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I ’VE NEVER HAD A PERSONAL trainer. Pinching my gifted gym membership card between shaking fingers, I tuck my tote bag tighter over my narrow shoulders. The jet-black gym building towers over me, even the front windows tinted a sleek black with an electric blue “FRONTRUNNER GYM” plastered at the top.

My co-worker, Gabby, must’ve paid way too much for this temporary gym membership. We’ve worked together at Salucci’s Ristorante for three-and-a-half years now, so I know how much she makes, and our paycheck is the main reason I’ve never made an effort to get a gym membership.

Okay, maybe there are two reasons. Gabby saw my second reason while we were changing in the back room. She didn’t comment on the rippling mark spanning the length of my lower back; I did - with my usual “it’s a birthmark” explanation. But she convinced me I look okay enough to visit a public gym. That’s not how she phrased it, but how I’m phrasing it, now that I’m covered by my loose, gray zip-up jacket and worn black leggings.

As a bulked-out man hustles past me to breeze through the glass doors, I’m tempted to take a step back. Or maybe three. But as the man checks himself in at the front desk and walks straight inside, entering the building doesn’t look as daunting as the long, arduous process I imagined.

With a shuddering breath, I take one step forward. Just one step is enough to keep me walking, even though I’m terrified of everyone analyzing my body.

The man at the front desk smiles wide enough to display a neat row of perfect, bright white teeth. An electric blue “LIAM” is embroidered on his gym staff shirt, the athletic, wicking fabric straining over broad pecs. “Welcome in. How may I help you?”

My shoulders raise as I come to a stop in front of him, readjusting my double-handed grip on my tote bag straps. “H-hi, um– I’m new here, and I have this.”

Liam takes my gifted gym membership from my trembling fingers. “Great, thank you. I’ll just need to input some information to get your membership started. Name, please?”

“Lilibeth Norris,” I mutter.

Dammit, why did I say my full first name? Almost no one hears it right on the first try. My parents named me after my mom, Lia, and my dad’s mom, Elizabeth. But of course, Lilibeth is also a shortened form of Elizabeth, and everyone mistakes it as such. No one can undermine Dad’s importance, not even the woman shoving me from her body.

“Could you please spell that for me?” Liam asks, of course.

When he glances at me, I give him a polite smile. “I-it’s fine, actually. Lily works instead. L-I-L-Y.”

Liam types “Lily” in with no further questions. “Thanks, Lily. Looks like you have 10 stamps to fill, and each one comes with a 30-minute session with a personal trainer. Do you have any requests for a particular trainer?”

“I– um–” I peek into the gym. Bodies of all sizes are hard at work, but I primarily see sweating, frowning men. My feet tuck together tighter. “I don’t know anyone.”

“Pardon?”

Projecting my voice a little further, I lean in. “I-I don’t know anyone here.”

The man stands, revealing the beefy legs he had tucked beneath his desk. I drop my stare, but that only brings my eyes to my soft legs. I don’t think soft is bad, but what do the Liams of the gym think when they look at me?

“That’s no problem at all! Follow me, and we’ll get you sorted with an available trainer,” Liam says.

With a nod, I follow Liam through automatic sliding doors. A fan blasts my hair into my face as we pass the gym’s threshold, leaving me to frantically swipe my thin, black bangs out of my eyes.

“Hey, Josh! You available?” Liam raises his hand, and a large man with a military shave looks up from his phone.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

Liam stops, so I come to an abrupt halt behind him.

Josh eyes me over Liam’s shoulder. “You got a new client for me?”

“Yep, this is Lily. Lily, Josh. He’s one of our best trainers, so you’re in luck today.”

“Oh, thank you,” I mutter. I don’t know what else to say, so I smile.

Josh holds out his hand. Secretly wiping my palm on my tote, I can only pray I’m not about to give Josh a sweaty, feeble hand to shake.

But when Josh grips me, he crushes my bones together with his force. I wince, and he jerks my whole arm. Josh frowns. “We need to work on that grip strength.”

I drop my hand the second he releases it, thankful to have some space between us again. My heart hurts, and I hate it. I feel so foolish for letting myself feel humiliated over something so small. Of course he thinks I need more grip strength; I didn’t know people worked on grip strength at the gym, let alone had time to work on it at home.

Josh takes off to our left, checking over his shoulder. “Well, come on.”

With Josh’s placating nod at Liam, I’m left alone with my new trainer. Chasing after his wide strides through a row of treadmills, I meet eyes with another woman. She politely smiles at my weak grin, her brisk jog swishing her blonde ponytail from side to side with every muscled step. I look nothing like her.

“You’ve never been to the gym before, have you?” Josh doesn’t turn around, but of course he’s talking to me. He’s so loud about it that a man loading ginormous weights onto a bar glances at us.

I drop my stare to my feet. “No, I haven’t.”

Josh stops. I almost crash into his back, side-stepping just in time for him to turn and face me.

He crosses one arm, leaving the other free to give my body a sweeping gesture. “You can’t wear that to a gym. It’s way too baggy.”

My heart stings. Why did Gabby say it was fine to dress however I wanted? Josh is right; there are only silent, focused people working out in tight-fitted outfits all around me.

I swallow hard, doing my best to soften my quivering lungs. “Okay. Sorry.”

Josh steps behind a long row of dumbbell weights. I’ve at least used those before, so my shoulders relax. But then he looks at me straight on. My stomach plummets. I don’t know why I’m so sensitive, but I can’t stop feeling like he’s judging everything about me.

“Are you a beginner?” He asks in a low voice.

I don’t like how closely he’s looking at me. I drop my eyes again, unable to stop a defensive quip from escaping my lips. “I-I’ve used those types of weights before.”

“I meant at working out. You probably haven’t made any goals for what you’d like to accomplish here, right?”

Shame prickles my hot cheeks. All I can do is shake my head.

Josh drops a wide dumbbell back onto the rack with a loud clang , and I jump. He turns to the mirror, and I dare to peek at him. But we meet eyes in the reflection. I’ve never felt so small beside anyone - other than my dad.

Josh turns to me, but I keep staring into the mirror. I didn’t realize how many people could see me, but with every wall covered by mirrors or windows, all sides of my body are plastered across the room. There’s nowhere to look that won’t meet someone’s focus, and I can see my own ass on display for everyone behind me in these see-through, old leggings. What the hell was I thinking, wearing this? Tugging the back of my baggy jacket, I bite my lips, struggling to still my short, rapid breath.

“Alright, so here’s the plan then. Women like you usually want a slimmer waist and thighs and to boost their backside.” Josh vaguely gestures to my ass, and a sharp, painful sting wracks my heart.

As Josh launches into an explanation about what exercises will help me achieve “my goals,” I tuck tighter into myself. Maybe I do want a perkier butt, but I didn’t think anything was wrong with my waist or thighs. Actually, I worked hard not to hate them my whole life, even though I have other issues with my body. Can people really see how weak I am with one look at me?

Josh checks his watch. “We’ve already used up five minutes. Let’s start with a warm-up.”

Following Josh through simple stretches, jumping jacks, and short jogs in place to get my heart racing, my nerves settle. I can do this. It’s not as taxing as expected, so maybe my job has helped me retain my endurance better than I hoped. I almost forget we’re not alone.

Until I happen to make eye contact with the man loading yet another set of weights on the machine behind us. He isn’t jacked the same way as Josh, but he’s broad. Sturdy and solemn. Tattoos coat his light olive skin, peeking from his sweaty t-shirt to trace down his arms and up his Adam’s apple. Some people are afraid of people with tattoos, but as someone who took refuge among alternative-dressed teens growing up, I feel safer just looking at him. When he turns his back to me to sit on his machine, he lifts his eyes to meet mine a second time in the mirror. My heart flips.

“Are you paying attention?” Josh snaps.

I jolt, wobbling through a lunge now that we’ve added dumbbells. Josh catches me, righting me by the shoulder.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” I ask.

“Turn around. Stop looking at other things,” he says. I quickly spin, facing Josh’s glare in the mirror closest to us. “I said you’re losing focus and losing your balance because of it. Start over, and get your head straight. Focus .” His voice raises into a yell, and adrenaline bites my core. “You want to get stronger, don’t you? I don’t see you lunging.”

Tightening my sweaty hold on the dumbbells, I huff through my mouth, unable to breathe deeply enough through my nose as I restart my lunges.

Now that Josh analyzes me twice as viciously, every little thing I do feels wrong. Are my feet straight? Using the mirror to check my reflection, I tuck my left heel in to make it parallel to my thigh. It throws my rocky balance off just enough to make me wobble.

“Straighten up, come on,” Josh says.

My heart hammers into my throat. I rock between my dumbbells, chasing my uneven weight distribution until each lunge bends into a smooth equilibrium. Finally, I look like I know what I’m doing. Relief floods my chest.

But Josh isn’t impressed. “This is what happens when you let yourself go like that. You have no sense of balance. You need to work harder.”

Heat flushes my eyes.

Oh, no, no, no. I can’t cry.

I need to seem strong.

“Go, lunge deeper!” Josh booms.

But my thighs dissolve into an acidic burn. I bite my lip, unable to focus on staving back tears if I want to keep my balance straight. When I wobble again, Josh claps with every lunge, directing the speed of each rep. Except his pace is far faster than what I could do at my best, and the burning in my legs shifts into a violent stabbing.

“I-I can’t,” I mutter.

“Ten, nine, eight! Come on, don’t give up - unless you’re weak!”

Maybe I am weak. Fear strikes my heart when I meet my strained, panicked eyes in the mirror. I can’t afford to be weak anymore.

But I’m not strong enough to keep going. A tear slips down my cheek.

“Don’t cry. Faster! Five! Four! Three!” Josh claps. But I'm still stuck on the fifth-to-last lunge, unable to keep up anywhere near his rapid pace as my whole body shakes. A vein pops on Josh’s temple, restarting my heart. “Don’t you dare give up. You just started. Get your ass moving.”

This should motivate me, right? Why do I only feel weaker by the second? As a sharp, tight sob chokes from my lips, I’m mortified. People are watching us now, and I can’t even do a fucking lunge.

The man with tattoos flips to face us. I duck my head in embarrassment, and Josh yells louder.

“Stop looking down! Head up! You owe me five more–”

A rich, dark voice takes Josh’s place. “Just fucking stop .”

The tattooed man stares down Josh, his breathing labored. I hadn’t noticed him coming, but now he’s less than a foot from Josh. But Josh escalates beyond what I feel is appropriate: shoving the tattooed man back, he scowls. But the tattooed man doesn’t budge more than an inch.

Josh’s scowl contorts into a snarl. He hits even harder this time, but his own shove pushes his back into the mirror. The tattooed man grips Josh’s shirt to keep him restrained. With how tightly they’re pressed against the mirror, away from blaring gym lights, the tattooed man’s eyes are shrouded in a dark shadow.

But Josh finally shoves the man’s hands off. “The fuck is wrong with you?!”

The tattooed man’s deep voice echoes across the tall ceilings despite his tone remaining even. “You have no right treating anyone like this. You’re hurting your client - in front of everyone.”

Josh opens his mouth to speak, but multiple people have stopped working out to stare, leaving the gym in sharp silence. The only sound is my hard panting between rasping, pathetic tears.

Breaking into a sour grin when he meets my eyes, Josh laughs. “Chill out, man. She’s fine; she’s just crying.”

My heart crunches like Josh smushed it in his beefy palm, forcing me to hold my breath to keep a grip on my tears. The tattooed man’s eyes flicker to mine in the mirror. His heavy concern rips a fresh sob out of me. I drop my head to my lap, hiding my ugly crying face. I’ve created such a humiliating mess, but I can’t stop my heart from aching like it’s been ripped out. I’m not just disappointed in myself; I’m terrified by what this workout failure means. I really wasn’t strong enough.

But Josh’s voice tenses, zipping my focus back to him. “What makes you think you can tell me how to work with my client? I don’t think you own the place.”

The tattooed man glares at Josh, leaving a long, extended pause. Josh tenses, but the tattooed man drops Josh’s staredown to fetch the discarded dumbbells at my sides. He’s not stooping to Josh’s level by laughing or taunting back, and the deepening hatred in Josh’s furrowed eyebrows tells me that’s an insult to his manhood.

I scramble to my feet, ready to pacify both men and leave the gym as quickly as possible, but my side cramps harder than I’ve ever felt, forcing a sharp cry from my lips.

My overworked legs threaten to send me to the ground, shaking hard despite how horrendously heavy they feel, but the tattooed man steadies me by the arms. He settles me safely on the floor, propping my back against the nearest workout bench. I whimper as the pain only continues, but he keeps a firm hand on my arm. “You’re okay, you’re okay. Keep breathing through it. What’s hurting?”

I grimace, grabbing my side as it pinches like a piece has been torn out of me. But before I can speak, Josh scoffs.

“Go on, play the hero. She’s just whiny. It doesn’t make anything happening here illegal. I can make her cry as much as I want to.”

Whipping a phone out of his pocket, the tattooed man points his camera at Josh. “Want to repeat that?”

Josh’s jaw tightens.

The tattooed man shakes his head. “I don’t remember the part in Psychology for Sport and Physical Activity that taught us how important it was to make our clients cry as Kinesiologists. Care to jog my memory?”

Josh grabs his water bottle and keys, but not after slamming down a heavy weight with a resounding bang . I shriek, gripping the stranger beside me. The tattooed man’s arms tense beneath my grasp, ready to lurch into action. My heart hurts for him too; his wide, clenched stare tells me he’s just as terrified of what Josh might do next. But thankfully, Josh storms out, leaving us all in silence.

With his jaw tensed, the tattooed man closes his eyes. He hisses out a deep, growling exhale. “Gym bro motherfuckers thinking they own the fucking world, I swear. He better not have a girlfriend–”

But as I meet the worried eyes of everyone else in the gym, I dissolve into hitching, weepy tears. Burying my face in my hands, my strained voice comes out choppy. “I’m sorry–”