Read A Better Man for Free Online

her. “I don’t think I—” She is rigid, holding a plank position, hands on the floor mat, feet on a vibrating plate, body a thrum of panic, fatigue and numbness. The idea, apparently, is to trigger the fast-twitch muscle fibres into firing in unison, creating what Bradley calls “a thousand tiny metabolisms” to fuel the larger, slow-twitch “central heating system” that is her body’s internal furnace. She thinks she might burst—
splat—like
a blood vessel.
People do die from this sort of thing. It’s not unheard of.
She sees the headline in her mind’s eye: “Housewife Spontaneously Combusts in Exercise-Induced Self-Immolation.”
    “Hang in there,” says Bradley. He is a retired pro soccer player with an undulating West Indian accent and the most magnificent pair of shoulders she’s ever seen on or off a sports field. They’ve been “working together,” as he likes to say, for three years now.He started as her trainer, but six months ago he graduated to life coach after receiving some sort of certification Maya didn’t pay much attention to. The only thing that’s changed since then, apart from his increased fee, is the specificity of his advice. Where once he used to advise her to drink more water, now it’s a glass half an hour before each meal and an additional four glasses throughout the day. Where he once told her to get more sleep, now it’s lights out before 10:00 p.m. at least three times a week to optimize the circadian rhythms. Bradley purports to be a firm believer in the mind–matter continuum, but really it’s the body he knows how to change, not the brain that instructs it. It’s his encouragement she pays for. Those little aphorisms and mantras that enable her to push through to the next level, to force herself toward further heights of self-mastery and optimal humanness.
    “This is money in the bank of YOU,” Bradley says now. “Dig deep. Give yourself the gift of expending your full effort.”
    As her trembling becomes a full-out Jello-bowl wobble, he starts counting backwards from ten. Maya makes it to a respectable two before collapsing forehead first on the mat, bile searing her throat, brain crackling with static. For one merciful moment, oblivion descends, and then just as quickly it’s gone.
    Not cutting it,
says the voice in her head (her mother’s voice, much as she tries not to acknowledge it) as the familiar wave of self-disgust rises up around her. But before she can be engulfed, Bradley is there, sliding a water bottle into her hand, patting her on the neck with his heavy hand. “Good job, atta girl, looking good.” Something deep inside her blooms at the sound of his praise. She wonders if it’s possible—or even advisable—to reach a state of psychiatric transference with a fitness professional.
    Afterward, she showers and then reconvenes for their regular debrief in the club juice bar. After three years of biweekly consultations they have developed a companionable post-workout rapport, one that revolves primarily around discussing Maya’s metabolism and Bradley’s personal life. Officially speaking, these follow-up sessions are intended as “nutrition seminars” (in addition to being a certified trainer and life coach, Bradley is also a dietary counsellor, whatever that means) to discuss her caloric intake and expenditure, as well as the delicate protein-to-complex-carb ratio, but the topic has been so thoroughly exhausted over the years that now they mostly just chat.
    Bradley is twenty-seven and has four children under the age of six with a woman he never mentions. Maya fetches him his regular—a beet-and-kale juice with added protein powder—and gets a green tea for herself. Back at the table, she falls into cooing over the latest baby photos on his phone, a series of snapshots from a backyard birthday party. Little girls in synthetic princess dresses smeared in purple icing.
    “Absolutely scrumptious. Look at those cheeks. What a little