The next morning, I channel my inner Alexa and wake up early, make some breakfast, and sit at the table with my phone in hand as I work on creating an Instagram page. Creating the handle is easy (GymCon), and so is selecting a profile picture, but after that, I'm stumped.

After contemplating, I type Box Inc into the search bar and scroll through their feed for inspo. Even though it kills me to admit it, they've got their media down to fine art. Each post is purposeful, drawing people to comment with carefully picked questions.

I click on one picture of a girl wearing gloves, the caption reading: Monday motivation. Who else likes to train at the start of the week? Hundreds of comments have already replied with their favorite time to train, and thousands of others have liked it. Somehow, I am going to have to compete with that.

"Morning, honey." My head snaps up as Mom swans over in her satin pajamas and takes a seat opposite. "You're up early." She leans closer, peering at the familiar app still inhabiting my screen, and grins. "You made an Instagram?"

"Not exactly," I say. "I made one for the gym, but I'm kind of stuck on what to do."

She rubs her hands like an evil villain and scoots beside me. "I can help if you like."

I'll admit, despite knowing she's probably the best person to ask, the thought of enlisting her help makes me queasy. It's not that I don't think she'll do a good job; it's more that our ideas might not necessarily align, and that's when the claws come out. "It's okay. I'll probably just–"

"Oh, come on, Cassie," she says, "I know what I'm doing regarding marketing. How do you think I got my business to where it is today? Don't underestimate the power of a good Instagram page." 

I sigh and hand over my phone. "That's the Instagram of Box Inc, the gym across the street. I'd like ours to look something like that."

She briefly scrolls down before shaking her head. "That's not going to work."

I frown. "Why not?"

"It just isn't," she says. "The trick isn't to create a new image but to lean into what you already are. This Box Inc place is professional and sleek. That's their image, and that's what they're playing up to: luxury. Your gym doesn't have that. It's rough around the edges, local, and it's made for everyone. That's what you lean into – community. Something accessible and real. A place for anyone serious about training, not just people with money."

My eyebrows fly up. I hadn't thought about different marketing styles, but what she's saying makes sense. It makes me realize that what she's doing with her business is far more complex than I've given her credit for. "So, what now?" I ask. "What's the first step?"

"Upload a few photos or videos of the gym so people can get a feel of it. Ask a question to garner engagement whenever you post something, and remember to use hashtags."

I'm writing it down in the back of my journal, a journal I've reserved for my mother's indiscretions but now holds our marketing ideas – the world is weird is like that.

"Here," she says, pointing to a post on the Box Inc account promoting one of their boxers, a female lightweight looking for her first fight. Who's ready to fight? Calling all amateur lightweight boxers. If you're interested, ask your coach to get in contact. There are tons of comments beneath it, with people saying they're looking forward to seeing who's fighting. "It's already got thousands of likes and reposts. You can latch onto their popularity by signing someone from your gym up to that. They've already done the hard part of garnering engagement. All you've got to do is show up."

The first person that comes to mind is Maddie. Not only is she an amazing fighter, but she's got that energy that, naturally, you can't look away from. The only problem is that with her being at college, she's rarely around, except for weekends, which means if I want to catch her before she goes back, it will have to be today.

"I thought you had plans to go to the beach with your dad," Mom says when I tell her this.

My shoulders deflate. It seems absurd that I'd forgotten about our Sunday beach trips considering they're all I look forward to, but I know Maddie trains in the mornings on Sundays and not in the day, so my time scale is small.

"You can't cancel this late," Mom says as she moves toward the coffee machine. "You know Sunday mornings are his favorite. Cody will be disappointed too."

Cody chooses that moment to walk into the kitchen with his hair disheveled and his astronaut pajama shirt half-tucked into his bottoms. "Why?" he asks as he slips into the space beside me. "Did Dad cancel?"

"No, of course not, honey," Mom says. She pulls her coffee cup from the machine and sits opposite, blowing the steam from the top. "Cassie–"

"Cassie, nothing," I say, giving Cody's head an affectionate rub. "You excited to try surfing today?"

The smile he gives me is adorable. He's not usually awake this early on a Sunday, but last week Dad promised him he'd get out the surfboard and teach Cody how to ride his first wave. Like all eight-year-olds, when they're excited about something, Cody has not shut up about it.

"Hell frickin' yeah, I'm excited!"

Mom frowns. "Cody."

"What?"

"Language."

"But Cassie says it."

Mom gives me the side-eye. "Cassie says a lot of things she shouldn't."

Here we go. I flip through my notebook and onto a fresh, blank page. Pen in my hand, I scribble down this morning's indiscretion: blames me for everything. Despite our brief five minutes of respite, I knew it wouldn't last – it never does.

Dad picks us up around eleven in his truck and gives us both a hug at the door. He doesn't come in, he never does, but he lingers on the porch while Mom stands behind us in a carefully selected nude dress. Her hair has been straightened, and the bare face from this morning is gone, replaced with a full face of makeup. She is nothing if not transparent.

"Hello," she says cordially, "how's everything?"

"Good," Dad says, and the smile he gives her is genuine. Despite the fact things ended badly, he has never been anything less than pleasant to my mother, and to my surprise, considering her nature, she's the same with him. Dad looks at Cody now and squeezes his cheek. "Surfs up, kiddo. You ready?"

Cody grins. "I was born ready."

Dad laughs and says, "Sure you were," before turning to me. "There's my girl," he says as he hugs me, but a frown soon replaces his smile. "Where's your beach bag? You don't look like you're dressed for the beach. You look like you're dressed for the gym."

I pull back guiltily. "I can't stay for long," I say, "I have something I need to do at the gym. I'm just coming along for moral support."

Even though I can tell he's disappointed, he smiles and says, "Let's go."

The pair pile into his truck while I make my own way to the beach. God must hate me because, even though time is not on my side, I hit every stop light on the way there. I'm antsy by the time I pull up, acutely aware that Maddie will already be mid-training by now and possibly on the wind-down. Still, as he races around to the back of the truck, Cody's excitement calms me. I park my car and help pull the surfboard out of Dad's truck while Dad grabs the picnic basket. It's customary for him to bring an old wicker basket filled with his famous chicken salad in greek yogurt sandwiches – my favorite.

I take my position in the sand as Cody and Dad make their way to the ocean. It feels hotter now than it did when we left, and I dig my toes into the depths of the sand as I tilt back my head. Although the gym is on the verge of closure, I feel happily optimistic right now, like maybe my plan might actually work – if only I can get Maddie to agree.

A glance at my watch reveals it's almost twelve. I open the wicker basket and pull out a sandwich as my thoughts briefly wander to Nico. I have no idea why I'm thinking of Nico, it's not like he can help me now that he's up and walked away, but I can't help but think back to the first time he fought and wish he hadn't left. That's the kind of footage GymCon needs to stay afloat, which I'm not sure I'll get.

Sighing, I turn to watch Cody and Dad as they frolic in the sea on their surfboards. It used to be that Mom would join us on our Sunday morning beach days. We'd lay together in the soft white sand, shades down, and talk about life while eating Dad's sandwiches. Now, I'm eating them alone.

At 12:15, I stand and call to Dad, who looks away from Cody's floating form and gives me a wave goodbye. I hurry to my car and shake off excess sand before climbing into the driver's seat. My heart pounds with nerves, even though talking to Maddie is the last thing I should be nervous about. But I know, deep down, if she says no to this plan, I'm back to square one, and that's what makes me nervous as hell. With a deep breath, I turn on the engine and reverse my car before speeding toward the gym.

A/N

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