Free Shakespeare's Trollop by Charlaine Harris

joie de vive.
    What did it feel like, I wondered, to be almost universally known and liked, to be attractive to almost everyone, to have the backing of a strong and influential family?
    With a shock like a dash of ice water, it occurred to me that I had once been like that, when I’d been about Bobo’s age: before I’d gone off to live in Memphis, before the media-saturated nightmare of my abduction and rape. I shook my head. Though I knew it was true, I found it was almost impossible to believe I had ever been that comfortable. Bobo had had some hard times himself, at least in the past year, yet his long look into darkness had only made his radiance stand out with greater relief.
    I’d finished my first set with the curl bar and returned it to its rests by the time Bobo worked his way around to me.
    â€œLily!” His voice was full of pride. Was he showing me off to the girl, or the girl to me? His hand on my shoulder was warm and dry. “This is Toni Holbrook,” he said. “Toni, this is my friend Lily Bard.” The gaze of his dark blue eyes flicked back and forth between us.
    I waited for my name to ring a bell with this girl—for the horrified fascination to creep into her gaze—but she was so young I guess she didn’t remember the months when my name was in every newspaper. I relaxed and held out my hand to her. She stuck her fingers up against my palm instead of grasping my hand firmly. Almost always, the offenders who shake hands in this wishy-washy way are women. It felt like getting a handful of cannelloni.
    â€œI’m so pleased to finally meet you,” she said with a sincere smile that made my teeth hurt. “Bobo talks about you all the time.”
    I flashed a glance at him. “I used to clean for Bobo’s mother,” I said, to put a different perspective on the conversation. I’ll give her this, she didn’t flinch.
    â€œWhat you want on there, Lily?” Bobo asked. He waited at the disc rack.
    â€œAnother set of dimes,” I told him. He slid off two ten-pound discs, put one on each end of the bar, and then added clips to secure them. We were comfortable working with weights together; Bobo’s first job had been here at the gym, and he’d spotted for me many a time. This morning, he took his position at the front of the bar and I straddled the seat, leaning over the padded rest, the backs of my hands toward the floor so I could grasp the bar to curl up. I nodded when I was ready, and he helped me lift the bar the first couple of inches. Then he let go, and I brought it up myself, squeezing until the bar touched my chin. I finished my ten reps without too much trouble, but I was glad when Bobo helped me ease the bar down into the rack.
    â€œToni, are you here for the rest of the week?” I asked, making an effort to be polite for Bobo’s sake. He slid the clips off, raising his blond eyebrows interrogatively. “Dime again,” I said, and together we prepared the bar.
    â€œYes, we’ll go back to Montrose on Sunday afternoon,” Toni said, with equal politeness and a tiny, clear emphasis on the we . Her smooth black hair was cut just below chin-length, and looked as if it always stayed brushed. It swung in a lively dance when she moved her head. She had a sweet mouth and almond-shaped brown eyes. “I’m from DeQueen,” she added, when her first sentence hung in the air for a second or two. I found I didn’t care.
    I nodded to show I was ready, and Bobo gave me a little boost to get the bar off the stand. With a lot more difficulty, I completed another set, making sure to breathe out as I lifted, in when I lowered. My muscles began to tremble, I made the deep “uh” that accompanied my best effort, and Bobo did his job.
    â€œCome on Lily, squeeze, you can do it,” he exhorted sternly, and the bar touched my chin. “Look at Lily’s definition, Toni,” Bobo said over