~ONE WEEK TO CUBA~

~LORI~

That guy is staring at me, I'm sure of it. He follows my movements as I squat, the heavy bar resting on my shoulders. We're the only ones in this section of the gym, where the long barbells and squat racks are, and he's directly behind me. I can see him in the mirrors that cover the walls, not even trying to hide the fact that he's a creep.

Stop it! I want to yell, but my voice is caught in my throat.

His gaze roams freely over my legs and butt as I stand to set the bar back on the rack. His eyes meet mine in the mirror and hold them.

You're being a perv! is what I want to shout. My best friend Faye would, if she were here, but she hates the gym. Faye wouldn't stand rooted to the spot in horror, too timid to tell him off.

I take a sip of water, breaking eye contact first, and inwardly curse myself. Thankfully, he reracks his weights, and I exhale in relief. But as he passes me, his hand grazes my butt, so fast it's like it barely happened. I jerk my head to glare at him, but he smirks at me and continues walking to the free weights. As he lifts a dumbbell with the same hand that touched me, the large lion tattoo on his bicep flexes, taunting me.

I should say something to him. I should say something, I should say something, just say something, Lori!

Clutching my metal water bottle so tightly my knuckles turn white, I march over to him, my pulse beating louder and louder in my ears with every step I take.

"Hey!" I exclaim in a voice that doesn't sound like mine. "Quit staring at me!"

The guy faces me, his eyes dropping to check me out before a corner of his mouth lifts. "Not staring, just enjoying the view you're so generously providing."

My face burns and I sputter as I try to think of something to say. Faye would think of the comeback to end all comebacks, but I only stand there, my pulse racing with anger and embarrassment.

"If you're gonna stand there, at least make yourself useful and hand me that fifty-pounder over there." The guy gestures to the dumbbell rack, that smirk still in place. "Bend over while you do it though, you're so good at that."

My mouth opens and closes once before I spin on my heel and speed walk as far away from him as I can possibly get. His chuckle follows me like a taunt, burning in my brain even when I can't hear him anymore.

This is why I never say anything. I've just made it ten times worse than if I'd ignored him. What if he thinks it's okay to come up to me now that I spectacularly failed to stand up for myself? I wish I knew exactly what to say to put him in his place. I scrub the spot he touched with my own hand as if that can erase the memory.

Still fuming at myself and the stupid lion tattoo guy, I refill my bottle, staring at the faded, cracked Grant's Gym logo painted on the too-white wall above the water fountain. The light overhead is so bright, like a spotlight, and the air's stuffy and rank, permeated with the smell of sweat. The second my bottle is filled, I dart all the way to the front of the gym near the large windows, and as far from Pervy Guy as possible. A few regulars wave as they see me, but I keep my head down until I reach the leg machines. I know it's rude, but I'm afraid that if I talk, I might cry.

Taking a deep breath, I try to let go of what happened so I can focus on my workout. I adjust my headphones and change the playlist to a Spanish hits one before placing my water bottle on the floor. When I look up, I see Mr. Blue Eyes; his eyes are so bright they make the blue of my own seem dull in comparison. My pulse speeds up, and I force myself to stop gawking at him as he talks to some guys by the benches.

I've never had the nerve to start a conversation with him. Faye tells me I should, but I'm always lost for words when he's in my vicinity. I don't like staring at him because I don't want to act like the creepy guys that stare at me, but he's so . . . wow. He's not the model type of pretty like Faye's brother, Adam.
Mr. Blue Eyes is a rugged, manly type of handsome. I like to imagine he uses his muscles for chopping wood, wrestling bears, leading his men into battle, or some other ridiculous romance novel stereotype.

I busy myself with adjusting the weights on the leg press, then peek over at the place I last saw him, in a totally nonstalkerish way. He's not there, and my heart sinks. That sucks. Maybe today would've been the day I got up the nerve to speak to him. I bend down to pick up my water bottle, and when I stand, I spot him. It's like he's moving in slow motion as he runs a hand through his thick black hair, pushing it off his forehead. He's like a walking shampoo commercial.

As I'm reminding myself not to gawk, his head shifts, and we're looking straight at each other, with eye contact and everything. There's a burning heat in my stomach when he smiles. Is he smiling at me? I peer behind me in case he's looking at someone else, but no one's there.

He's smiling at me.

I return the smile, and I hope he can't tell that I'm squealing inside. It must be all the encouragement he needs because he's in motion. His long legs striding. Right. Toward. Me.

Oh crap. Ohcrapohcrapohcrap. What should I do? What would Faye do? She's the master of flirting and can make guys fall to their knees begging for her to give them the time of day, and why isn't she here when I need her?

Because I spent all that time panicking about how I should act and what I should do with my arms, the result is that I stand there staring at him with my mouth open until he reaches me.

He stops right in front of me. Smiles. His lips move. He's saying something, but all I hear is Maluma singing in my ears. He looks down at the leg press and back at me, his lips moving again. He must be asking if I'm done with the machine.

I frantically rip out one earbud. "Yes," I say, flinching at my excessive volume.

His eyebrows draw together, as if confused why I'm still awkwardly standing in front of the machine he wants to use. This is the closest I've ever been to him, and I'm positively failing at my one chance to make him fall in love with me.

He opens his mouth to say something, probably to ask what my issue is, but before I can embarrass myself any further, I turn around while popping my earbud back in, and speed walk the hell away from him.

"Maybe today would've been the day I got up the nerve to speak to him," I mimic myself in my head and roll my eyes at my sheer stupidity. Yeah, because talking to him went real well, and I gave him my leg press machine before I even used it.

Ugh. What is up with me? I should quit while I'm ahead and leave now, but I've had such a shitty workout today I've totally wasted the gas it took to get here, and that's not exactly cheap, at least not cheap enough that the money I get from lifeguarding can comfortably cover it all. Maybe just one more exercise to make the drive here worth it, then I'll head out. Back extensions always make me feel strong, and that's exactly what I need after failing to stand up for myself with one guy or flirt with the other.

The equipment is on a forty-five-degree angle, so I lean on it and adjust the pads on my hips. Then I bend down over it so my head is close to the floor and my bottom is in the air and bring myself up with a straight back. Even though I'm a little sore, I decide to hold extra weights to really ramp up the intensity.

On rep six, I lift back up to peek at Mr. Blue Eyes. As if he feels my gaze, he looks in my direction. I dip back down to do another rep, and when I pull myself back up, I realize that he's not looking at me, he's looking at something behind me. When I go back down, I check to see what he's looking at, and even upside-down, I recognize Pervy Gym Guy with the lion tattoo behind me. Then there's a flash.

Blood rushing in my ears, I straighten and stumble off the machine. The weights slip out of my hands and land on the padded floor with a muffled thud. Pervy Gym Guy is looking at his phone, which he just used to take a picture of my butt.

My heart sinks and my vision blurs. I don't know what to do; I feel so disgusted and violated. I want to cry or slap that pervert or run away and hide. I want to yell at him until his head explodes. Destroy his phone with a barbell. Instead, I stand here helplessly, staring daggers at him, without doing any of those things, without grabbing his phone and bashing him with it.

Before I can blink, Mr. Blue Eyes is in Pervy Gym Guy's face, and Mr. Blue Eyes's arms are gesturing wildly.

I rip my headphones out so I can hear what he's saying.

"—the fuck raised you? I've never seen something so disrespectful. Who the fuck do you think you are to treat a human being like she's only here for your disgusting lonely jerk-off session later tonight?" Rage radiates off Mr. Blue Eyes, I can feel it from all the way over here.

"Whoa, chill out, dude. She's hot—"

"Chill out?!" Mr. Blue Eyes is bigger than Pervy Gym Guy, and gets even closer to him, making Pervy Gym Guy shrink into himself.

I glance around the gym, and everyone is looking at us. Looking at me.

My breathing turns shallow, and my head spins. I hate being the center of attention. I hate causing a scene. I hate everyone staring at me.

I don't know what happens next, because I scramble out of there and into the changing room before more people come over to judge me, to get a look at the girl too weak to speak up for herself.

Why violate someone like that while they're in the gym? This is the second time in one day I've had an issue with that guy. I should've said something harsher the first time instead of floundering the moment he talked back and embarrassed me. I should report him to management. I should tell Faye so she can rip him a new one. I should do something.

Throwing all my things into my bag without bothering to zip it up, I grab my car keys, faltering as I exit the changing room. People are looking at me. A group of girls in the corner are whispering and gawking. A bunch of guys close to them are doing the same, and one points at me. My breath halts. I'll tell management another time. I need to leave. I need to get out of here right now.

Racing through the gym with my head down, I'm almost at the door when a voice behind me calls out, "Hey, wait up!"

Even though everything seems hazy, I spot Mr. Blue Eyes jogging toward me in the reflection of the glass door. I should've known it was him calling out to me. Even his voice is perfect. Deep and silky.

If I was too embarrassed to talk to him before, no way do I want to face him now, after he had to start a fight with a stranger because I froze, too worried about other people staring to demand Pervy Gym Guy be brought to justice.

The cool evening air hits me as I exit the gym, the setting sun turning the sky shades of pink and purple. I inhale the summer freshness, my heartbeat already steadier. It must be around eight, and the calmness of the night helps me clear my head. I don't think anyone followed me, so I relax my pace, strolling along the side of the redbrick exterior.

"Hey! Hold on a second!"

A quick glance behind me reveals Mr. Blue Eyes jogging my way. He doesn't have any of his belongings with him; it looks like he ran out when I did.

My stomach drops. I increase my pace, lengthening the distance between us, and right before I cross the street, the end of my mortification only seconds away, I stumble and drop my bag and keys. I sense him gaining on me, and I need to get to my car before that happens, so I hastily swoop down to pick up my stuff, not looking back but knowing he's close.

Please let me stop embarrassing myself in front of him!

I straighten and step off the curb to cross the street in a rush.

A few things happen simultaneously. That deep voice yells something much louder and more urgent than before. A horn blares, and I whip my head around. Headlights blind me. A force knocks into me, taking my breath away as I'm tackled to the ground. The car I stepped in front of continues harmlessly along, the driver not even stopping to see if it hit me or not.

I take a shaky breath. I almost got hit by a car! I'm such a coward that in my haste to run away from Mr. Blue Eyes, I walked right into the path of an oncoming car!

"Are you okay? Man, you gave me a scare," comes his voice from under my shaking body.

Wait. Under me?

I finally tune in to my surroundings. I'm lying on top of Mr. Blue Eyes on the grass, my face mere inches away from his. His arms are iron bands wrapped around my waist after pulling me out of danger, and our legs are tangled together. I'm pressed so close to him that despite everything, I notice that although his eyes are blue, there's a tiny ring of hazel around his pupils.

"You are okay, right?" he presses again.

Oh my goodness! I'm still lying on top of him staring at him like a total creeper.

I scramble off and sit up. My voice is thick, and I physically can't bring myself to make direct eye contact with him. "Yeah, I'm fine." I clear my throat as I assess my limbs. "Are you?"

He sits up beside me and dusts off his hands. "Yeah, but geez. Way to kill a guy's ego. You'd rather jump in front of a moving car than talk to me."

That makes me look right at him. He's still gorgeous, even with the ruffled hair. "That's—that's not what happened!"

He's smiling at me, and his teeth are so white and straight I'm 90 percent sure his dentist actively practices witchcraft.

"Of course it isn't." That smile never falters. "Not to lecture you or anything, but you should probably look both ways before crossing the street."

"Yes, thank you for refreshing me on first-grade skills. I promise I don't make jumping in front of cars a habit." I pick up the things that have fallen out of my bag, and he helps. I die a little inside when he gathers a bunch of tampons and deposits them into my gym bag.

"Guess I'll have to take your word for it," he jokes, helping me up and holding my keys out.

I take them, and when our fingers brush, electricity zips all the way up my arm. "Yeah, well . . . thanks for saving my life, I guess. And for what happened in there with Pervy Gym Guy."

He lifts an eyebrow at the nickname, and I don't realize I said it out loud until it's too late.

"He deleted the pictures, and I don't think he'll be coming to Grant's anymore," he says.

Pictures? As in plural?

Something on my face must alert him because he quickly adds, "Some people are just disgusting."

I give him a small smile, genuinely grateful for his interference twice today, but still embarrassed, especially about jumping in front of a car. My face is so hot I'm sure it's beet red.

"Yeah, thanks for that." I back away toward my car. I need to escape so I can die of embarrassment alone, the way you're supposed to. "And thanks again for the whole car thing. I guess I'll see you around."

Before he can say another word, I whirl around and run all the way to my Honda.

There is no way in hell I can ever show my face around here again.

—

While the incident from the gym weighs heavily on my mind, I don't have time to dwell on it, because as soon as I get home, I'm summoned to dinner. While everything today sucked, I have bigger problems now because tonight, for the first time in seventeen years, I'm going to disobey my parents. I've had nightmares about this exact moment but here I am, sitting at the mahogany dinner table that's been in our family for generations, about to tell them I'm ending three generations of Robertson tradition. Mom watches me fidget as I tug at the collar of my shirt. The grandfather clock behind her ticks in time with each beat of my heart.

"Something wrong with your dragon roll, Lori?" she asks, placing more on one of the heirloom china plates handed down from her great-grandmother. In the center of each, there's a hand-painted bluebird in midflight. I never thought I'd be so envious of a plate.

"Nope, it's great," I say, stuffing a piece into my mouth to prove my point. It tastes like ash, and I take a sip of water to wash it down. We've had sushi three times this week because the Japanese restaurant is open late enough to cater to Mom's schedule, but that's not the issue.

"Have you gotten your summer work schedule yet?" Dad asks me, refilling my crystal glass.

"Yes. They sent it two weeks ago when school ended."

Since I turned fifteen, I've been a part-time lifeguard at the community center and occasionally teach swimming to local kids. It's not the most exciting job, but better than being forced to go to summer science camp.

"Email it to me," Dad says. "We can plan a day around it to tour the campus again. Plus, I've been eyeing some volunteer opportunities at the hospital I think you'd be great for. Nothing major, mostly in the office, but it's important for you to get some experience in a hospital setting."

This is it. The opening I've been waiting for. A bead of sweat drips down my forehead, and I wipe it away. "Actually . . . about that . . . I . . ." Deep breaths, Lori. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Creepily in sync, my parents' heads swing over to look at me, and I shrink into my seat.

My parents, Paul and Mary Robertson, are both heart surgeons at the top of their field, and all my life I've heard about how I'm going to follow in their footsteps and be an amazing surgeon like them. Like their parents. Like their parents' parents. We've watched educational television after dinner, had conversations about tricuspid valves and atrial fibrillations, and they've even made me practice suturing supermarket chicken. I've been told that I was going to be a surgeon since before I even knew what a surgeon was. So, for them, my life is going exactly as they planned, especially once they saw my early acceptance letter to Life Sciences, one of the hardest programs to get into at the University of Toronto. They even googled "surgeon family photoshoots" to get inspiration for all the cute photo Christmas cards we'd send out each year in matching scrubs, with stethoscopes dangling from our necks. The thought terrifies me.

"What were you thinking?" Mom asks, setting her chopsticks down to fix me with a stare. Her gaze is intimidating. Her eyes are the exact same shade of blue as mine, but they're surrounded with lines from years of stress.

I've rehearsed this speech many times in my head. "It's not a big deal, but before I become a doctor, I think I should have more real-world experience." I sip my water, peering at them over the edge of my glass. The fact that they're not smashing their spicy salmon rolls to bits or grounding me for eternity must mean I'm doing a good job, so I push ahead, a tiny bit more confident. "I want to defer my admission to next year, so I can take this year off to backpack through Europe."

Okay, maybe I wussed out on the whole I don't think I want to be a surgeon announcement, but baby steps.

The air thickens as their silence persists. All I hear is the throbbing of my pulse in my skull and the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock. Right before I crack from the overwhelming quiet, Mom and Dad glance at each other, then erupt into laughter.

"Yeah. Good one, Lori," Mom says, then sips her wine.

My voice is shaky when I say, "I'm not joking. That's what I want to do."

Mom sets her glass down, then brushes aside some nonexistent crumbs on the white tablecloth. Dad's face is unreadable. "I wouldn't be alone, obviously," I add, trying to convince them before they shut it down outright. "I've done a lot of research. There are lots of gap year programs online. Some of them even give college credit. Studies show that students who defer for a year end up being more successful at university. I've printed out some sample itineraries for you to look at. Here's the best part, I have more than enough money saved up to pay for it myself, and I'll earn more lifeguarding this summer."

Mom sighs as if praying for the patience to deal with me, and my breath catches in my throat. "That all sounds magical and wonderful, but you know most people who take a year off don't return to school," she says.

"That's not true—"

Dad tosses his linen napkin over his plate. "Look, Lor, getting an education is more important right now than traveling. You'll have plenty of time for that once you finish med school." He points to the picture of his mother, Lorraine Robertson, sitting on the fireplace mantel. It's in a heavy golden frame, and he touches it every time he passes by. "Your grandmother would be so proud of you. You know how hard she worked to become one of the first female surgeons in Canada, and now you're carrying on her legacy."

My stomach twists. I've always felt all this pressure to be like her. I've been hearing about how hard she worked, and how accomplished, smart, and passionate she was since I was old enough to hold her heavy picture frame in my little toddler hands. She died before I was born, but she's been a constant part of my life, always around, always haunting me, her eyes following me as I walk by, accusing me. Why don't you want to carry on my legacy? Why are you such a disappointment? I try
to avoid this room when I can, avoid a picture that should hold no power over me but somehow controls my fate. But since we eat all our meals here, that's virtually impossible unless I snag the seat facing away from the fireplace.

"Don't you think I deserve a little break before I hop into ten or more years of schooling?" I plead, confidence draining from my voice. It's a losing battle, and the room is closing in on me.

"You have been working hard," Mom says, "but you need to do well on the MCAT or you won't be accepted into medical school after your undergrad, and all of that hard work will have been for nothing. This is not the time to slack off, Lori, not even for a single summer. This is a time for working, volunteering, and studying."

I swallow hard and weave my hands together under the table to stop them from shaking. The rest of my life looms in front of me, so I make one last-ditch attempt. "But what if I don't want to go to med school?" I blurt, shocked as the words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

"Of course you're going to medical school! It's what you're good at. It's what the Robertsons are good at," Dad declares, his words settling on my chest like a weight, meaning my second attempt to stand up for myself today has gone just as terribly as the first one at the gym.

"Now, pass the avocado rolls," Mom says, ending the conversation about my future just like that.