Five days have passed since I arrived, feeling more like five months.

The workouts have gotten more grueling, and they're taking a toll on my mental and physical health. The pain gets put on the back burner every time I see Axel, as his oddly calm yet effective style of training has grown on me.

Or maybe it's the beautiful face. Don't know yet.

I sigh as I pick up my phone, going through my missed notifications. A FaceTime call pops up, and I smile when I notice it's Poppy. I accept the call, and her face appears on the screen, her normally bright blue-green eyes drooping slightly at the corners.

"Whitney!" she exclaims and waves at me through the camera. "I'm so happy you answered; I've been dying to talk to you."

"Hey!" I shoot a smile back. "What's going on? Is it the wedding?"

She nods, rubbing her forehead. "Yeah, Levi's parents are visiting from New York." From the dread in her tone, it doesn't sound good.

"Is it that bad?"

She sighs and runs a hand through her blondish hair. "Let's just say if we were living in The Purge, our mom and Levi's would have already killed each other without question. You know, as if I needed more more problems with Mom."

"Oh my god, now I need the details. What do they act like around each other?"

"Let's see. Insulting each other's looks indirectly, claiming each wedding idea the other comes up with is shit—even if both would have liked it otherwise—and then waging a war over whose child is more perfect? Did neither of them get the memo we're twenty-two, not twelve?"

"Maybe they're the ones acting like twelve-year-olds," I mumble, cringing at the mental picture. "What about Levi's dad?"

"Oh, Dave? He and Dad act like long lost friends. Dad showed him the golf course the other day, and they've spent nearly every afternoon there. Well, it's either that, or they're trying to avoid their wives. Don't blame them at this point."

"That's good, at least," I mumble. But it isn't much of a surprise, since he's always preferred the country club to spending time at home.

"Yeah, I know, but I'm so anxious about all the planning. Levi keeps forcing me to meditate with him, but he doesn't understand that calming shit doesn't work for me. I have to worry it all out."

"Hey, hey," I soothe, "it's still only June. I'm sure they'll be able to reach a compromise soon, and you and Levi will get your dream wedding." She sighs and smiles, dragging her hands through her hair again. "But if you'd let me ask, why are you diving so quickly into the idea of a wedding? Don't you think it's a bit soon?"

She shrugs. "I mean, we've been together for four years, so I don't see why a wedding is that unrealistic," she says, adjusting her position on her bed. "Besides, Nana married Grandpa after, like, four months, so this can't be that bad."

"Yeah, but that was like 1960, Poppy."

"1960, now, what's the difference?" she jokes, waving her hand in the air. Smartphones, email, women's rights—you know, the works, I don't add. "I just don't wanna be one of those couples that are like forty and still dating, you know? I'm ready to tie the knot, so you bet I'm gonna do it. Mom can't get in the way of everything I do for God's sake."

"I admire your determination, to be honest. I can hardly motivate myself to get out of bed here sometimes."

"Speaking of that, how is everything? Is the camp meeting your expectations?"

I sigh, stretching out my sore legs. "I don't know if I had expectations in the first place. All I know is I'm either going to get a cute ass or beat someone up by the end of this—that person being Willow since she literally followed me here. How weird, right?"

"Oh God, not her." She grimaces, remembering my many rants about her over the years. "Is your trainer hot at least?" She makes a weird, sexy face, and I gag.

"Hotness isn't everything," I say through a slight smile, "but to answer your question, very."

"Details, Whitney! What if he becomes your first real boyfriend?"

"God no, Poppy," I mumble, knowing for a fact someone like him isn't single, "but to answer your question, he's tall, a little over six feet. Blondish-brownish hair with these amazing hazel eyes. But his personality just doesn't go with the looks."

"What do you mean?"

I shrug. "I don't know. He's not cocky or stuck-up. Not that rude either. Just...dry. I mean, at least he puts up with me, though."

"That's his job, Whitney," she says wryly. "But I bet someone like him probably has a dark backstory or some shit. Ugh, now this sounds like this trashy book I read in high school. Actually, I think it's somewhere on my bookshelf." She gets distracted as she walks across her childhood room, thumbing through the shelves on the wall.

I chuckle and shake my head. "I'd try to find out what this supposed 'backstory' is, Poppy, but he's not much of a conversationalist."

She sucks in her cheeks. "Shame. I'll be waiting for whenever you figure it out!"

I roll my eyes. "I'll try. I have to go, or I'll miss my precious workout. Talk to you another time!"

I slide my phone into my pocket and walk to the mirror to fix my ponytail, preening for a bit. As I pull some loose strands away from my face, I notice a small piece of paper on top of my pile of shirts, folded in fourths. I pick it up and examine the back before opening it up.

How does it feel being single, bitch?

It's signed with an X.

I crinkle my forehead. X?

I should be frightened, but the first thing I think of is what level of poor creativity do you have to possess to sign a note with X? I mull over it for a few more moments, feeling odd that Poppy and I were just talking about relationships, but decide to hide it in my makeup bag.

Out of sight, out of mind... Sort of.

Releasing a shuddering breath, I exit my dorm room and shut the door, jumping a little when I hear a creaking noise up the hall. A few seconds later, Willow steps out of her room, her head tilting upwards. We stop for a moment and stare at each other, a stalemate of silence.

She gives me a small smile before walking away.

Strange.

I walk outside into the balmy weather and meet Axel on the beach this time, a place I've been craving. He's wearing a white shirt today, bringing out his tanned skin. It seems less natural and more the aftermath of working out in the sun too many times, so I only pray the same will happen to me by the end of this experience, hating my milky-white legs.

"Today we're going to focus on the upper body and abs," he says, beginning to walk down the sand. "Follow me." He leads me close to the shoreline, where the sand is firmer and darker, and rolls out a yoga mat.

He says something else, but the water sucks me in again, entrancing me in the low tide. It's always been prettier to me than high tide, but I can never explain why.

"Wait, what?"

"I said assume a plank position." His eyes flit to his phone, where I can faintly make out the clock app. Looking up and noticing I haven't budged, he smiles and adds, "You haven't informed me if you're as bad at planks as you are at running."

That's motivation enough to get me down on my knees. Shit, that sounds really wrong. I clear my throat and assume the proper position, realizing how much worse it is on unstable ground. I feel the strain on my abs in seconds, my arms and abdomen vibrating like my phone would if I was popular.

Axel crouches down next to me. "It'll be easier if you lessen the distance between your arms." I do as he says but still feel shaky, maybe because my legs have barely recovered from the hill sprints a few days ago. "Can I help a bit?"

I tilt my head up. "What?"

"Show you how it's done. Only if you're comfortable, that is."

A murmured yes leaves my mouth, and he comes closer, fingers dangling in the air. I nod, and he connects one hand with my lower stomach, while the other rests on my back. He pushes upwards gently and fixes my curved form. He lets his fingers linger for a second longer than normal, and I burn holes into the sand, trying not to let him notice I'm affected.

After another twenty seconds, my hair is sticking to the back of my neck, and my face feels tomato red. Every muscle in my lower and upper body strains to keep me up, crying out to me to spare them. They give up on me not long after, ignoring my wish to make it to a full minute.

"Thirty-eight seconds," he reads. "What do you think?"

I sit cross-legged and shrug, examining my red forearms. "I was aiming for a minute, but thirty-eight seconds is pretty good. If you round it up by two seconds, I made it forty seconds. And then if you round that number to the nearest minute, technically, I reached my goal."

"That's the spirit," he jokes and holds out his hand, as always.

I take it, although some part of me wonders if he's come to like the feeling of my hand in his.

He leads me through a series of upper-body exercises without weights, equipment I once thought was necessary for building arm strength. I breeze through most of them and send a small mental shout out to all physics and chemistry book publishers on the last set.

"Let's try a plank again," he says.

I internally groan at the usage of "let's," given it's always me doing all these exercises. I crawl back onto the mat and get into position, remembering to lower my back and keep my elbows parallel to my shoulders. I change my strategy this time, trying not to focus on time and instead on what it would feel like to kiss him.

Wait, what?

"Tired yet?"

His voice pulls me out of my reverie, and I shake my head, feeling my cheeks grow hotter than they already are from exhaustion. I can't even guess how much time has passed when I finally crumple to the mat.

"One minute and one second."

My jaw drops. "Seriously?"

"Look for yourself, if you want to," he says, showing me his phone. Sure enough, the number is the same, and it boosts my nearly non-existent ego.

I hand it back to him, beaming. "Now what?"

Bestowing upon me his signature answer, he says, "We run."

Halfway down the beach, I grow bored of the quiet, wondering how his thoughts keep him so entertained. I normally try to escape mine, diving into TV series or sappy novels about people with lives ten times more interesting than my own.

Maybe I've craved them less this week because my life finally is interesting.

"Axel," I begin, less breathless than usual, "are we ever gonna—you know—get to know each other a little? We can't keep going on like this for four-and-a-half more weeks."

He fights a smile, adjusting the silver necklace on his chest. "Whitney, the purpose of this experience isn't to become friends."

It's to become lovers, I finish for him in my head, joking—half-joking.

My hopeful expression falls, sending me eyes to the sand. "Okay, cool, forget I asked." I try to play it off, feeling embarrassed for even asking.

He notices my red cheeks and fights a smile, nudging me lightly with his elbow. "I'm just messing with you. What are you dying to know?"

I perk up and blurt the first thing that comes to my mind. "Well, you could start by confirming you're not thirty. Your age is still a little muddy to me."

"I'm twenty-one," he says, corner of his lips lifting. "Just graduated from college in May, actually."

"Oh, wow, that's great," I nod. "Were you an exercise science major?" It has to be something similar, given that he willingly works at a fitness camp.

He shakes his head, then half nods. "Close, kinesiology. I plan to go down the physical therapy route." We make it to the end of the beach, and he, for once, doesn't demand we run back right away. "What about you? What are your life's aspirations?"

I sigh. "I want to be pre-med, but it feels so cliché. Everybody's parents at my school were either doctors, bankers, or lawyers, and it makes people think I'm into the career for the wrong reasons."

He shakes his head. "From someone who's about four years ahead of you in life, I say if you're genuinely passionate about medicine, fuck what people think." His genuine words warm my heart, somewhat unexpected. "Is Greenwich home?"

I nod, but it doesn't feel right. "Yeah. But I spent the first eight years of my life in Manhattan. I don't have a ton of notable memories, but I do recall life being so vibrant. Never a dull day in that city..." I wish different circumstances had moved my family across state lines, but I'd had no say in my dad's decision anyway.

"I'm from Brooklyn," he says. I suddenly feel odd for talking about the city like he doesn't know it through and through. "Not sure if I enjoyed the place that much growing up. My mother worked a lot of the time, so I effectively became second dad to my younger brother." Whatever he is thinking about seems to pain him, but he follows up with crappy humor as usual. "Never betrayed the city for hedge fund land, though, so I guess we can't entirely relate."

"I was just a kid," I mumble, although I know he's joking. I fail to mention my dad left New York to start a hedge fund. "Is your brother a lot younger than you?"

He shakes his head. "No, he's fifteen. Got any siblings yourself?"

I nod. "Just an older sister, about your age."

We continue talking for a little bit, sharing a few more details about our lives and ourselves, before beginning the run back down the beach. Each time he says something, I let him talk as much as he wants, realizing that no matter what he shares, I'm interested.

So damn interested.