It was another two months before Peter saw her again. This time, he didn't lose patience because they spoke on the phone at least twice a week. He didn't like the idea that she'd stopped dining at the steakhouse, but if she was on a fitness kick, it was probably best that she took her own nutrition in hand.
She'd taken his advice and gone to see Portia at the Crossfit center. According to Portia, she'd done measurements and tests to ascertain Emille's body fat percentage, her build, and her current fitness level in order to establish a realistic and attainable set of goals. Emille was already sixty pounds lighter, a testament to her efforts. But she wasn't the one who'd told him of her progress. In fact, all his attempts to steer their conversations in that direction were met with two sharp right turns.
He wasn't even witnessing it for himself. Emille worked out at home in the mornings, and at the gym at nights. Since the restaurant was open five nights a week, Peter tended to do his own workouts mid-morning. Very rarely did he go to the center during the evenings, and he'd need a pretty good excuse to start now.
Emille was enough of a reason. The last time she'd been sixty pounds lighter was what… five years ago? He wasn't even sure what she'd looked like at the time.
That Monday evening, Peter found himself at the gym by six o'clock. She wasn't there yet. It was dark out, and he briefly wondered if the change in seasons would have an impact on Emille's resolution to transform her health. Then he dismissed the idea. Portia had said Emille worked out like a woman on a mission. She'd be fine.
So fine in fact, that when he chanced to take a look at the woman powering it out on the treadmill seven places over, Peter missed his footing and slipped off the conveyor. It was only his height, ergo his reach, that saved him from a disastrous fall.
Thankfully, she was so deeply focused on her workout that she didn't see his reaction to her transformation. Not wanting to make her uncomfortable, Peter unclipped the key and backed away. From the safety of the lifting area, he observed her. Emille was in her zone. This was the second floor, and she was staring out the window into the night. She wore her favorite pair red and gold d.j. headphones. She'd won them from Ryce in a poker game. They cancelled out the noise, and fit so snugly over her ears that you couldn't hear any sound escaping. But Peter knew their secret, and he smiled because of it. Most likely Emille was listening to her music at deafening decibels. He didn't need to hear it to know, she was listening to country or rock. Or maybe the mashup that Ryce had become famous for.
She was dressed in a baggy black t-shirt and capris. But he could see that her efforts had paid off big time. Her shoulders were sharper, and she looked taller and leaner. He couldn't keep the grin off his face. It was all he could do to keep his focus on his own workout. Emille had even gone to the extent of investing in a pair of running shoes to match her headphones. Who would have thought? The thick length of her ponytail bounced with the rhythm of her steps. For the hour that it took him to work through the weights section of the gym, Emille stayed on that treadmill, pausing only long enough to take a sip or two from her water bottle. It was a far cry from the days when she couldn't even walk a mile. When it looked like she was ready to begin the circuits, Peter left the gym. He'd already been there that day. This was her time, and he didn't want to do anything that would break her focus. When he took last look at her over his shoulder, she was working through a set of lunges.