’m making more headway.
I look over at him and smile. “Yeah, it hurts a heck of a lot less this way,” I admit.
He chuckles, then crosses his arms over his chest, gloves still on. “I have to ask, though … why all the heavy equipment? I thought you were one of the elliptical girls.”
“I was. I am.” I shrug and look down at the ground. “I just wanted to.”
Then I chew on my lip, studying the red mat beneath my feet. “He called me a butterfly,” I murmur.
“What?”
I look up and meet Miller’s eye. “He called me a butterfly. Jake. He said he never thought our relationship would go past last summer. But that I was too delicate, this happy-go-lucky butterfly that he couldn’t stand to crush. So he led me on for an entire year instead.”
Miller cracks up. He laughs and laughs, shaking his head as he pulls his gloves off. “I’m sorry. Jake and I always got along okay, but … that’s the lamest breakup line I’ve ever heard. Man.”
“It didn’t feel lame. It felt really hurtful.” I stare at my reflection in the mirrored wall. “It made me feel so weak,” I admit. “I guess I wanted to feel … stronger, but this bag is mocking me. Proving his damn point.”
Miller slowly walks back over. He gives me a small smile and easily closes his hand around my bicep. “Well, you are kind of weak. You’re skinny-girl weak, but that’s something that can be fixed.” He raises an eyebrow in challenge.
I look at him in question.
“They have an awesome power hour class in this studio. Friday mornings. You should come.”
The idea makes me laugh out loud. “I didn’t really last three minutes with the bag. I’m not gonna last an hour.”
Miller shrugs. “Eh, maybe not at first. But everyone works at their own level and there’s no pressure. I’ll save the pretty pink gloves for you if you come.”
I shake my head. “It’s not for me.”
“Too much of a butterfly?” I glare at him, but he’s unfazed. “Come on. Prove him wrong. Just show up.”
I do kind of like the idea of proving Jake wrong. So a minute later, I hear myself saying, “I’ll think about it.”
“Hey, if you come to class, I’ll start calling you Laila Ali instead of Lil’ Kim.”
I giggle. “That alone might make it worth it.”
Miller glances toward the hallway. “I gotta go.” He points at me. “Friday morning, okay?”
“I said I’ll think about it.”
* * *
AND I DO, think about it, briefly, but by Thursday night, the idea seems silly again. Riding home on the last shuttle after a full day being Cinderella, I shake my head. I stare down at my g
Then I see the gift bag in the hall, sitting atop my doormat. The bag is bright pink and nondescript and doesn’t have a card, but I know at once that the girls down the hall have resumed their gifting. I remove the nest of black tissue paper and pull out a T-shirt. Holding it before me, I smile wryly. This pick has Rose written all over it.
It’s an off-the-shoulder gray T-shirt, and looks about two sizes too big. Black block letters run across the front. CHIN UP, PRINCESS, OR THE CROWN SLIPS.
I stare at the message and can’t help but think it’s some kind of omen. It’s the perfect shirt to wear to the boxing class tomorrow morning. Someone, or something, is encouraging me to go. And while I have a love-hate relationship with the idea of fate these days, I have to admit it: I’m inspired to follow the sign.
So the next morning at six o’clock I pull the baggy T-shirt overhead and then tug on a pair of tight black shorts, my sneakers, and a headband. I get to the boxing room fifteen minutes early so I don’t have to walk into a full room of onlookers. Still, as the first few attendees saunter in, long before class even starts, already I feel silly. Some of the guys look like Olympic athletes. Most of the girls have visible biceps and look like they would cream me in any type of real fight. I really, really hope there’s none of that. Miller didn’t say.
Speaking of … where is he?
He shows at the last minute, with Yael in his wake, which surprises and intimidates me. Her face says it all, and she thinks my being here is a joke. She rolls her eyes when she reads my shirt and makes no attempt to hide it. She busies herself wrapping her own wrists.
But Miller, to his credit, doesn’t look surprised. He just gets me my pink gloves, as promised, and helps me get my hands ready, although the process is more rushed this time than last. “You need these during warm-up, too,” he explains simply before returning to the only free space left in the room, beside Yael.
“All right, people,” the instructor, Jarred, announces, stretching his quads and then clapping a few times. “Let’s do this.”
The hour that follows is possibly the most grueling of my life. By the end of the warm-up, which consists of jogging in place, jumping rope, and high kicks, I’m already past the point of being out of breath. Directly in front of me, Jarred looks like a machine, his body a walking anatomy chart of the muscular system, his long dreads flying wildly as he leaps into the air or throws punches.
The bag work that follows provides little relief. We’re allowed only short breaks between combinations so that our heart rates stay up. The combinations, even the simplest, make me feel uncoordinated and silly, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get my limbs to coordinate. But Jarred is a patient teacher, and he doesn’t let me feel like an idiot. Or give up.
By the time he retracts the rows of bags again, my limbs are shaking visibly and I’m sure class must be over. Why oh why isn’t there a clock in this room? As it turns out, class isn’t over, not at all, and the rigorous mat work that follows nearly breaks me. There are endless sequences of crunches and push-ups, and something really, really god-awful called a burpee.
I struggle. I falter several times, nearly face planting on my mat.
Jarred drops down beside me and whispers to me. “There’s a difference between pain and effort, Alyssa. Effort is about your brain telling you you want to stop. Pain is your body telling you you should stop. We practice effort, not pain, in this class. Listen to your body.”
I know, beyond the shadow of any doubt, that my body has crossed the threshold from putting forth effort into experiencing pain. But no one else in the class has stopped, not even Yael, who doesn’t appear to be all that fit, and I refuse to be the only one.
Finally … mercifully … blessedly, Jarred announces, “That’s all she wrote, folks,” and we collectively collapse on the mat for cooldown and stretching.
My heart pounds furiously. My lungs beg for air. My body is alive and working.
Ten minutes later, class is over. I literally crawl over to the side of the room and find my water bottle again. I down what’s left in it.
Miller appears before me a moment later, looking sweaty and disheveled. He doesn’t make a big deal out of my finishing. He just brings his gloved hand down to mine and gives me a pound.
“Think you’ll come back next week?” he asks, wiping his forehead on his shoulder.
I wait to see if I can physically stand, which I can, after some effort, before answering him. “It may take me that long to recover. But … I’d consider it.”
I’ve never left the workout center the way I’ll walk out today. It’s the first time I feel like I’ve actually accomplished something other than crossing my workout off my daily to-do list. I’ve worked my body a million times without ever feeling like I’ve actually engaged it. Today, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. No. I feel like I’ve completed a freakin’ Ironman. And I’m pretty proud of myself.
Miller smiles. “Good. Hope you do.”
He starts walking back toward Yael, who is holding his sweatshirt for him, but he turns and looks at me one last time before he goes. He nods toward my torso. “I like your shirt. It suits you.”
Miller holds my gaze a second longer, and suddenly it occurs to me that maybe it wasn’t Rose who left it outside my door, after all.
chapter 17
The following week, I text Miller ahead of time to let him know that I’ll be making it back to boxing class. He offers to pick me up on the way, and remembering how useless my legs were after my first class, I accept immediately.
Miller lingers in the hall after class, which irritatingly didn’t feel even the slightest bit easier than my first class. He’s talking to a friend, something about an extra Coldplay ticket, and I’m mentally begging him to hurry up because I’m about to collapse.
Finally we’re on the way to his truck. He stops and snaps, turning to me. “Hey, you like Coldplay. We have an extra ticket because one of my buddies can’t go now. You want it?”
I struggle to climb into the cab. “When for?”
“The last Wednesday in July. July twenty-something.”
I don’t know why I asked. My social calendar is free and clear these days. “Umm, yeah. That’s pretty much too good an offer to pass up.”
I’m seated beside him in the cab of his truck, and I think how it would have been a tight squeeze for three people.
“Where is Yael today, anyway?”
“She picked up an opening shift at the park. Apparently she was out of bed and on her way without my even hearing her.”
Miller stops at a red light at the central downtown intersection and glances over at me. “Whatcha up to this weekend? Rejoicing at the day off like everyone else?”
He’s referencing the fact that tomorrow the park is technically closed for the huge, annual I Bleed Enchanted event. The central feature of the day is a half and full marathon and blood bank that raises funds and donations for the Red Cross. The Red Cross is the charity closest to the heart of Martin E. Everly, the founder and CEO of Enchanted Enterprises.
“A Saturday off is a rare gem around here.” I shrug. “But I’ll probably join the finish line contingency at some point. It was cool last year.”
It’s tradition for cast members to man the celebration tent at the race’s end point, handing out balloons, medals, and water bottles bearing the park’s emblem on their labels.
“Me too.” He grins. “It’s a good opportunity to break out my cheering skills one last time.”
“I’ll probably donate, too,” I tell him. “The artistic team always comes up with the cutest tank tops to hand out at the blood bank.”
This makes him laugh, even though I wasn’t really kidding.
He parks in front of my building. “So I’ll look for you at the finish line tomorrow.” He nods toward the apartments. “Are you going over with Chrissi and the gang?”
“No,” I answer succinctly, glancing
Miller’s looking at me. “What’s up with that?”
“Nothing, really.” I shrug. “I just haven’t talked to any of them in a while.”
I can’t tell him why. Well, I can’t tell him why without bringing Harper’s name into the breakup mess.
Thankfully, Miller doesn’t press the issue. “All right. Well … I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Thanks for the ride,” I tell him as I hobble out of his truck. Ow. “I’ll see you then.”
* * *
SATURDAY MORNING DAWNS the perfect day for a run. We’re getting a break from the humidity; there’s cloud cover and a hint of a breeze. It will be hot by early afternoon, but most of the runners will have finished long before then.
There’s a festive feeling surrounding the event that extends all the way to the Lakeside complex, reminiscent of homecoming or big game days back at Coral State. The shuttle lines are long early, and people settle for standing room between the aisles in order to get to the park as quickly as possible.
When the shuttle arrives at the Enchanted Dominion, the initial impression is that a theme park has sprung up outside a theme park. There are striped tents and food trucks, people running around in costume, bounce houses, balloon artists, clowns on stilts, and a stage for speeches and performances. Lots of big-name celebrities have been Red Cross ambassadors over the years—the Manning brothers, Demi Lovato, Penn Badgley, and Miley Cyrus—and there’s always excitement surrounding which celebrities will be spotted, usually with their families in tow, inside the park on event day.
I Bleed Enchanted is an absolute park-size party, like none I’ve ever seen since the park celebrated its fifteenth anniversary. It’s noisy and chaotic, with blasts from bullhorns, staticky announcements, screams from the rides, and plentiful laughter and music. It’s one of my favorite days of the year, and my spirits are high as I bounce toward the park entrance, even if I’m arriving solo this year.
And it doesn’t look like much will change about my solo status. As I approach the entrance and begin pushing my way through the masses toward the finish line, I decide there’s no way I’m going to find Miller. The park is absolutely swarming with people, a group as loud and frantic and busy as an actual hive of bees.