by Amy Craig
Instead of emitting a cool beacon of light, her phone flashed and left her with a faceless black screen. “Shit.” She threw back the covers and judged the sky to tell the time. Twenty-three participants expected her to be prompt and perky. Without those guarantees, she knew they would find somewhere else to stretch, strengthen their muscles and breathe in the fresh salt air.
Nolan stood at the kitchen island with his orange juice. Wylie lamented the shirt he wore, but she scanned the room for electronic devices. “What time is it?”
“Seven-forty-five.”
She collapsed in a chair and pressed a hand to her racing heart. “I worried I overslept.”
“Bad night?”
She looked up. “It could have been better.”
He met her gaze and put down the glass. “Have dinner with me tonight?”
“We’ve eaten together almost every night this week.”
“Just the two of us,” he said. “I’ve wanted to take you out since the moment I recognized you outside that ridiculous club.”
She thought about the first time she had seen him at the food truck and stifled her jealousy as he bantered with Cynthia. “Not before?”
He grinned. “Well, it seemed inappropriate to blur the lines when we were discussing business.”
“Mini Mako,” she whispered. “How much did I make? Three dollars?”
“I think you can claim a free meal.”
She snorted. “You’ve been giving away free food all week. I would have done better to stand in line with everyone else.”
“It’s a sliding scale.” He shrugged. “But I’m not talking about dinner on the steps of the truck. I’m talking about you and me and candlelight. I’m talking about taking this thing between us back to square one.”
“What happened to marrying me?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Would you say ‘yes’?”
She shook her head.
“Then it’s not a question I’m willing to ask.” He spread his hands on the countertop, as unyielding as a master of the boardroom. “I’ve learned there are some questions you should only ask once.”
Should I help this man? Should I marry this man? Can I go all in before I even know myself?
“And maybe it’s my fault I feel as strongly as I do,” he said before she could voice her thoughts.
“You’ve tried to take care of me from the start,” she whispered. “I couldn’t be any more of a distraction.”
“Take your clothes off and meet me by the pool if you want to test that statement.”
She smiled. “I’m not sure I’m back to full form.”
He nodded and took a step toward her before he stopped himself. “We skipped a few steps. I want to start over again. Just two people who make plans to share a meal.”
She glanced at the pool. “You’ve seen me naked.” When he failed to respond, she turned and looked at him, remembering how much she had loved waking up in the cocoon of his arms, laced with musk and citrus.
He raised his eyebrows. “Naked barely counts. I’ve seen your eyes roll back while your world shattered.”
But can I walk away and put it back together again? She rose and met his gaze over the expanse of polished countertops. “I’ll agree to dinner for two if you’ll agree to two ground rules. Neither one of us brings up Modesto or my yoga practice. We’re strangers.”
“Strangers who like to fuck.”
She smiled. “I know people tend to mix up the steps, but life as a freelance yoga instructor has taught me a few things. Lightning’s bad for business and I’m good at fixing awkwardness and getting people back to form.”
“Does it always work out?”
She focused on their shadows, blended into a perfect hourglass against the smooth countertop. How long do he and I have to get this right before his house no longer feels like a haven? Until he wonders if my presence justifies the distraction? She raised her eyes and met his gaze. “I don’t know how often it works out, Nolan. I’m only twenty-six.”
“But you know your mind.”
She smiled. That doesn’t mean I know my heart.
* * * *
They rode down the hill together in Nolan’s Bronco and she gave thanks that he had control of the wheel. Twenty-three participants would stretch her leadership when she normally managed ten to twelve. If this is the outcome of notoriety, I’ll take it.
“Nervous?” Nolan asked her.
She glanced at the crowd. “I’ll be happy if half of them stay. My phone spazzed out, so I’ll just have to honor everyone’s presence and consider it a community class if people choose not to pay.” She eyed the crowd assembled past the café and frowned. “That’s way more than twenty-three participants.”
“I, um, retweeted your class announcement,” he offered as he put the truck in park. “But most of this probably came from the news coverage and idle curiosity.”
She counted fifty people and swallowed. “How many people liked your post?”
“Hmm-m.”
“Nolan?”
“Two hundred and fifty-six.”
She swore and reached for the handle. I’m the guppy, not the shark. She wanted to face him and give him a piece of her mind for putting her in this awkward situation, but she recognized his good intentions and wanted to preserve the pleasure of meeting him across a white tablecloth. “I guess I should say thank you.”
“It’ll be better for all of us if you just went out there and kicked butt.”
Wylie’s regulars greeted her from the front row as she walked around the milling crowd. Their unfurled beach towels and coordinated yoga mats felt like an island of familiarity designed to calm her mind. She made a point of greeting each of them by name, bowing her head as the wind lulled. “Namaste,” she said, and her respectful comment lingered above the crowd.
Then someone coughed and the first person stood up. Within seconds, the peace of the communal session dissolved into factions.
She looked past the front row and saw Rusty with Candy, who was wearing an outfit cut so low she wondered if Candy’s cleavage might spill out of her top. The man’s pathetic first attempts at beachside yoga had left him fumbling for purchase, but she applauded his willingness to try it again. She turned away from the sight of Rusty’s chest hair and smiled to see Dede and Jeanie amid the crowd.
The women stood side by side as the morning sunlight reflected from the remnants of body glitter that suggested they had come straight from the Social Club. Despite their practiced customer service skills, they eyed the crowd, shifting to find their place amid the newbies and neighbors. Wylie waved at the pair and smiled when Dede gave her a thumbs up. They’re here, and that’s what counts the most.
“I want to thank everyone for coming to the beach this morning to refine your practice. It doesn’t matter if this is your fiftieth class or your first, I want you to get something out of it. My name’s Wylie and I’m going to do my best to lead you through this morning’s poses. I don’t know whether you found this class through social media or Modesto’s post, but I’m glad you’re here.” She swallowed and counted the haphazard rows of participants. Fifty sets of eyes remained focused on her. “Let’s form an aisle down the middle so I can move around while you hold your poses.”
A woman with the toned arms of a lifelong practitioner strolled toward the group and Wylie inhaled, wondering when common sense would allow her to acknowledge too much of a good thing. Then she blinked and recognized the woman’s white teeth and dyed black bob. “Cynthia,” she said, hoping the woman heard her name above the chatter of the growing crowd.
“Figured you could use some help this morning.” Her former instructor dropped her mat near the front of the group and scanned the assembly. “Word to the wise, you should cap classes at ten to twenty participants. People feel more engaged when you maintain a small group setting and a small student-to-teacher ratio.”
Wylie surveyed the crowd of fifty. The beach can expand. Why can’t I? She recognized
the intent behind Cynthia’s peace offering and shook her head. “Did they also tell you to bring a small army of assistants when things don’t work out like you planned?”
“Nope, kid, just me…if you’ll accept the help.”
“I insulted you,” Wylie said.
“Yeah. Life’s a bitch. Don’t do it again.”
Wylie nodded and realized sweat and hard work were only two of the things separating her from Cynthia’s studio success. The woman knew when to cut her losses and when to stand on her two feet and try again. “I appreciate the help.”
“I’ll appreciate a hundred bucks if you have it.”
“That’s fair,” she said, hoping her regulars were not the only paying participants.
Cynthia stood at her side and appeared to be considering the skill range of the crowd. “You know, the only way to protect yourself from personal injury liability is to make use of effective releases. You have insurance, right?”
“I mean, I have an umbrella policy,” Wylie said.
“Make sure your insurance covers all your activities and, for God’s sake, never ask about preexisting injuries. All these newbies? They need to sign waivers.”
Wylie faced the woman. “What?”
“You know asking about student injuries before class may increase your liability? Once you’re aware of a student’s medical concerns, you have a higher duty of care to make sure the class doesn’t cause further injury.”
“That’s ruthless.”
Cynthia shrugged. “Sometimes you have to draw a line between compassion and legal precedent.”
Or decide to take the money and run. She recognized that Cynthia’s business experience could be just as valuable as her credentials, but wondered if she could trust the instructor’s loyalty beyond pitching in at an impromptu session. I just have to recognize the differences between partnership, deference and respect.
She faced the crowd of eager faces, knowing that those who had registered online had signed an electronic waiver and she would just have to risk the implications of teaching the rest of them.
Nolan stood in the back row, shirtless and surrounded by a crowd of mismatched yoga enthusiasts.
Their faded and eclectic athletic gear stood out against the uniformity of the regular crew, but she recognized their presence and the potential impact on her bottom line. She had plenty of respect for Palisades Park, streamlined sets and glossy magazine advertisements, but a few nights of vulnerability had given her a desire to serve the rest of the world.
She cleared her throat and addressed the crowd. “I’m excited to see so many new faces, but technology has both lifted me and failed me.” Several participants laughed and nodded at her honesty. “I didn’t prepare for a group this size, but Cynthia’s going to help me run the class and adjust poses. Given today’s constraints, we’ll keep our practice gentle and give our new friends their best opportunity to participate if they’re beginning their practice. Those of you who want more instruction can stick around for an extra thirty minutes and focus on flexibility. We’ll staff up if interest continues at this level. Everyone can find their yoga home with us.”
Esther and Penny Lane crossed the sand to join their group fifteen minutes later. The pair laughed throughout the entire session, drawing looks of ire from Isabella and the few participants clinging to discomfort amid the unfamiliar crowd. When the session ended, Wylie kept her back to the ocean and planted her feet, prepared to answer questions and honor her offer for thirty minutes focused on flexibility.
Rusty leaned on Candy and led the waitresses to the front of group. “I can’t believe you do that shit every other day. No wonder you always jumped out of bed on the mornings you had to work.”
“Well, maybe you should come to a few more sessions,” Wylie said. She avoided meeting Candy’s curious gaze but responded to Dede and Jeanie’s laughter. “What’s so funny?”
“Rusty said he’s going to build something new with the Social Club, but he’s out of his mind if he thinks the neighborhood wants to spend their leisure time learning to touch their toes. We told him that yoga’s for upper-class women who want skinny white friends.” Dede rolled her eyes.
Wylie thought of the journals she’d seen while waiting for her studio during her job interview. Every single cover had featured a white woman, and she had nothing to rebuff the waitress’ impressions. “It’s a big space. He could host classes where people borrow mats and drop donations for a community fund.”
“We don’t need this kind of mind-body preaching,” Dede said. “It would take some pretty heavy lifting to get the community to buy into this shit.”
“So do it at the church,” Wylie said. “Do it where you feel most comfortable and with someone from the studios who defies your expectation of a skinny, white friend.”
Rusty shook his head. “Wylie, we’re trying to build a reputation for the Social Club. You want to increase the size of your practice or what?”
“Not at the expense of forcing it down their throats,” she said. “An average one-hour yoga class in Los Angeles costs twenty bucks, and most require students to bring equipment. Mats cost around twenty dollars, so people’re already down forty dollars to satisfy their curiosity. You want to do something good? Host the classes at the church. The Social Club can sponsor the mats.”
Candy clapped. “Like logo merchandise.”
Dede and Jeanie looked at each other. “I do feel better,” Dede admitted. “Imagine the church basement full of all our neighbors. There’d be something cool and unifying about seeing the neighborhood’s beautiful women working together. You saw this crowd. Nobody cared about different ages and sizes.”
The other woman rolled her eyes. “You’re not seventeen anymore. You’re going to crash as soon as you get home.”
Dede put her hands on her hips. “Yeah, but my doctor said I have to spend more time focused on wellness and preventative health.”
Jeanie slapped her thigh. “Your doctor’s your best customer at the club!”
“We’ll think about it,” Candy said. She took Rusty’s arm and pulled him close. “It’s an interesting idea, Wylie. Thank you for the input.”
She smiled. ‘Thank you for the input?’ Is there an MBA hiding behind those layers of foundation and silicone? “It’s all yours. Take it and run with it.”
Esther and Penny Lane moved through the crowd and watched the club owners depart. “You need more spice for a group this size,” Esther said.
And you’re about to fall out of your sports bra. She grinned and embraced the samba dancer and her friend. “I’m learning to go with the flow. What did you think, Penny Lane?”
The older woman shook her head. “My last group exercise class required legwarmers. My body’s not used to this kind of stimulation. I’m glad I ate breakfast this morning, but I’ll be honest with you, I could do with a nap.”
“What is that American expression? Sleep when you’re dead?” Esther asked. “I bet half these people would enjoy shaking things up. Mixing up Brazilian samba and yoga poses could be the next big thing.”
“I think most of them were just curious and wanted to gawk,” Wylie said. “Penny Lane and I are ten-second celebrities.”
“No, you’re not giving yourself enough credit. Girls in my bairro grow up dancing samba, letting their bodies flow with the music and learning how to gather strength from their mothers and sisters. Movement and celebration can heal the body, but if we add in the rigor of yoga’s steady poses, we might be able to transform the heart.”
Whose heart are you trying to transform? Natalia and Dottie might have been absent from today’s crowd, but their existence neither proved nor disproved Wylie’s ability to make friends. She thought of her parents in Oregon and wondered whether anyone in the commune besides Nolan had considered calling them after her asthma attack. Who would have known how to reach them?
Esther’s enthusiasm for bringing samba into the practice continued as Nolan walked up. She waved her t
hanks to the last of the departing customers and smiled at him. We could do this, she told herself. Together, we could break the mold and make so much happen in this community. Fusion classes. No empty stomachs. No empty hearts.
“I think I owe you an apology.”
He pulled his shirt over his head. “For what?”
She tried not to show her disappointment as his sun-warmed abs disappeared under the thin layer of fabric. “Mini Mako couldn’t mobilize this kind of turnout.”
He shrugged and looked at Esther and Penny Lane. “Who knows what motivated people to break out of their shells and come give your class a try? Sometimes life gives us the little nudges we need.”
Penny Lane snorted. “Or sometimes a kick in the head.”
The group laughed and Wylie replayed the previous few days. Even though Metro Movement had asked Penny Lane to be an ambassador, that unpaid effort would not put a roof over her head or give her a way to jump the wait for subsided housing. The organization focused on limited equity cooperatives would probably hit Penny Lane with weeks of pre-employment screening before she could cash her first paycheck. “Did you go back to the camp after the shooting?” She narrowed her gaze and considered Esther and Nolan. “I’m so sorry. I was so focused on my recovery that I didn’t think of what I could do to help. Did one of you put her up?”
“She spent the first night at the hospital with Dougie.”
“I told you… I’m a caregiver without the right credentials,” Penny Lane said. “Dougie couldn’t have asked for a better patient advocate. Who else is going to berate the nurse at two in the morning when she’s late with the pain medication?”
The group laughed and the woman smiled with pride. “Dougie’ll be okay and you don’t have to worry about me right now. Nolan’s mother caught wind of the coverage and spent some time networking with the city department focused on housing and community investment. I don’t know what motivated her, but she dedicated a substantial number of affordable housing units in exchange for a bevy of tax credits.”
Wylie bit her lip. I know what motivated her. She looked at Nolan. “You didn’t have to do that.”
