The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 28

I thought I was going to die.

Having got up early to do all my baking, I decided to let the sponges cool and treat myself to a spin class before stacking the layers together. But today’s class was taught by a guy I had never seen before and never want to see again. He made us (or at least tried to make us) spin really fast out of the saddle. At first, I tried, but I quickly gave up and sat back down, resigned. Fast pedalling out of the seat is never something I will be able to do; my body is not physically able.

I am always thankful that the lights are dark in spinning classes. It makes me less ashamed when I get the beat wrong or can’t go as fast as I am meant to. But once out of the class, I try not to catch sight of my very, very red and sweaty face in the mirror as I reach the changing rooms. I will never understand the lighting and décor choices in a gym. The lights are always very bright, and the mirrors are always very numerous. If there is one thing I don’t want in a gym, it’s very bright lighting. And if there is a second, it’s lots of mirrors.

My gym trip today is a solo one. I needed to do something to get me out of the house and out of my head. I have so much energy; I feel like I have drunk five espressos back to back, and it is all because of Noah. I’m at risk of becoming one of those people I don’t like. One of those people I never thought I would be. One of those people who wants to be with another person. All. The. Time. I have completely forgotten about my previous ideas and beliefs on relationships and am instead on my way to syncing our diaries and matching our wardrobes.

Distracted by my thoughts, I forget to avoid the mirrors and catch an unwanted glimpse of myself just as I turn towards my locker in the changing room. I almost jump at the sight. Fitness videos will never make me famous.

It’s the middle of the day, so few people are around, and no naked butts stand in between me and my belongings. I open up my locker and try to find all the things I need. No matter how frequently I come to the gym, or how well I try to plan ahead, I never manage to organize my belongings in a way that actually works. Every time, no matter what it is I am after, the thing I need is always at the bottom of my bag, at the back of the locker, being pinned down by a shoe and tied up by my jacket. And the only way to reach it is to get out all of my belongings. And I always end up doing this at least twice, because I always, always forget something.

Having finally picked the cleanest-looking shower, I get in and undress. I know I should undress in the main area instead of hogging the cubicle, but undressing after spinning is always so dangerous; clothes stick to you in weird ways and muscles don’t work the way that they should. My weakened limbs and sticky clothes combine to form a very probable potential hazard.

‘Ouch.’ I hit my hand against the mini shelf after trying to take off my sports bra, but soon start lathering up. The shower gel has changed: it has a slight scent of mint. Having previously been vehemently opposed to the scent, now it reminds me of Noah, and I don’t hate it quite so much.

In the heat and with the mint smell, I let myself pretend I am at a relaxing spa. It feels so nice to take my time. I give my arms a cursory rub just to help the lather, but work my way up methodically from my feet. When I reach my boobs, I give them a little extra attention. I know it shouldn’t make a difference, but having Noah like them makes me like them more too. I’m sorry, boobs. I’m sorry for not appreciating you as I should have.

But as I lift my left arm to reach my back, my attention suddenly focuses, even though I go a little dizzy at the same time.

There is something there. Right at the edge of my left boob.

But I must be wrong. It must have just been the position I was in. I move around a bit, and feel again, with my arm down.

Shit. I can feel something.

I lift up my arm.

I can really feel something.

I am a fastidious boob checker. Well, I used to be at least. But I still do it often enough. This can’t be what I think this could be. Can it?

I need to be rational.

When was the last time I checked my boobs? I try to remember the last time I really felt them up. I looked at them a lot on Sunday morning, but did I feel them?

No. I was too busy staring at them in the mirror to touch them.

But Noah felt them. Surely he must have felt something?

He might have done, but the scarring has also left my boobs feeling a little funny anyway. He might have felt something, but he wouldn’t have known it was something that wasn’t meant to be there.

I rub my eyes as the shower continues to hit me. The water that was once a relaxing waterfall now feels like it is drowning me.

Shit.

It’s normally a job for my Sunday shower, though my recent Sundays have all been a bit out of whack – but even before then I had become lazy. I had become confident. I had become forgetful.

Months. My last boob check must have been months ago.

I squeeze more soap into my hand, once again getting hit with the scent of mint. A scent I now don’t want to think about.

I feel everywhere, very, very methodically.

I still only feel the one lump, but I feel it really clearly now.

Having been in hiding, it is now all I can feel. I try to size it. It feels about the size of a grape. Either that or a fucking melon. I try to gauge how hard it is. I try to rub it away.

I start to cry. It doesn’t rub away.

I’ve been in the shower for so long that another exercise class has ended, and I can hear more sweaty bodies piling into the changing rooms. Normally this would make me speed up, but right now I don’t give a single fuck how long I am taking.

Right now, I am steeling myself. I force myself to stop feeling the lump. It is now very sore.

But even though I have stopped touching it, I still know it is there.