Do I Know You?(38)

Until I notice a hitch in his movements.

I smile indulgently. “You okay? You seem a little sore. Maybe you pushed it too hard yesterday.”

Graham loses some of his relaxed charisma, and I know I’m right. It’s perfect—at least we’re on even footing. While I lack preparation granted by a kindly, bro-y hotel friend, I have an advantage in my muscles not aching. When Graham zips up his bag in one swift pull, like he’s out to prove his mobility, he winces in a wonderful backfire. I smirk.

The instructor walks to the front of the room. “Good morning, everyone,” he calls out. “Let’s get to it. Warm up with some laps.”

The group falls into pairs, starting to jog the perimeter of the room. I hold my arm out, an after you. Graham looks less than pleased. When he picks up his pace into a jog, he grimaces.

I fall into step behind him, feeling smug for about two minutes, which is when my extreme lack of cardio catches up to me. My heart pounds in my chest, my windpipe stinging. It’s not long before we’re firmly in the back of the group. David laps us twice. Pretty soon, I’m wishing for whatever will end this torture.

“Burpees!” the instructor calls out. I promptly realize how unwise my wish was.

Dropping into my first plank, I pretty much dissociate. I fully leave my body for the entire set of burpees, until the instructor finally tells us to stop.

“Take one minute to rest,” he says. “Then pair up on a punching bag. You’re going to alternate thirty seconds of jab, cross with your partner.”

Graham is wheezing. I couldn’t hide my own exhaustion if I tried. In fact, I do try. There’s no escaping my ragged breathing or the sweat on my brow. My husband picks himself up off the floor, then trudges over to the nearest punching bag, looking like someone spent the past fifteen minutes kicking him in the thighs. I’d laugh if I didn’t feel exactly the same.

Putting his hands on the bag, he turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

Exhausted, panting like I just ran a marathon, I nonetheless find the will to peel myself off the floor. I walk over to join him. Graham’s regained some measure of control over his breathing, which is irritating. He gives me an enthusiastic smile.

“Last chance to ditch and get coffee with me instead,” he offers, effortfully keeping himself from breathing hard. “Pastries could be involved.”

While the idea of coffee cake is nearly enough for me to unwrap my hands, the fun of not giving in wins out. “Are you asking me on a date now?” I reply with dry incredulity.

Graham shrugs. “Maybe.”

I pout skeptically. “Not very convincing. I think you’re just trying to get out of this boxing class you chose to come to.”

“I’m perfectly happy in this boxing class,” Graham replies. He pushes the bag to me, which I catch when the heavy cylinder swings over.

“I want to see what you’ve got,” I say. “Then you can ask me on a date.”

“Go ahead and start,” the instructor calls out.

Graham does. I feel my expression morph into one of unhidden surprise when he shifts readily into the boxer’s stance he’s mysteriously learned since yesterday. Or maybe not yesterday. I don’t know, maybe Ruddington & Roeper has an underground fight club beneath its law offices.

The bag shakes with the rhythmic thumps of Graham throwing jabs and crosses. His skill is, I have to concede, impressive. It’s funny, over the past few days, I’ve seen Graham in new lights, heard him pretend to be a different person. This is the first time I almost don’t recognize the man in front of me.

The instructor walks by, nodding in approval. When Graham just keeps punching, leaning into the fast, measured movements, the questions slips out of me. “How?”

Thump. Graham’s fist strikes the bag. “I told you,” he replies without stopping. “I take lessons.” Thump.

My face heats. But not with embarrassment. Graham’s upper body rotates, his hand flying forward. Thump. His competency is incredibly attractive. I’m so distracted by the sheer spectacle in front of me that I forget I’ll have to take a turn—that is, until the instructor starts a countdown to switch.

I wait until Graham’s done, feeling panic setting in. Starting the class in the back didn’t help—if I’m not boxing competently in the next thirty seconds, I will be embarrassed. Why can’t there just be an audience for boxing classes? Why do I have to participate in order to stare at Graham? I start watching everyone else, memorizing their movements, fighting to bolster my confidence. Graham might’ve taken the rehearsal route, which I didn’t expect. I’m just going to have to play this like improv instead.

“Switch!” the instructor shouts.

Showtime.

I unwrap my hands and pull on the gloves I borrowed from the gym. They’re stiff, heavy, and I can feel the foam flaking inside. I pretend they’re familiar sensations, remembering professors who instructed me that convincing myself I was the character I was portraying was half the fight. Eliza, vacation planner, Bostonian, boxer.

With this mantra running in my head, I lash out for my first punch. Thump.

I only barely manage not to wince in surprise. Not pain—part of my surprise is how well the shiny black glove cushions my knuckles when they strike the bag, which is startlingly solid. The chains rattle. I notice Graham past the wobbling gray bag, wiping his forehead with his shirt, exposing his stomach. He’s projecting inconspicuousness, but I feel his eyes on me.