Chapter 16
With Jaya securely in Jhing-Jhing’s arms—already being spoon-fed gummy bears like royalty—I changed into what I hoped looked like activewear. The problem was, everything I owned looked like it belonged to a sad potato trying to go hiking.
Still, I managed. I wore leggings. And a baggy hoodie. And sneakers that squeaked when I walked like I was hiding a duck in my shoe.
I strutted outside like I meant business. Inside I was screaming.
“Be strong,” I muttered under my breath, passing a group of joggers who looked like models doing a photoshoot. “They don’t know you used to bench press your own weight in Vegas. They don’t know you’re Leon-freaking-Kingsley. You’ve just been… rebooted.”
I arrived at FlexYouCore Gym, a modest little place near the bus stop. It smelled like sweat, rubber mats, and protein shakes. A receptionist with an arm tattoo and neon-pink hair smiled at me like I was already about to give up.
“Hi there! First time?”
I nodded. “First time in this… century.”
“You’ll love it. We have Zumba, CrossFit, spin classes, and our ‘Mom & Muscle’ program for postnatal recovery!”
Postnatal recovery? I bit my tongue.
“Great. Sign me up for anything that makes me feel like I’m not ninety.”
She handed me a waiver, a bottle of water, and pointed me toward the elliptical machine—a torture device disguised as a helpful aunt.
I climbed on.
Big mistake.
Three minutes in and I was already gasping like a fish in a microwave. My knees cracked. My shoulders ached. Sweat trickled in places I didn’t even know could sweat.
A guy next to me, probably half my age, was running like he was late for a Marvel audition. I glared at him.
“Show off,” I wheezed.
He smiled politely. “You okay, ma’am?”
“I’m great,” I lied. “Just... recalibrating my soul.”
By the ten-minute mark, I pressed the emergency stop like I was disarming a bomb.
After what felt like an hour-long battle with my own body, I limped back home with a protein smoothie in one hand and a newfound respect for elastic waistbands. My knees were vibrating. My thighs wobbled with betrayal.
Jhing-Jhing greeted me at the door, Jaya asleep in a blanket fort made from couch cushions and goldfish crackers.
“So,” she said, smirking. “Find enlightenment at the gym?”
“I found death and rebirth. In leggings.”
“Good. You’ll need the stamina. Aliya’s school is asking for volunteer parents for next week’s arts festival.”
“Kill me now.” We both laughed. Then I sat on the couch, slowly, as if gravity had quadrupled. Jaya stirred and crawled into my lap like a kitten made of syrup and chaos.
I looked around the apartment. The clean space. The soft lighting. The smell of fries still lingering from last night’s binge.
And for a moment, just a moment—I didn’t feel like Leon in Catherine’s body. I felt like someone rebuilding a life from scratch.
Sure, it was messy. Exhausting. Full of juice-box politics and muscle cramps.
But it was mine. And it was just beginning.
Three days later, three days of chaos and gym hell-time, I found myself somewhere I never thought I’d be in either of my lives.
A PTA meeting. What am I supposed to do in a PTA meeting? I have never been into one.
It was being held in the elementary school library, decorated with cartoon owls and paper rainbows, and smelled like apple juice and lost dreams. I was wearing my new high-waisted jeans and a polka-dotted blouse Mylene insisted looked "motherly but not ancient." I felt like a contestant in some twisted reality show where the prize was not losing your sanity.
"You're Catherine, right? Maya and Aliya's mom?" a peppy fake-plastic blonde in yellow yoga pants and green shirt said, leaning over the snack table.
"That's me," I said, grabbing a tiny water bottle like it was a shot of tequila.
"I'm Trina. PTA President. We run the fundraisers, coordinate school plays, and take down anyone who doesn’t label their kid’s lunchboxes."
She smiled sweetly but with the dead-eyed stare of someone who once made a rival mom cry over mismatched cupcakes.
The other moms sat around folding tables, sipping kale smoothies or sugar-free coffee. A guy named Brett (the only dad there) was sitting cross-legged like a yoga guru, talking about compost bins.
"So, Catherine," Trina said. "We’d love it if you could help organize next week’s Arts Festival. It’s very hands-on. We need someone with energy."
Energy? I almost pulled a hamstring walking in.
"Of course! I love glitter," I lied.
She clapped her hands. "Perfect! You're in charge of the kindergarten macaroni sculpture booth."
Macaroni. Sculpture. Booth.
Whatever it was supposed to mean. I don't care. But of course, I accepted my fate with a nod, while internally screaming.