After a late lunch, we walk together in a group to the central building, some people having already formed mini friend circles. In room 100, Cindy and Bob each hold an iPad and a stack of papers, discussing something quietly. They look up when we file in, and Bob embodies that intimidating persona again.

"Hey, girls," Cindy greets us with a big smile. "This is the part of the camp where you finally meet your trainer. But to make things more fun, you'll have to work a bit to find them."

That definitely sounds like some scam to get us to exercise more.

Cindy calls out different girls' names and hands them each a sheet of paper. "These are the directions to locate your trainer on the campgrounds. If you follow them exactly, you should have no problem getting to the right place. Good luck, and make sure to enjoy the journey there!"

God, she is so excited about all of this exercise that it makes me want to find the nearest ditch to throw myself into. The plus is, maybe I'll find it on my "journey" to my trainer.

I stand outside the central building, reading that I should keep jogging down the same road we ran earlier, but this time, continue straight until I notice a large wooden sign. Other girls are already speeding off in other directions, just as eager to see exactly who is going to be in charge of their physical tortu—I mean exercise—for the next five weeks.

I begin jogging down the long road, surrounded by trees, trees and surprisingly more trees, Connecticut's most famed attractions. Deeper into my run, I slow my pace to take in the non-green surroundings, growing surprised at the size and caliber of this camp. I expected a dingy facility in an old gym with a crazy lady yelling at us to squat, not a nature resort.

I take a break from jogging, bending over to catch my breath, hands glued to my thighs. I look up and see a large sign off in the distance. I break into a sprint, as I've been looking for this sign from Heaven for the past fifteen minutes.

Once I draw closer to it, I read the words: PRIVATE BEACH ENTRANCE, NEXT LEFT. Sure enough, a view of endless gray-white sand and dark, rocky ocean water comes into view, a cool breeze fanning my face.

But who exactly am I looking for?

I trudge up the uneven ground and answer my own question a few steps later, making out a member of the male species standing a few feet from the shoreline. When I finish dragging myself up the sandy hill, I get a full view of him. His thick hair is a blondish-brown and his eyes are either light brown or hazel, and they glint in the sunlight above him. He's clearly best friends with exercise, muscles thick and defined, ripples of his abs almost peeking through his shirt.

We finally come face to face.

"I guess I made it to the right place," I announce, trying to break the thick ice.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, absorbing every one of the features of my face. While uncomfortable, I can at least confirm that his eyes are, in fact, hazel.

"Good for you," he says. "I'm Axel. You are?"

"Whitney," I say, although I'm sure he already knows my first name. I say the first thing that pops into my mind. "Is your name really Axel? Is your middle name Wheel or something?"

He doesn't seem entertained by my crappy attempt at a physics joke, a frown etched on his lips. "If humor is your style, I'm going to expect better over the next five weeks of being in each other's faces." He walks a bit closer to me, now a foot away, and I smell a perfect combination of sea air and cologne. "I'll start with the obvious. You hate any form of exercise, right?" God yes. "But specifically, exercise in the outdoors?"

"Um...yeah?" I say, wondering where he's going with this.

He claps his hands together. "Welcome to my territory: the great outdoors. I don't prefer working out inside with my beginner trainees, so we'll get used to good old-fashioned nature for now."

Also known as what I have been avoiding the past eighteen years of my life.

I nod, trying not to display my horror. "Can I ask a question—can I please ask a question?"

He chuckles. "Just so you know, we're not all Bob here. You can ask without asking in the future."

"Right," I mumble, clearing my throat, "my question: are all of our workouts going to involve running? Because to set the record straight, I'm a bad runner. Like maybe the worst runner you've ever encountered in your job as a trainer. Probably the slowest runner you've worked with as well, and that's saying a lot, since it looks like you've seen a lot." I clear my throat and rest my hands on my hips for a sense of finality. "I, quite simply, suck."

My rambling ends when I notice he's so close to laughing.

"Oh, you're going to love your time here," he says, the sarcasm not entirely clear, "because I love running." Scratch that, it's as clear as day. Without warning, he takes off on the firmer section of the sand, calling out, "You better catch up!"

Tears prick the corners of my eyes—over the fact we're running or that he seems unrelenting, I don't know. All I know is I have to force my legs from one side of the beach to the other with my body at half charge. Actually, it's more like at one percent, and the charger is on the other side of the house, but I'm too lazy to get up from the couch and grab it.

God, I miss sitting.

Cursing my decision to apply to this place, I'm at his heels a miserable one minute later. I don't dare ask how long we'll be running, out of fear he'll double whatever he has in mind, but it turns out to be less than I thought.

"Alright, we're going to stop here." He halts in the middle of the beach, holding up his palm. I do a happy dance in my head, thinking this is the end, but then he continues, "We're going to run through a few dynamic exercises. Let's start with twenty walking lunges and fifteen jump squats."

I've never even heard of walking lunges, needing two different demonstrations to get it down. But by the fifth one, I understand why I never tried them before; my butt, legs, and even my back ache. The jump squats bring back suppressed memories from high school gym class, and by no surprise, are even worse than I remember them.

"My legs—ow, God, they burn." I'm unable to complete more than seven without feeling like I'm going to tear a muscle somewhere. I bend over and wince, rubbing my already sore quadriceps. "Can we—you know—lighten up a bit? It's only the first day." I throw in some puppy eyes to appeal to emotion.

"They're supposed to burn," he says dryly, thick arms folded over his chest. Eventually, the soft eyes get to him, and he sighs. "I'll give you a minute to rest, and then we'll continue the next segment of our run."

I take him by surprise when I fall to the ground, using my permitted break to the limit. Ignoring the sand sticking to the back of my leggings, I stretch out my legs and close my eyes, feeling the sun on my face. For a moment, I forget he's even there.

"It's been a minute," he says, after what feels more like five seconds. Towering above my head, he holds out a hand, but I don't take it, clearly capable of one activity. "Let's keep running."

I force my legs to keep moving down the next half of the beach, but my mind is screaming at me to stop and hitchhike home—it's not that far from here. He turns his head to the right and notices my flustered state, appearing apprehensive, as I doubt it's every day that he encounters someone breathless and drained after a rudimentary workout.

He slows his pace down a notch but says nothing, just stealing a glance at me every few seconds. My brain finds it oddly cute after the fourth time, but it's probably mush after all this physical activity, anyway.

"You good?" he asks when we reach the end of the beach, zeroed in on my shuddering breaths. "Need some water?"

Pressing my hands into my hips, I shake my head and try to slow my erratic breathing, watching the calming waves. "No, no, I think I'm good. I just haven't"—I cough into my sleeve, feeling some phlegm clog my throat—"run at all in years. The last real run I can remember going on was sometime back in middle school." I rack my brain to be certain, recalling the innumerable times I avoided them in gym class or with my mom. "Yup, definitely been that long."

"And you are now...?" he asks, alluding to my age.

"Eighteen," I say, nodding once and then twice, "sadly." Even I'm realizing how tragic that sounds.

Axel drags a hand down his cheek and cups his jaw, looking off into the distance. Making eye contact with me, he states the obvious: "This is going to be a lot worse than I thought, isn't it?"

"Now you're getting with the program," I joke, wishing I had a glass of champagne to toast to my impending misery and his soon-to-be perpetual vexation. "We're not running back, are we?"

His face goes blank as he stares off at the rolling and crashing waves, making me realize he's not the only one regretting all his life's decisions.

"Give me a moment." My eyebrows knit together in confusion, until I realize he's simply taking a moment for himself. Fingers digging into his forehead, he mumbles something and then returns with a smile that seems to pain him. "How does walking sound, instead?"