The next day, after consulting a doctor and sleeping a choppy yet invigorating fourteen hours, I wake up feeling a lot better, my symptoms somewhat milder. I have enough energy to sit up without feeling faint, but the dull soreness in the back of my throat is just as bothersome.

I climb back in bed after a quick lunch and chug the rest of my water bottle, momentarily easing the pain. My phone rings as I finally get into a comfortable position on my side, and I groan. I stick my arm out without looking and fish for the device somewhere on my side table, almost knocking over the lamp in the process.

I hold the screen up to my face and do a double take. Dad?

I click the green button.

"Hi, Whit, how are you doing?"

I sit up straighter in my bed and hug a pillow, pressing the phone to my ear. "I'm okay, Dad. How are you?"

I hear a shuffle and then a brief exchange of words. His voice comes closer to the speaker. "I'm good—wait, you sound different. Are you sick?"

"Yes, sadly. I've come down with one of those awful summer colds. How convenient, right?"

"Oh no, I hope you feel better soon, honey. Have they let you take a day off, at least?" I hold back a chuckle. The concept is unheard of in his world, where work always goes above all, even your health. And family.

"Yeah, of course. You actually caught me right before I was going to take a nap." I glance at the clock on the wall, reading a couple minutes past two.

"Would you like me to hang up? I want you to rest up as much as possible."

"No." The word almost comes out in a yell, because there's nothing more I want than to finally have a real conversation with him. "I mean, I-I've already slept a lot. Distract me—what's going on in your life?"

"Well, I'm currently packing for Chicago. I'll be there on business for a few days. Then your mom and I want to take a trip somewhere for the weekend. God, I don't even remember the last time just the two of us went somewhere exciting, but then again, your mom isn't one for adventure."

"Oh, well, I hope you guys have fun," I say, but I doubt they'll end up going anywhere. "So, Chicago, huh? Are you looking forward to going, or is it just work as usual?"

He sighs. "No, I probably won't see much more than the inside of a hotel and a couple of air-conditioned conference rooms." His voice fades again, but when I hold the phone closer to my ear, I realize he's just talking to my mom. "Wait, isn't Chicago the city you've always wanted to visit? Or am I off?"

"Way off," I laugh and correct, "it's actually San Diego." The two couldn't be more unalike, but I guess the thought was what counted.

"Consider a trip there already yours," he says. My eyes widen, but I shouldn't be surprised. When it comes to things that cost money, he never disappoints. "How have you been holding up with all that exercise? Your mom tells me it's a lot more than you thought."

I laugh. "Working out now isn't nearly as bad now as it was in the beginning. I'm kind of liking it, to be honest."

"Ah, that's great. I always knew you had it in you, just like Poppy."

I freeze in place, hearing my least favorite words: just like Poppy. I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent a snappy reply, knowing he didn't mean it like that. But that's just this time.

"Hey, Dad, tell Mom I say hi, okay? I think I'm going to actually take that nap."

He sighs. "Alright, sweetheart, hope you sleep well."

We hang up, and I stare at the ceiling, not even knowing what to think anymore.

***

I'm not tired anymore, which isn't that strange because all I've done for the last two days is lie in bed, drink my body weight in water, and avoid other people to prevent the spread of my disease.

Monday morning, I walk down the hallway to the bathroom and find it empty. I close the door behind me and walk through the room, a faint smell of lemon-scented cleaner lingering in the air. I stop in front of the mirror and rest my hands on the countertop. I take a really good look at myself, noting a light but awkward tan from where sun doesn't reach and a few highlights in my brown hair that definitely weren't there last month.

But as my eyes get lost in my reflection, I realize I do look different. My face seems slimmer, a sharp jawline beginning to show. I take in the hints of muscle in my arms when I flex them. I press my hand over my abdomen and my stomach feels much firmer, as if a layer of muscle is about to peek out.

As I change into a pair of mesh shorts, I notice that even my thighs, the one place where all the bagels, muffins, and ice cream in the world seem to go to, actually look slimmer.

After I finish washing up, I head back outside and take a detour to the dining hall, even though it's not breakfast yet. More times than one, Martina has snuck in and brought us both actually palatable food before meals are served, so maybe I'll return the favor. I slip through the door, keeping the lights off, and walk to the way end of the room, where Martina told me she has found some of the good stuff.

And she wasn't lying.

Bingo.

Picking a muffin with the most blueberries, I try to eat it in a hurry and dispose the wrapper in one of the trash cans outside. Then, I stop in my tracks and sigh, knowing I still have a couple hours before I meet up with Axel.

I plop down on Adriana and Company's favorite bench and breathe in some fresh air. With the free time and no one around, I decide to pick up where I left off with my social media deep dive. So far, Facebook has been useless, and Adriana and Natalie's Instagram accounts are both private. Half of my high school follows Willow's public page, but I refused to even look at her account during my four years there, doubting she was any different online than in real life.

Turns out I was right; most of her photos are perfectly edited and filtered shots of her at school, on the beach, shopping in Manhattan, or modeling her mother's clothing line. What interests me is the lack of photos with her best friend Adriana, just a couple of staged dance shots and one of them posing on a yacht on her birthday, along with Mina and a couple girls I don't recognize.

I laugh when I stumble upon the one photo with Jonah she kept up, from winter formal sophomore year. I snort when I read Adriana's comment: "ugh wish I could have been there!!!"

Who comments that on a photo of another couple?

I've almost hit the end of her page when I find one picture that sticks out among the rest: it's much, much older. Willow looks about ten and is almost unrecognizable: chubby cheeks, dirty blonde hair, gap-toothed grin. Some part of me always wondered if Willow had an eating disorder in high school, as her physique was—is—almost skeletal, but I figured she always looked like that, given she didn't seem to change much from freshman to senior year.

I forget about her full figure in this photo and focus on the tall man she hugs, with gray-speckled hair and the same wrinkles by her eyes when he smiles. My heart sinks at the caption: "rest in peace, Dad. wish this moment could have lasted forever..."

I rip my gaze away from my phone when I hear giggles in the distance. I squint and make out Martina and Aspen walking side by side, whispering into each other's ears.

"Hey!" I call, standing up.

Martina sends me a wave, while Aspen darts to the side. I furrow my brow but don't say anything as the two approach me, and we head off to breakfast in silence.

***

"That's it?" I ask, barely having any sweat to wipe off when Axel hands me a towel. The workout he crafted today was arms-heavy, but the weights he chose were suspiciously light. "This workout is unlike you."

"Because you're unlike you," he says, sitting down on the bench press seat the wrong way. "I'm not going to make you run a 5K while you're still recovering."

I huff. "That's not what I meant. But I'm also not that sick anymore."

He rests his elbows on the back of the seat and frowns. "What's your deal with downplaying everything that happens to you? You don't have to bring your A game all the time."

I open my mouth to refute his statement, but he's not wrong. Maybe it's my inherent low profile, people-pleasing nature that exaggerates whenever I'm around him, or the fact beating Willow has seemingly been my only goal during my time here.

"You're right," I say, finding it hard to look him in the eyes. "I guess I just keep feeling like I have something to prove here. And taking several days off doesn't fit into that plan."

He lets out an empty laugh. "I would encourage your desires, but there's no prize waiting at the end of this." He tilts his head up and scans the expanse of the gym with his eyes. "All this training...is for you. Not to impress your parents. Or some dumbasses from school. Or an ex-boyfriend. Just you, Whitney."

"Well, you can cross off one of those options," I mumble, hating how the other two do apply to me. "But you're right. Again, of course."

He rests a fist under his chin and smirks. "Would it flatter your ego if I told you I couldn't guess which one?"

I cross my arms over my front, looking at him from underneath my eyelashes. "Would it stroke your ego if I said yes?"

He stands up and stops about a foot from me. Resting one hand on the mirror to my left, he leans in and says, "You're aware this session is over, so you're free to go, right? Unless... you're stalling."

"Let's not pretend we spend every moment of our workouts actually working out." I eye the door about fifteen feet behind his head, knowing it's closed. But there's something about our close proximity that always feels so taboo, even if objectively, it's far from it. "Or are you finally bored?"

He scoffs. "I'd contradict myself if I was."

I cock my head slightly to one side, not understanding. "What do you mean?"

He stares into my eyes as if he's trying to find something in them that hasn't been there the last hundred times. Before I can open my mouth again, he blinks and looks away, catching himself.

"Nothing," he says and turns around, "just wasting more time."