Grace pulls back, disguising her embarrassment as indignation. “Work is going really well. Some awesome opportunities are coming up. I’m just excited, that’s all.”
“Nu-uh.” I point my whisk at her. “Don’t use that line on me. You always got awesome opportunities coming up. You know you’re only makin’ me more suspicious by blowing me off, right?”
“I’m not—oh, wait, Eli, your grits are boiling over.”
I turn around and curse when I see creamy white grits pouring down the sides of the pot and landing in the burner with a hiss. I turn down the heat and lift the lid, giving the grits a calming stir. At least they smell good. I’ll add in a little cheese, some scallions, and all will be right in the world again.
Scratch that. All will be right when Olivia is sitting on a stool beside Grace, cutting me hungry glances while the two of them poke fun at me.
I can’t wait for that day. Although truth be told, I am starting to feel a twinge of doubt that it will ever come. Maybe I fucked up too bad.
Maybe Olivia will never be ready.
Blind faith that I’m wrong is the only thing keeping me going at this point.
Right now, faith is all I got.* * *I’m not usually late to class. Yoga has been a big part of my healing process—I’m in the studio three times a week, minimum, since Olivia left—and I like to get there early. Give myself time to land on my mat before practice begins.
But I spent the morning fixing a kitchen crisis. Our fish vendor ghosted with zero explanation. Kind of a big deal, considering we’re doing a seafood tasting this week. I had to call in the cavalry. With Maria’s help, we were able to piece together what we needed from a motley crew of local fishermen, generous restaurant owners, and sneaky sous chefs.
Crisis averted. At least until tomorrow.
By the time I pull into the parking lot at Yoga First, my usual 11 A.M. class is just beginning. Thankfully it’s not crowded, and I’m able to nab a spot by the door at the back of the studio.
Even though everyone else is already on their sun salutations, I take my time warming up. Child’s pose. Downward facing dog. I melt my heels to the ground and lift my belly to the sky, giving my hamstrings a good stretch. Lordy are they tight.
I move into my first sun salutation.
I get on my feet, sinking into warrior one, and that’s when I see her.
Her.
Olivia.
I feel a sudden, sharp throb inside my chest.
It’s definitely her. I’d know that wild dark hair anywhere. Those long, muscular legs. They glisten with a fine sheen of sweat.
I just stand there like an idiot, stuck in warrior one as I watch her move through her poses. Totally unaware of my presence behind her.
She’s thinner than she was. Her arms tremble as she hovers in low plank. I haven’t seen her in the studio since she left back in October. Has she not been practicing at all? Or has she just not been practicing here?
My pulse thrums inside my skin. It’s too hot in here. I’m too close to her.
Too far.
Longing hits me like a freight train.
Jesus, I miss her.
I don’t realize she’s caught me staring until it’s too late. She’s in downward facing dog, looking at me between her legs. Her eyes are so blue.
So fucking blue.
My heart seizes when they widen. I can hear the force of her exhalation from across the room. She falls to her knees, and the instructor goes over to her, gently rocking her hips as Olivia settles into child’s pose.
Legs shaking, I do the same. There’s no way I can practice with her in the same room. I’m gripped by the wild idea of rolling up my mat, grabbing Olivia, and getting the hell out of here so we can talk.
I wanna talk to her so bad.
But talking is a big no-no during practice. And it’s important I don’t overstep my boundaries with her. Me wordlessly plucking her from a yoga class she may really, really need is definitely overstepping.
I try not to stare at her for the remainder of the class. I’m worried I’ll combust and/or pass out, for one thing. For another, I don’t want to fuck up her practice. I know firsthand how a great class can turn around an otherwise shitty day.
Fuck me, it’s just hard to keep my eyes on my own mat. I feel like it’s some kind of test devised by Satan himself. I feel her presence. Like she’s the center of the universe, and everything—the floor and my feelings and my heart—is pulled in by the force of her gravity.
I wonder if she feels it, too. Or if she’s moved on in a way I haven’t.