Maybe-Charlotte

Weights clatter over by “Headband Lars” as I concentrate my breath, lowering into a second set of banded pistol squats. Thankfully, his forceful huffing remains under control today, and I’m out of range of his funky stench. The forty-something-year-old enjoys slinging more pounds than his own bodyweight—unimpressively. Maybe he’s fun at parties or drives a Bentley. As my glutes howl, pausing for a minute’s rest, “The Girl” approaches from outside. Hair untied and gym bag over her left shoulder, of course. Four days a week for eight weeks, and her parking spot is the only thing my mind will remember from this summer.

Has she caught my glance, even once? I tuck my head towards the speckled rubber floor as she strides through the door and checks in at the main desk. The full-length mirror in front of the squat racks affords me a disguised view. The Girl. Unwavering consistency. By the time I’ve finished my remaining squats, she’ll appear from the women’s locker room—hair up, headphones in. Off either to grab a mat for stretching and ab work, or to mount the leftmost treadmill for a brief incline walk. NF’s “Only One” beats through the speakers overhead while I calm my breath. I’d thought reaching the legal drinking age before senior year would be my summer’s best highlight. Instead, it’s her. I’ll talk to her today—my last day. I have to know.

After resetting the heavy resistance to my left leg, the women’s locker room entrance stands still. Damn. Hard to say whether her presence has boosted or hindered my strength gains for the season. Last summer here in Connecticut, all I remember is wacky “Grandma Sheila” trying to recreate some 1980s aerobics magic with a body that was not equipped for it. Easy to take shorter rest frames on those days. Plus, I spent less time in reverie. Ever since first sight, my brain’s begged to learn The Girl’s name. Nicole? Super feminine. Caroline? And her best friends call her “Care” or something. Charlotte? Sounds royal…and sexy.

Mmmm. A treadmill start for her. And I’m through with these frickin’ squats, so I can relocate from beside Headband Lars and his imminent grunts. I head toward the open barbell rack, my crush in view across the sacred front mirror. An oversized charcoal All-American Rejects T-shirt, concealing tight shorts underneath. Cream hair tie with a pair of tiny gold loop earrings. Ankle socks and white New Balance sneakers. An outfit so uncoordinated, it’s flawless. Indeed, many ideas have tormented me to interact. To leave my phone at the glute bridge machine and return when she approaches. Wait in the lobby and time my exit with hers. Offer to load and unload her weights at the squat rack. Just walk up and say “hi” for God’s sake. After admiring her for the first few days our worlds intersected, getting her number would be the score of a lifetime.

Well, my hamstrings won’t enjoy the RDL chart today. They’ll likely cramp up by the window seat tonight anyway. Back to Piedmont College, where the August southern heat will melt my northern roots. I’ve adapted well enough over three years for the singles tennis season—my fists clench at the notion of placement matches a few weeks away. And the McWilliams Invitational in LaGrange next month will be ridiculously hot. Can I just phone it in and stay here? When I finally talk to maybe-Charlotte today, she’ll label me a fool for waiting two entire months to introduce myself, conveniently on my last day in town. Suppose there’s more value in a lousy, belated first impression over none at all.

Meanwhile, I have to contend with “Big ‘Ole Billy Biceps” in this corner of the gym. The hulking dude spends more time flexing and ogling himself in the mirror than he does actually lifting. Still, I’d trade arms with him so long as I could tame my modesty. As I load the barbell with plates up to a total two-hundred pounds, The Girl descends her stationary warmup perch and heads toward the free weight section. Bulgarian split squats? Her narrative doesn’t align. Supreme fitness. No visible signs of disability. I’ll pass on her name, her number, how she drives a top-of-the-line BMW—everything just to know why she parks handicap.

Wouldn’t that question sound too direct? So, wiser to start with her name. Figure out what she’s training for. Her motivation. What school she goes to, if she’s still even studying anywhere. I’m leaving each RDL rep short, and it’s either my fatigue or desire to spy on her. She moves deliberately. Every rep—so precise. Hell, this gorgeous woman lifts nearly the same loads I do. Strongest feminine legs in the north. Sheeny hair that’s not black but not dark brown either. All indications of perfect health. As much as I wonder if she’s got a once-edgy tattoo somewhere unseen, I’d rather hear the story of the blue tag in her car’s front window.

Bohm, bohm-bohm-bohm, bohm. The bridge trumpets of Macklemore’s “Can’t Hold Us” blare overhead as I engage my last set, my calloused fingers sweating along the hatched grips. God, why’s The Girl always locked in with her own music? I’d faint after walking up to converse, and she can’t even hear me through her AirPods. If I could tell her about my experience next to disabled-living, would she care to listen? Suppose most families grow up together fully able-bodied. But not the Gilberts. Little-now-teenage sister Jessica has navigated this planet in a wheelchair throughout my memory. To boast about my disabled sibling when introducing myself might welcome a face slap though.

Damn. She’s over at the hip abductor machine, shifting the pin near the bottom like the weight doesn’t matter. My curiosity craves to interrupt her—my courtesy says, “cool it.” Can I skip plyometrics today? Rather not drench my outfit in sweat before a momentous introduction. The “synchronous lobby exit” must be my leading play, but I’ll end up sweating just as much chatting her up in the scorching parking lot. Surely, she would forgive my two-month’s hesitation based on sensitivity to whatever elusive condition afflicts her.

Wait. Was she looking at me just now? Better align these box steps so I can get started. Need to maximize my cool-off time in the locker room while she finishes her lifts. My leg muscles throb, declaring one final push for top seed among the boys. Who knows what I’ll do without tennis someday. Each post-workout this summer, my heart’s wondered about that parking spot. Today, I have to know. All crushes-turned-to-love start with a look, a smile, a conversation…right?