“Why do we have to do this now?” Caylee moans. Her eyes scrunch like she’s having a tantrum. She sort of aims her grimace at Candy who’s seated like a wobbly stack of pancakes on the hard bench by the wall.

Candy’s eyes go wide. He says nothing. I guess he doesn’t want to be the dog in the middle called back and forth by the arguing couple.

“You don’t have to,” I say. “I mean, I’m glad you are . . . glad you’re here, if you want to be. But Candy and I have to do this. And I want to do it this late because I have to get used to staying up later and later, y’know?”

She lets out an edgy grumble of a sigh.

Candy starts to stand, but crumples back to the bench. “So, how are we going to do this? What should we do?”

“You’re the fucking trainer,” I blurt, hoping my smirk softens my growl.

“Ah, yes,” he responds with breathy thoughtfulness as if he’s a philosopher or Shakespearean actor or some shit.

Caylee, still whining, pouts, “Can’t we do our own thing. Or, you guys do your big weights, and I’ll stick with these.” She raises the set of pink two-and-a-half pounders she’s holding cross-crossed in one hand, showing about as much effort as if they were two little golf pencils.

“That’s cool,” I huff in defeat. I was kinda hoping she’d suddenly change her whole personality and commit (fiercely) to getting all jacked and shit. 

I don’t know.

Would I really want that?

“Shall I take us through a routine like the one we did that morning?” asks Candy with more than a tinge of heroics to his tone. 

Caylee and I eye each other like old foes.

“Ok,” she says.

I’m not fucking about to suggest she try some weights that might actually do some good. She’s out here with us, and that’s cool, so what-fucking-ever.

“But you’ve gotta do it too!” I unintentionally roar at Candy.

“Yes, yes. Of course, of course.” I think he does his repeating thing whenever he gets flustered or feels his pride is under attack.

I edge around my wife’s bright yellow PT Cruiser to the most empty open spot near the farthest corner.

Candy rises. He retrieves his phone, and starts a track. A tinny, bass-less blare of electronic percussion blasts before he pauses the music and says in his deepest of voices, “Let’s all grab our dumbbells.” I swear I hear him gulp when he realizes this time he’s gotta take part in the dumbbell grabbing too.

The music starts up again. And it actually serves as a good distraction or source of focus. 

Candy talks us through squats with our various weights held together up behind our necks and heads. His commanding, encouraging instructor demeanour definitely takes a hit as we make it past the first few sets of reps. He tries to stay professional, to keep us pumped and pushing, but there’s no denying the agony creeping in with each command.

Glancing at Caylee and Candy, I see the weights we’ve each got clamped at the back of our heads are definitely a Goldilocks and the Three Bears level of diverse . . . from huge (mine), to tiny (Caylee’s), and medium/juuuuuust right (Candy’s).

I’m hurting. The tops of my legs are, like, What the fuck are you doing? Didn’t we just kinda get back to not feeling fucking torn to shit? You want to put us through all this again?! Why?! But I keep pushing. 

Our squatting session ends, and we move on. It seemed to go so much faster than the last time, maybe because I was expecting it to feel like forever again.

We transition to pressing our weights up and over our heads. It’s much harder (for all but Caylee, of course).

Candy speaks a lot less now, his words devolving to grunts as his rich golden face glows ruby red and begins to steam. 

I stop-start several times, pushing until I fail, pausing to let blood and relief swarm my battered shoulders, then pushing again, my arms trembling like buildings about to be collapsed in an epic earthquake.

Glancing over, I see Candy pauses almost whenever I do. Even though he’s instructing us, I realize I’m the one setting the pace for him. I’m in charge of keeping him on the hook.

If you would’ve told me weeks ago I’d be working out in the garage with my wife and some kid who wants me as his fucking guru, I’d have probably fapped a wad at you and collapsed in a heap somewhere up in my lonely room. I definitely wouldn’t have believed it.

We move from one body part to the next, ending with abs, which is my least favorite of all.

From the corner of my eye, I see Caylee just lying there for much of the crunch-and-leg-scissor portion.

It’s fine. She’s here. She’s sort of trying. 

Candy’s also only doing the first five or so reps from each set, then panting to regain his breath and cheer us on.

I push myself, but can’t fucking wait for this part to be done. My whole body feels like a frothy mess of tenderized meat I can’t hardly control anymore. 

But this is what I wanted, right? This is what I signed up for. I’m working out because I decided to stay alive, and I need more than just not fapping to occupy myself with as I try to figure out what might be worth living for . . . nubile ass being number one, and yeah, hopefully some other good stuff on the list from there.

We’re all kinda smiling as we stretch, all dreamy-eyed as if we’re about to pass out from exhaustion and relief.

Caylee and I both spontaneously start to thank Candy for coming and leading us through each exercise.

My phone buzzes. In a sweat-hazed fuge, I gaze down, dazed. It’s definitely not who I assumed it would be.