Page 70 of Let’s Make a Scene

“I’ll just go and get changed,” she says.

“Excellent. I will wait in the gym,” Petra agrees. “Don’t forget the electrolytes,” she barks over her shoulder on the way out.

“What just happened?” I ask, dazed.

“You just got roped into a sweaty, shirtless workout session,” Cynthie says, and she sounds even less happy about it than me.

“But… why?” I ask. “I really didn’t mean to intrude on your morning, obviously you have plans. I’ll just tell her I need to get going.”

Cynthie’s laughter holds an edge of hysteria. “Sure. You do that.”

And then she leaves me standing, bemused, in the middle of the kitchen.

“PLEASE, JUST MAKE IT END,” I moan almost ninety minutes later, lying in the fetal position on the floor of Cynthie’s home gym.

As promised, I am shirtless and sweaty. Very, very sweaty.

For some reason the Thoroughly Modern Millie soundtrack is blasting through the speakers.

Cynthie has flopped next to me on the floor, splayed out like a starfish. She is also sweaty. In other circumstances I would sincerely appreciate this—she’s wearing tight black leggings, and a matching sports bra; her cheeks are pink and her hair curls damply around her face—but as it stands my brain and possibly all of the rest of my organs are melting, so I’m in no position to admire her excellent physique.

Petra looms over us, making vague sounds of disapproval. “Gunther,” she sniffs, “is a very foolish man.”

“What is happening?” I choke, increasingly convinced I am stuck in some strange fever dream. I only came down here to say goodbye. But that was a lifetime ago. I was different then. “And why is Julie Andrews involved?” I wonder aloud.

“You have something to say about Julie Andrews?” Petra sounds like she’s about to commit several violent crimes.

“Hey, nothing but respect for her majesty, Clarisse Renaldi, Queen of Genovia,” I pant, holding my hands up in surrender.

Cynthie gurgles with something that might be laughter, or might be the shuddering sound of her own death rattle. I try to check on her but can barely lift my head, and I let out a groan of pain.

“You need more stamina,” Psychopath Barbie says, leaning down to poke me in the stomach. “It will make things much better for Cynthie.” She raises a knowing brow.

“I think…” Cynthie says, dazed beside me, “that I might be having an endorphin.”

I wheeze out my own laugh. “Listen, if you’re doing it right, you don’t think you’re having one, you know.”

Cynthie snickers.

“This is enough with the dirty talk, you sex perverts,” Petra says primly.

“Hey, you started it,” I protest.

“Do you want to do some more burpees?” she asks sweetly. “I think maybe you have fifty more in you.”

I tap my hand twice against the floor. “You win. You win,” I agree. “I give up. I’m a sex pervert with no stamina. Gunther is fired. Anything you want.”

“Cynthie, I like this one,” Petra says approvingly.

“Yeah,” Cynthie mutters, almost under her breath, sounding resigned. “I might, too.”

I think I might be having an endorphin.

THEN THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER

Chapter 23 CYNTHIE

As the credits roll across the screen I realize that my face is wet. I don’t know how long I’ve been crying, but it could have been since the opening shot and I wouldn’t have noticed.