DEDICATION
For Jim
CONTENTS
Dedication
One: Madison
Two: Jesse
Three: Madison
Four: Jesse
Five: Madison
Six: Jesse
Seven: Madison
Eight: Jesse
Nine: Madison
Ten: Jesse
Eleven: Madison
Twelve: Jesse
Thirteen: Madison
Fourteen: Jesse
Fifteen: Madison
Sixteen: Jesse
Seventeen: Madison
Eighteen: Jesse
Nineteen: Madison
Twenty: Jesse
Twenty-One: Madison
Twenty-Two: Jesse
Twenty-Three: Madison
Twenty-Four: Jesse
Twenty-Five: Madison
Acknowledgments
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About the Author
Books by Robin Constantine
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
ONE
MADISON
“BREATHE,” LEIF COMMANDED.
I reached out from my waist, hips aligned, then leading with my right hand, tilted toward the ground, forming a perfect triangle. Trikonasana was my pose. I was a statue. A rock. My feet firmly planted on my sticky mat.
Leif, a.k.a. Hot Yogi, stalked the room with his hands clasped behind his back. Slouchy black pants, gray tank, dark eyes looking at everyone and no one.
It was hard not to picture him naked.
“Trikonasana is a full-body opener. Spiral the femur bone inward, feel the stretch across the front of your chest, same as cobra. Imagine yourself between two panes of glass.” His gravelly voice echoed all the way down to my root chakra.
Between two panes of glass.
With you, Leif.
Wren looked over her shoulder and wiggled her fingers in greeting as she reached toward the ceiling. We’d been taking class on Thursday nights at Namaste Yoga along with my mom since November. Mom took it to stave off her midforties. When she asked me to join her, I begged Wren to come along so at least I’d have someone to snicker with. Turned out, we both enjoyed the chill feeling we had after class. I also liked it because I was height-challenged, but after an hour of stretching, I felt about six feet tall. (Okay, maybe more like five foot six—still, taller.) For the first month a pear-shaped, aging hippie named Lena taught the class. Her ample booty defied gravity but halfway through January she herniated a disc in her lower back and took a leave of absence.
In walked Leif.
The class had started out with fifteen women. After word of the Adonis in yoga pants, it doubled in size. Wren and I were the token high schoolers. The majority of the class was made up of moms and twentysomethings. There were a handful of guys who either came to class with their wives or seemed to know Leif from the other studio where he taught. I’d never wished for an hour to feel longer in my whole life. He made Sanskrit sexy.
Leif stopped beside Wren and touched the spot between her shoulder blades, then leaned down and whispered something to her. She lengthened into the pose, reaching upward with her outstretched arm. Her fishtail braid slipped from her shoulder as she looked toward the ceiling. The side of her mouth curled in an almost imperceptible grin.
“Nice,” he said, before walking over to the next mat.
The thought of royally screwing up so Leif would come over and adjust me crossed my mind. On the other hand, I wanted him to notice how effortless I made every pose. I was beginning to defy gravity myself. I took a breath and settled into stillness. Leif moved past me. For the barest of seconds, my eyes met his.
“This is an active pose. Feel the energy shooting out from your fingertips.”
In that sip of a moment, energy shot through more places than my fingertips. Zowee. I wobbled.
In our next downward dog, Wren peered at me from under her armpits.
Omigod, she mouthed.
Bitch, I mouthed back, but smiled.
We’d had a bet on which one of us Hot Yogi would adjust first. I owed her an after-class chai latte. She shook her head and smiled as we moved forward into warrior one.
“Breathe.”
All the reminders to breathe used to get on my nerves; as if breathing was some airy-fairy cure-all and not something you did automatically. One little pause, though, was sometimes all it took for me to refocus—even off the mat. Breathe. When I wondered how I’d scrape up the money to go to the summer arts program at the NJ Design Institute. Breathe. When Zach kept bringing up the subject of getting serious. Breathe. When sometimes it felt like it would be years before my life really began.
I dreamed of building something beautiful. A tree house. A home. Hell, a skyscraper that glowed purple at night. And the journey of a thousand steps toward my dream was a summer program to gain some practical experience so my résumé would stand out. I’d wanted to go to Pratt’s summer program, but NJDI was more in my price range. And if I kept my GPA over 3.8, killed it on the SATs, and had a portfolio to die for—Pratt could be my future. Whenever anyone tells you to shoot for your dreams, though, they never mention the cashish involved. Buzzkill.
We moved down to the floor series, ending with happy baby, a pose that required you to grab the outside of your feet and pull downward so your knees opened wide and your vadge was presented to the world like a cookie tray. So okay, I got the baby thing, but doing this pose felt far from innocent to me.
“Happy Grayson,” I whispered to Wren.
That was all it took. She snorted. Her belly convulsed and she lost her grip in the pose. She rolled to her side, hands over her face, body rocking with laughter. One of my greatest pleasures was making her lose it. She scurried from the room and didn’t make it back for savasana. As the final “Om” sounded, Wren crept back in to roll up her mat.
“Mads, I’m freakin’ mortified.”
“Come on,” I said, folding my mat. “That was pretty good.”
Hot Yogi was suddenly in front of us. Wren’s face flushed.
“I’m, um, I’m so sorry, for um, laughing like that, it wasn’t—” she stammered, her hands gripping her rolled-up sticky mat.
“Hey, that’s what yoga is for. Release. Laughter. Tears. No judgment,” he said, looking from Wren to me.
The two of us were mute, but I swear I could hear Wren swallow as the word release crossed his lips. The kind of release that came to mind had nothing to do with laughter or tears. Whoa, breathe.
“I hope you two are comfortable in the class. You know they have one with music for teens on Sunday nights?”
“This fits better in our schedule,” I said, bummed that he noticed how young we were. Up close there were fine lines around his eyes, but he couldn’t have been more than, say, twenty-six was my guess. That would make us ten years apart. Maybe a world apart at this stage, but someday . . . hmm.
“I think it’s awesome you’re here. If I had practiced in high school, I might have had an easier go of it,” he said as my mother sidled up to us.
“Thank you, Leif. I’m always ready for a good night’s sleep after this class,” she said as she ran a hand through her sweaty bob. Even my mother was not immune to Hot Yogi’s charms. Every week, she freshened up her pedicure and put on tinted antiaging moisturizer before leaving the house for class. Seeing them together I realized that she actually could go for it, if she really wanted to, but that would have been so, um, ew, to be crushing on the same guy as my mother.
Leif smiled, clasped his hands at heart center, and gave us a small nod. “Glad to oblige.”
He turned away and was approached by two
women who gushed about how their shoulders had never felt better since coming to this class. Right. Their shoulders felt better. The subliminal undertone of this whole exchange was almost too much to bear.
Wren pinched me. “You owe me a chai.”
Mugshot was the coffee shop next to the yoga studio. It was a little place that was always jam-packed after class—whether it was because of the tool behind the coffee bar messing up orders or that it was the one place aside from the diner where you could hang out for the price of a cup of coffee, I wasn’t sure. The line was slowly strangling my yoga buzz.
“So, details, what was it like?” I asked, stepping closer to the counter.
Wren’s eyes grew wide. “What do you mean?”
“When Hot Yogi touched you.”
A glow rose in her cheeks, and she looked over her shoulder to inspect the line. She stepped to her other foot.
“He didn’t touch me, it was an adjustment. I was focusing on my ocean breath.”
“Wait, there was a touch and a whisper. What did he say? C’mon, something worth a chai.”
Wren bit back a smile, leaned toward me, and said in a breathy voice by my ear, “‘Tighten your core.’”
“O . . . em . . . gee.”
She laughed. “And then when he put his hand on my back? There was nothing, you know, sexy about it, but damn, I sort of felt it . . . everywhere.”
I thought of the jolt of insta-lust I felt when my eyes met Leif’s. I’d probably just melt into a puddle if he ever gave me an adjustment.
“Everywhere?”
“Well, for a split second. Then it was just weird. My mind went into overdrive, like, Did I remember to put on deodorant? Would Gray be pissed? I couldn’t concentrate after that. Yoga’s supposed to leave you calm, right? I miss Lena.”
“Are you insane? Lena was awesome, but really, no comparison.”
“I didn’t feel like I had to put on lip gloss for Lena.”
“Amen,” said the girl behind us. We both turned. I recognized her from class; she always practiced in the front row, near the corner, and could do sick arm balances for what seemed like hours. She leaned toward us and whispered, “When he demonstrated scorpion last week—”
“And his shirt kind of fell up?” I said.
“Stop,” Wren said, smiling as she checked out the texts on her phone.
“I swear, even the walls sighed,” the girl finished.
“We need to drag Jazz here next week,” Wren said.
“Whatcanigetcha?” asked Broody Barista, fingers poised on the cash register to ring up our order. I was tempted to say, “The usual,” but it would have crushed me the tiniest bit if he’d been clueless as to what that was.
He was a tall, lanky guy whose name tag read JessE. I couldn’t tell if his last name began with an E or if he was trying to make a statement; either way, he didn’t seem approachable enough to call him that, so he was Broody Barista in my head. Even though I was sort of involved with Zach, flirt was my natural language. It wasn’t necessarily about getting with someone, more like making friends. Week after week, I tried my best, but this guy, the rim of his baseball cap pulled low over his light brown bedhead, never got into it. He wasn’t snobby or anything; more aloof, or maybe just perpetually bummed.
“Two medium nonfat chai lattes, and a chamomile tea,” I answered.
He chewed his full lower lip as he rung us up, eyes on the register until the total lit up on the display.
“Seven twenty-five.” He knocked on the counter and threw a glimpse at the growing line behind us. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a ten. I laid it onto his outstretched palm, my fingertips grazing the top of the wide leather cuff bracelet he wore. He didn’t strike me as the jewelry type but there it was, along with several smaller bands, including one with a brass infinity symbol, on his left wrist.
He took the bill and called the order to the guy behind the coffee bar who was too busy staring at Wren to pay attention. I followed his gaze to see exactly what he was looking at. Her deep-green tie-dye exercise tank fit her like a glove. In class she looked like everyone else; in here, with her warm-up jacket zipped only halfway, she—or more precisely, her assets—stood out. Wren was bent over her phone, scrolling through her messages, oblivious to what effect that particular view was having on this creeper. I stepped in front of her and glared at him. He raised his eyebrows at me and shrugged.
Broody Barista cleared his throat to get my attention.
“Don’t mind him, he only comes out at night,” he said as he dropped the change into my hand. One corner of his mouth turned up. A tiny ripple in a mysterious sea, but it was something. I ran with it.
“Hmm, a nocturnal perv, the creepiest kind.”
He laughed as he wrote in Sharpie on the to-go cups. “Tanner, you’re scaring the customers again.”
“Then my job is done.” Tanner flashed me a megawatt grin that was irritatingly charming. Wren finally looked up from her phone and smiled at him. When faced with his object of lust, he got flustered and turned away. All stare, no bite, apparently. Wren furrowed her brow. We moved to the end of the counter to wait for our drinks.
“What was that about?”
“That was about this,” I said, tugging up her zipper. “You don’t realize the power of a little cleave, do you?”
She grimaced. “Ick, really? I’m sweaty and gross.”
“No, you’re dewy and flexible,” I said, nudging her.
The door opened, sending a gust of cold air into the café. Leif stepped in, my mother right behind him, a plastic Quick Chek shopping bag swinging from her wrist. “Mom!” I waved her over. She acknowledged me with a nod, but then turned back to Leif and another woman from class. I wanted to tell her I’d already ordered for her, but she seemed completely engrossed in conversation.
“My mom is picking me up,” Wren said, finally shutting down her phone and putting it into her yoga bag.
“Too sweaty and gross for Gray?” I asked.
She chuckled. “No, we’re going to the mall to pick up a Kate Spade diaper bag for Brooke’s baby shower. Can’t be shown up by the in-laws. They’re getting some stroller called a Bugaboo or something—it’s, like, a bazillion dollars, so we have to, you know, up our game.”
“Kate Spade for crappy diapers? Leave it to your sister. I thought your mom didn’t believe in the baby-shower thing.”
“She doesn’t, but Pete’s mom and sisters do, so they’re throwing them a his-and-hers baby shower over Georgetown’s spring break. Tropical theme. Can you imagine? My mother’s making Josh go too. He said only if there are drinks with umbrellas. At least I get to drag Gray with me. Feel like taking a ride to the mall?”
“As lovely as that sounds, I should probably get some work done on my portfolio for the summer program application. It’s due in mid-April and there’s nothing impressive about it yet.”
“That’s doubtful. Even your stick figures are impressive,” she said.
“Two nonfat chais,” Tanner announced, pushing the cups toward us.
“We need a chamomile tea, too.”
“Oh, right.” He stole a glance at Wren before turning back. She was too nice to glare at him, but she averted her eyes and busied herself by rifling through the pocket of her yoga bag. More people began to gather around the tiny pickup area.
I reached for our cups and handed Wren her drink. They had Thursday Girls scrawled in Sharpie across the front. Broody Barista had given us a nickname. Maybe he had noticed more than I thought.
As my lips touched the rim of the cup, I anticipated the spicy sweetness of warm chai but got a gulpful of bitter. My taste buds recoiled.
“Don’t drink that,” I said, a second too late. Wren’s wrinkled nose told me her drink was off too.
“Hey, yo, dude. There’s coffee in these drinks.”
“No there’s not,” Tanner said. He placed another to-go cup on the counter. The tag read CHAMOMILE; at least he hadn’t screwed that up.
<
br /> “Yes, there is, I can taste it,” I said, putting it on the counter. I took off the lid to show him—the usual creamy tan was a darkish brown. He brought the cup up to his nose and sniffed.
“Ah, so there is. My bad.” He slid the drink back to me. I had the sudden urge to pour it over his head, no matter how strangely endearing his awkward and pervy attempt at macking on Wren had been.
“Dude, we’re backed up on drinks. What’s the holdup?” Broody Barista joined in. The line that had been near the door now surrounded the pickup area.
“There’s coffee in our chais,” I said, meeting his gaze. “Maybe if your coworker wasn’t busy checking out my friend’s rack, he would have realized he was screwing up our drinks.”
I’d meant it to be funny, but annoyance seeped through. Wren coughed and slunk back. Tanner paled. Some of the people waiting around us shifted. I was aware that Leif and my mother were beside me, still carrying on what must have been the world’s most interesting conversation. My nerves sizzled, but I felt vindicated.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll take care of this.”
He grabbed our cups and whispered something to Tanner, who suddenly lost the clueless glint in his eye. They both worked quickly on the drinks, hammering them out one by one, until Wren, my mother, Leif, and I were the only ones left from the original line. Leif’s matcha involved some special brewing method and a whisk. I wasn’t sure what was taking so long with our lattes, but standing near Leif was enough to make me forget about the whole thing. He smelled like sandalwood incense.
Wren checked her phone.
“My mom’s outside.”
“Here’s your chai, Thursday Girls—my apologies, next week is on me.” Broody Barista slid the cups toward us. Wren grabbed her drink and hoisted her yoga bag over her shoulder.
“Sure you don’t want to hit the mall?” she asked.
“Nah, have fun perusing the diaper bags,” I said.
“Yeah, right. Thanks for the chai.” She wiggled her fingers at me as she hightailed it out of the café. For a split second, I wanted to change my mind and go with her. Wren complained about her family sometimes, but in the end it was usually with a smile. The Caswells were awesome—always something going on, so different from my own family. Not that I had anything to complain about either. My mother and I were a tight unit of two. Small but fierce.
The Secrets of Attraction Page 1
