Arnold's POV
The gym's nearly empty this early, just how I like it. Sweat drips down my neck as I take another shot at the punching bag, my wrapped knuckles stinging with each impact. The rhythmic thud almost drowns out my thoughts. Almost.
"Soon." Her response when I ask when she'll return.
What the hell does that even mean?
Her flight landed yesterday. If she was going to reach out, she would have by now. Right?
The bag wildly swings as I throw another combination. My muscles burn from being here since dawn, but it's better than lying in bed, staring at my ceiling, wondering if "soon" means days or weeks or—
No. Not going there.
My phone sits silent on the bench nearby. I've checked it seventeen times since I got here. Not that I'm counting.
"Dude, you're gonna break that thing." Gerald's voice cuts through the haze of my concentration. He's leaning against the weight rack, already in his workout gear, but his expression says he's here for more than just lifting.
I throw another combination, harder this time. "It can take it."
Gerald stretches his arms behind his head, exhaling. "Man, I've been running on fumes this week. Back-to-back projects, plus I got roped into hosting another event at Blue Velvet." He shakes his head, a half-smirk playing at his lips. "Freelance developer by day, club host by night. Living the dream."
I grunt in response, not really in the mood for small talk.
"And Phoebe's just as slammed," he continues. "Pre-med life is no joke, man. I swear, half our conversations lately are about cadavers and organic chemistry. Yesterday, she casually told me over dinner that she dissected a human heart. A human heart, Arnold."
He pauses, like he's waiting for some kind of reaction. I keep my focus on the bag.
"She's thriving, though. And I get it—this is what she's always wanted. I just gotta make sure I don't get lost in the shuffle." He sighs, rubbing his temple. "Anyway, enough about me. What's up with you?"
That's when he notices I haven't responded in a while. I'm still throwing punches, harder, faster, like I can hit my way into some kind of clarity.
Gerald frowns. "Arnold, you haven't heard a word I just said, have you?"
I snap back to the present, shaking off the haze. "What? No. I heard you."
Gerald crosses his arms, unimpressed. "Oh yeah? What did I just say?"
I open my mouth, then shut it.
That's when he gets it. His expression shifts, and his voice lowers. "So," he says, careful now, "heard Helga went back to Philly."
The next punch lands awkwardly, sending a shock up my arm. "Yep."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." I step back, rolling my shoulders. "Magazine opportunity, apparently."
Gerald makes that sound—that "mmm mmm mmm" that carries decades of friendship and the weight of every "I told you so" he's never had to say out loud. It hits something in me, and suddenly, the calm I've been clinging to cracks.
"Don't." My voice comes out sharper than intended.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do that thing where you knew this would happen." The punching bag swings wildly as I hit it again. "Don't act like you weren't right about being careful."
"Hey, I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to!" The words explode out of me as I land a particularly vicious combination. "You're standing there with that look, and you're right, okay? You were right. I should've known better. Should've said something real instead of playing it cool. Should've—" The bag's chain creaks ominously with my next hit.
"Arnold—"
"Should've told her how I felt instead of acting like this was just casual. Should've—"
"Um, hello, boys."
We both turn to find Rhonda in designer workout wear, looking uncomfortable at walking in on whatever this is. Her nervous eyes dart between us, then to my raw knuckles.
"Rhonda," Gerald nods, always smooth. "Didn't know you came to this gym."
"Just switched. The other one had some..." she pauses delicately, "unwanted male attention issues."
The silence awkwardly stretches as she adjusts her ponytail, clearly debating whether to say more. Her gaze keeps sliding to me, guilt flickering across her features before she turns away.
"Well," she says finally, "I'll just... be over there. With the ellipticals. Far away. From... this."
Something about the way Rhonda avoids my eyes nags at me.
I wait until she's out of earshot before unwrapping my hands. I let it go. For now. But Rhonda's look lingers like she knows something I don't.
"I need a drink."
"It's 10 AM."
"Then I need coffee. Or something to hit that won't break."
Heading out of the gym, my legs feel wobbly, and not just from the intense workout. Helga leaving felt like the ground shifting beneath me. I'd been steady for so long, but now... now I'm not sure where I stand anymore.
Later that night, I'm at the bar where Sid works when he's not selling medical supplies. He's already poured me two shots of something expensive "on the house," though we both know they'll show up on my tab anyway.
"So let me get this straight," Sid leans on his elbows across the bar, that familiar glint in his eye. "You're telling me Helga Pataki—the girl you've been hung up on since college—finally sat still enough to give you a shot, and you played it cool?"
I stare into my whiskey. "I guess..."
"The same Helga who used to write secret poetry about you on bathroom walls?"
"That was a long time ago, Sid."
"Still." He shakes his head, wiping down the bar. "Man, for someone so smart, you can be really stupid sometimes."
"Thanks."
"Hey, I calls 'em like I sees 'em."
Out of nowhere, something shifts, and the words start spilling out. "You know what? Forget that... Helga's a grown woman who made her choice. And what's her choice? She left, just like always, when things got too real." The words taste bitter, but there's a relief in finally saying them out loud. "She wants to talk about how everyone leaves? Well, look who's doing the leaving."
All that flew out so fast that I nearly drop my shot glass, when I guzzle down the last of my drink. As I plop the glass down the counter, my thoughts shift; I want to be angry. I want to blame her. But deep down, I know Helga does what she does because she's scared. And I never gave her a reason not to be.
"I see what you mean..." Sid says, pouring another shot, a squint surfacing on his expression. "Remember Sarah?"
I wince. Sarah was Sid's fiancée before she left him for a musician. It's the only time I've ever seen him truly broken up about a girl. I don't think he's completely over Sarah to this day.
"Yeah, well," he continues, "at least I told her how I felt. Didn't work out, but..." He shrugs. "No regrets, you know?"
"Sid took his shot. It didn't work out, but at least he didn't bite his tongue. I wish I could say the same. And me? I played it cool. I let her go without a fight. Now she's halfway to Philly, and I'm drowning in whiskey.
My eyes burn into my drink, thinking deeper about that. Maybe it's because I've been here before—watching people I care about leave while I stayed behind, pretending it didn't bother me. I told myself it was for the best then, too. Eventually, everyone leaves... right?
I'm about to respond when movement by the door catches my eye. A tall blonde in a leather jacket walks in, her hair falling in her face just like... but no.
She turns, and the illusion breaks.
Not Helga.
Sid follows my gaze, understanding dawning on his face. "Cute, huh? Krissy. She's new to town, becoming a regular it looks like. Claims she's into poetry and shit too."
Oh, how convenient.
I finish my drink, considering the offer. The blonde at the bar laughs at something her friend said, and for a second, I hear Helga's laugh overlaying it, and her eyes find mine.
That snaps me out of my haze. "I think," I say finally, unsteadily standing up, "I'm gonna call it a night."
Sid shakes his head as he starts closing out my tab. "Women," he says with that particular inflection that carries years of shared experiences and disappointments.
"Yeah... Women," I echo, dropping some cash on the bar, and we both understand that's all that needs to be said.
The cool night air hits me as I step outside, but it does nothing to clear the heaviness in my chest. The logical thing would be to just move on, to let her go. But I can't shake the vulnerability I saw in her eyes when we talked about being alone, that flicker of fear she didn't bother hiding. It's the same fear I've carried for years—the fear of being left behind, of not being enough to make someone stay.
She thinks she's running because it's safer… because she's protecting herself. But I see it now—deep down, she's just as scared as I am. Terrified of what it means to be present, to trust someone, to risk being seen completely.
I stop walking for a moment, rubbing the back of my neck. Why do I always have to be the understanding guy? I let out a humorless laugh that feels both painful and cathartic, the sound hollow in the quiet street. Why do I have to be the one who waits, who gets it, who stays collected while everyone else figures out their mess?
The bitterness doesn't last long, though. It never does. I sigh, shaking my head at myself. Maybe it's just who I am. I suppose it's what I've always been meant to be—not the one who leaves, but the one who stays.
I start walking again, my steps slow but purposeful. I don't know exactly how to fix this, but I know one thing: I can't just let Helga go. Not when I've finally started to see the truth beneath her sharp edges and guarded smiles. Not when I'm still trying to figure out how to completely open up myself.
For now, I'll keep showing up, hoping that eventually, she'll realize we're both fighting the same battle.
But when she comes back—and gives me the green light—no more playing it cool. No more wasting time. This time, I take control.