***
September—Eleven Months Before Accident
The minute I walk into Max Hallowell’s health club, I feel like I’m wearing a giant neon sign that says I don’t belong here. It’s not that I don’t work out. Hell, I work out more than most of the skinny girls I know. But I do it in private. At home or in my mom’s basement. Never in a downtown health club where everyone can stare at me and wonder how soon I’ll give it up and go on a Hostess run. Because that’s what people think about fat chicks. They assume we’re lazy and don’t work out. They assume we eat Little Debbie Cakes three times a day and don’t touch fruits or vegetables.
“Hanna!” Max calls from the back. He’s squatting as he stacks weights by the chest press. “To what do I owe the honor?”
Returning his smile, I look around but don’t see anyone I know. The club is slow right now, only a couple of senior citizens occupying the treadmills on the far side of the room. “I wanted to, um, maybe sign up for personal training.”
He pushes off the ground and wipes his hands on his shorts as he crosses to me. His smile is wide and white and so damn sincere I want to melt under it. “Tell me what you have in mind. I’ll see who I can hook you up with. I have a couple of female trainers but their specialties are different, so it just depends on what your goals are.”
My heart stumbles in my chest from being this close to Max. I have to tilt my chin up just to see his face. “I was hoping you could do it?” It comes out as a question, a far cry from the flirty, suggestive tone Lizzy used when we planned this.
Surprise flashes over his face. “Me? Really?”
“If you can fit me in, that would be my preference.” I can’t believe this comes as a surprise to him. Women all over town pay to train with Max just so they can admire his body while he puts them through suicide drills. An hour of watching his muscles flex under his T-shirt is enough motivation to do most anything.
“I’d love to train with you. Let’s sit down and talk about what you want to accomplish.”
He pulls out a stool by the bar, and I climb onto it and cross my legs nervously. He takes the spot next to me.
“Okay.” He grabs a notebook and pen from the other side of the bar. “Let’s start with long-term goals and break them down to short-term. Where do you see yourself in twelve months?”
Sexy, skinny, and naked in your bed.
“Fitness-wise,” he clarifies with a wink.
My cheeks burn as if he can read my thoughts. I tuck my hair behind my ear. I came ready to work out. Kind of. I’d normally wear my hair up to work out, but Lizzy insisted it was sexier to wear it down.
“I’d like to run a half marathon next summer.”
Truth is, I have no desire to run a marathon—half or otherwise. I just want to lose weight and get Max to notice me. I exercise regularly, but I hate running with the fiery intensity of a thousand suns. But Max is a runner. He runs all the time, and since this is all about spending time with him, I’ve decided I’m going to be a runner too.
“That’s totally doable.” Max writes Run half marathon on his notepad. “Are you a runner now or are we starting from scratch?”
“Do I look like a runner?” I regret the question as soon as it’s out of my mouth. Lizzy gave me strict instructions to leave my self-deprecating humor at home. She doesn’t get that it’s a Fat Girl Coping Mechanism. She wouldn’t get that. How could she? “Sorry. I mean, I haven’t done much running. My mom made me when I was in junior high—a mile every night after school. I hated it. I want to learn to love it—on my terms—but I haven’t done much since I started college.”
“A year is plenty of time,” Max assures me. “I mean, you’re obviously fit, so I bet we’re still working with a pretty impressive baseline.”
Obviously fit? No one has ever said that to me before.
He grins. “Why are you blushing?”
Because you’re looking at me. “I guess this is all a little embarrassing.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says. “You know what you want, and I’ll make sure you get it.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”