Page 13 of Set to Love

I need to clear my mind.

Or else.

The gym is nice and empty at this hour. It’s just the low hum of treadmills and the occasional clank of weights. I start with the stationary bike, keeping the resistance light, the way my physical therapist has drilled into me. My right ankle still stiffens when I push too hard.

Six months ago, I couldn’t even jog without a brace. Now I can sprint in short bursts, but every step still comes with a warning from my body—Don’t be stupid. Or else I’ll just end up with another setback.

I spend twenty minutes stretching and working through Zoe’s list of resistance-band exercises before moving to the elliptical. Sweat drips down the back of my neck as my nerves slowly burn off.

Two hours later, with droplets of water still dripping from my hair onto my shoulders, I stand in the center of my studio, staring at the three outfits I’ve laid out on the edge of my sofa bed.

“Katie?” Zoe’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“About time you picked up,” I say, propping up my phone against a stack of tennis-ball cans on the TV stand.

“Give me a break,” she mutters, her face finally appearing on the screen. Her hair is pulled into a low ponytail, sticking up at odd angles. She squints. “It’s my first day off. I was hoping to sleep until at least eight. You’re lucky you’re the only person I let through Do Not Disturb mode.”

I feel a hint of guilt watching her rub her eyes on screen. “I’m sorry, but I need your help. I have a fashion emergency.” Coming out of my mouth, I realize how lame that excuse sounds.

“Are you seriously telling me you woke me up because you can’t figure out what to wear on your date with Max?” she deadpans.

“Yes.”

“What was your plan B if I didn’t pick up?”

“An AI chatbot.”

Zoe lets out a dramatic yawn. “At least it’s a good reason.”

“I appreciate you,” I say.

“Yeah. Yeah.” She waves me off. “Show me the goods.”

I pick up my phone and pan the camera across the sofa. “Okay, option one is the classic jeans and⁠—”

“Is that your work shirt?” Zoe interjects, leaning forward to inspect the standard-issue black collared button-up.

“Maybe . . .”

“Automatic no. You don’t want the black-on-black look.”

“The jeans are blue, not black.”

“Same difference.” Zoe shrugs. “They’re too dark. And your work shirt doesn’t show anything off.”

Heat sears my cheeks. I tilt the phone, catching my reflection in the corner of the screen. My shoulder-length brown hair is damp and straggly, and faint shadows hang under my eyes. I forgot to wash off the mascara Zoe made me wear last night, and the leftover smudges aren’t doing me any favors. Even with a tan, I look completely exhausted. “That’s the point.”

“Why?”

Years of serves and backhands have left me looking more like a sculpted Greek statue than the dainty dancer types Max is probably used to dating. “You know how I feel about my arms. I look like a man.”

“You do not.” Zoe’s voice goes sharp with that best friend’s authority. “You’re a professional athlete with a body most people would kill for. Own the muscles, Katie. You’ve worked hard for them. And it’s hot.”

I choose not to answer that, quickly panning to the next pile. “Here’s outfit two. It’s⁠—”

Zoe wrinkles her nose. “If you tell me those are leggings, I’m hanging up.”

“Why not? I wear them every day! They’re comfortable!”