In Your Dreams

Chapter 8: Dreams

            
I grab my phone and text Rachel. "Can you ask Jazz where Chris is?"

She replies: "Jazz says he's at the gym working out."

Working out? Yeah, that feels right; he likes working out.

I shove my phone in my pocket. "Casey, I'll be right back—I need to talk to Chris."

"Do you want me to come too?" I know the curiosity must be killing her, but if I say what I'm thinking out loud, I'll hear how impossible it sounds and I'll start to doubt it too.

"It's okay," I tell her, a little reluctantly. "I promise I'll update you asap."

I race down the stairs, through the lobby and out the doors, clusters of students a blur. I push against the wind, which fights back, my feet pounding against the ground. Left, right, left, right, left, right.

I push open the gym door. Flash my student ID. Turn the corner.

A sign across the weight room door reads, "Serious workouts in session. No fooling around." I look through the floor-to-ceiling window and spot Chris' red-brown hair right away.

My hand hovers over the door handle. Am I crazy?

I remember what Professor Hailey said: What is important is that you define, for yourself, what is or is not real. If you think something is not real, then it won't matter to you. If you believe something is real, it matters to you. You'll take it into account when making decisions. It could impact the rest of your life.

I have to know if it's real.

Chris is lying on a bench, lifting a bar with weights at either end, his eyes practically shut with the effort. Sweat trickles down his arms, creating darker hues in places where his grey shirt is already stained with sweat. Jazz is standing behind Chris, probably for protection.

Maybe I should come back later. Maybe I just need time to realize this isn't possible.

Chris bends his elbows as he slowly lowers the weight and Jazz helps him place it in its bar. Chris freezes when he sees me.

"Jessie! What are you doing here?"

Before I can answer, someone barks, "Serious trainers only!"

The voice belongs to the supervisor, who's sitting in a glassed-in office next to the entrance.

I look down at my non-workout outfit: a top, jeans and flats. I need to talk to Chris. "I'm his bench pressing buddy," I lie quickly.

Jazz gets the hint and jogs over to another station. I mouth the words "thank you" and stand behind Chris, looking down at him. What am I doing here with Chris? Everything feels surreal.

Chris rolls his shoulders back. "One problem. The only way the supervisor's going to believe us if I start bench pressing, which won't be safe for me to do with an inexperienced 'bench pressing buddy.'" He gives me an apologetic look.

And when he does, he locks eyes with mine and, just like in the dream, I feel like everything's going to be okay.

"Listen, I need to talk to you," I murmur urgently. "I think I know how we met."

Chris looks intrigued. "You do?"

"Do you remember anything about going to a food court together? Or being in a forest at night?"

Jazz looks up from the treadmill and winks.

Fantastic. I suddenly wish I'd spent more time planning this.