Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  At the beginning of every day, I tell myself I’m going to man up and talk to her. At the end of every day, I vow that I’ll really do it tomorrow.

  I follow her silver Toyota Camry, the same car she had when we were teenagers, from BC to a house in the nearby Brighton area where she lives in the apartment on the first floor. Her roommate is the same girl I saw before—and it doesn’t take me long to decide she’s good for my girl. She smiles more quickly than Mackenzie, laughs more, and when they’re together that seems to rub off on her, so Mackenzie smiles more too.

  One afternoon, I follow Mackenzie to a yoga studio in Newton. A bit of snooping (okay, maybe I flirted a little with the girl at the desk) reveals she teaches classes there a few times a week. A yoga instructor. How fucking hot is that?

  Even though she wears her coat to and from her car, I get a few glimpses of her ass in those yoga pants—it is even tighter and rounder than when we were teenagers.

  Sad that a few inches of spandex-covered ass are my primary spank bank material right now? What can I say? It’s a fucking phenomenal ass.

  Then one night after yoga, she comes out of the studio later than usual, and when she emerges, I can see it’s because she was doing whatever is necessary to look like that.

  She’s replaced her fresh-faced yoga look with makeup. Her lips are bright red, and I don’t know what the hell else she did, but it takes her hotness to a twelve on a scale of ten. Her hair is a shiny curtain of reddish gold hanging loose around her face, falling to a few inches past her shoulders. At school she works the sexy librarian look, hair tamed with pins or in a bun, so this is the first time I’ve seen it wild. My reaction is as powerful as that first time I saw her at BC—I want to drop to my knees at her feet and worship her. I can’t see what she’s wearing—seriously, I need winter to be over already so she can stop covering up with that coat—but those high-heeled black boots make it clear she’s not headed to the library.

  Of course, I follow her. It might as well be my full-time occupation at this point.

  She enters a place that appears to be a restaurant/bar combo. It’s busy and dark enough that I risk going in, wearing my Red Sox ball cap for camouflage, and take a seat at the bar. From my spot, I watch her greet a man who steps forward and hugs her.

  Who. The. Hell. Is. That!?

  She takes off her coat, and my indignation rises another level. My girl is dressed to kill. She has on black jeans that mold to her body so tightly there should be a picture of them in the dictionary under the definition for “painted on” and a sexy little black tank top trimmed with lace under a leather jacket. Not to mention the boots. I know about fuck-me-heels … are there fuck-me-boots too? I guess so, because I swear that’s what she’s wearing.

  As difficult as it is to stop staring at her, I turn my attention to my new nemesis, AKA the lucky bastard she wore that outfit for. He is unremarkable. His body is scrawny, perhaps even gangly, and he only barely matches her height in the boots she’s wearing. He has the face of an accountant, and I swear I spy a bald spot.

  My gaze pings back and forth between them a few times. She’s wearing that for him?

  For the next hour, I watch them so intently I worry they’ll catch me, but fortunately the bar’s progressively thickening crowd provides cover. On the downside, my view is occasionally obstructed by passing bar patrons. I also have to turn away a few women who apparently smell my ex-con vibe and find it sexy. I tell them all that I’m waiting for my girl. It’s the truth … I just might be waiting a long time.

  By the time Mackenzie and the guy share a polite hug and part ways to their separate cars, I’m more confused than ever but appeased that she isn’t into him. I could tell from her body language at dinner: she remained on her side of the table with her back straight, never once leaning in his direction, and although she smiled a lot, the muscles around her mouth were tight.

  When we were together, Mackenzie’s body always spoke before her words did. She fiddled with her hair when she was nervous or excited. She had a particular quirk of her lips and gleam in her eyes when she wanted to fool around. She would cross her legs, continually switching which one was on top, when she was turned on. And unlike what I witnessed tonight, she always found reasons to touch me, reaching out for the menu at the same time I was holding it, running a hand over my arm when I said something funny. Not that she needed reasons—I was all about touching her all the time too. I didn’t see any of that tonight. If anything, she looked kind of bored.

  Still, I follow her all the way home and watch her walk inside—alone.

  Enough of this. I need to finally find my missing balls, stop this stalking shit and start talking to Mackenzie. I can’t begin groveling for forgiveness until I announce my presence. It’s time.

  * * *

  I stand close to where I camped out that first day, but this time I’m out in the open where she won’t be able to miss me. She should be getting out of class any minute. I’m so nervous that I’m sweating, even though it’s freezing out.

  When she sees me, her face goes from its usual pale to a deathly white. The way she looks at me—it’s not confusion, excitement, or even anger. She looks like she’s seeing a ghost—and not just any specter but one from whom she anticipates bodily harm. And then she bolts, running in the opposite direction with such haste that she slips on the icy path more than once. The roommate scrutinizes me for a few more heartbeats before following Mackenzie at a much slower pace.

  I’m gutted; she might as well have shot a spear directly into my organs. I can feel myself bleeding out right here on this college campus.

  I’m not totally delusional. I never thought she’d see me and happily run into my arms ready to start right where we left off. Her five years of silence—no letters, no visits—spoke loud and clear. I’ve been preparing to grovel every day since I pulled my head out of my ass, which unfortunately happened after I became a resident at a maximum security correctional facility. But I didn’t expect her to look at me like that … as though she was in danger of passing out from shock and—what kills me most—fear.

  For the first time, the full reality sinks in that the rift between us might be irreparable. The fear that I might not get her back squeezes me tight, making it hard to breathe as I stumble back to my car in a daze.

  I lost her the moment they charged me with accessory to murder. (Accessory being the operative word, the one that seemingly didn’t make it all the way through the town-sized game of “telephone” that transports news in Westwood.) Not that I’m trying to defend my actions—I own them and I know I was in the wrong, which is partly why I never fought the conviction or tried to clear up misconceptions—but I didn’t pull the trigger. I’ve never even held a gun. Killing someone might be one of the only things I didn’t do wrong back then.

  Though I suppose I lost her long before that, the first time I reached for drugs instead of reaching for her. I was in so much pain after my parents died, and being the eighteen-year-old idiot I was, I thought I needed to deal with that outside of our relationship. My adolescent ego was convinced I needed to show her only the strong side of myself, be the big, tough quarterback boyfriend who never had to cry on her shoulder.

  I’ve had time—nothing but time—to reflect back on everything, and I understand that was the single worst mistake I made. I had the best thing in the entire world, the love of an amazing girl I got to call mine, but instead of leaning on her, pulling strength from her goodness and the power of our love, I decided to jump off the deep end without her. With unlimited funds and no parental supervision, I dove face-first into self-destruction every minute I was away from Mackenzie. And gradually, I wasn’t only lying to her when I wasn’t with her; those minutes we spent together became tainted by thoughts of when I could score next, what I would do later to dull the pain. I was basically cheating on her with drugs.

  Suddenly, it occurs to me what a terrible mistake I made never even trying to write to her. I’d thought that b
efore I contacted her I needed to be … not worthy of her, because I doubt that will ever be possible, but at least more worthy than when I was first arrested. Now I realize that I have no idea what she thinks happened that night, what people might have told her.

  I don’t know if she can ever forgive me for the lies, for any of it. But I have to try. I can’t give up. Not now. Not before I’ve spoken to her … maybe not ever.

  04. WEAPON OF MASS SEDUCTION

  Mackenzie

  I make a few final adjustments to tonight’s playlist and give out quiet greetings as people enter the room. The lights are already low and I have my “pre-playlist” on, slow and soothing songs playing in the background to set the mood, as students discard their jackets and lay out their mats. This is a time for quiet as they ready their minds and bodies to transition out of their hectic daytime lives and into their yoga practice. Some lie down and close their eyes to begin relaxing, and some start with simple poses to stretch and warm up their muscles.

  A pang of yearning shoots through me, a longing to be down there with them—sinking into the atmosphere of the dim, warm room and letting real life drift away for a while. It’s been too long since I attended a class as a student, and I resolve to fix that soon.

  The wall clock shows there are only a couple of minutes left before I need to start class. A glance across the room reveals that it’s a full house tonight, with all but a few spots of the floor already covered by yoga mats. I walk over to the sound system and check the settings, getting ready to turn on my wireless microphone headset and switch over to the playlist I created for tonight’s class. I stick to contemporary music rather than the Eastern tunes the more traditional instructors use, collections I’ve specially curated over the years of melodic acoustic covers to pop and alternative songs. No one can convince me my modern version isn’t equally as effective at opening the soul—any beautiful music can inspire a spiritual experience.

  I go to close the studio door, signaling that class is starting, and walk to a spot at the front. Twenty faces stare back at me from yoga mats spread all across the room, quietly waiting for my instructions. I immediately note some new arrivals who slipped in while I was doing my final preparations, among them a single masculine figure toward the center of the room.

  When my eyes land on him, he commands my full attention—because that is not just any male form. It is one I recognize with a part of my brain that never completely recovered from its addiction and still responds to the sight of him with an instinctual hum of mine.

  Not mine! I censure the rogue synapses.

  Regardless, that is undoubtedly Graham Wyatt sitting in the center of the yoga studio amidst my Wednesday night regulars. On either side of him, I catch girls sneaking peeks.

  I’ll admit he’s worth peeking at. He’s in a pair of full-length black cotton track pants and a simple white T-shirt that’s a little too tight, as though his old clothes can’t quite handle his new post-prison bulk. He has his hair pulled back with an elastic tie, in the smallest of sexy man buns. With slightly more scruff on his face than the last time I saw him, and the intricate tattoo of black roses on his left arm creeping out from the edge of his shirt’s sleeves, he is six feet two inches of mouthwatering eye candy.

  My eyes meet his for the length of a heartbeat. Shadowed hazel irises stare back at me intensely, framed in a serious face, though there’s the tiniest quirk to one side of his lips indicating he saw me looking.

  I tear my gaze away with an almost violent jerk of my head. Damn. What is he doing here?!

  I clear my throat, which is suddenly dry. Unfortunately, the sound echoes through the speakers since I’ve already turned my microphone on. I force myself to rally, and manage to start off class the way I usually do, making sure to avoid looking at Graham. I can’t risk my eyes and brain becoming moth-like again and getting trapped in his glow.

  The class moves into its usual flow, starting with a few combinations in and out of Downward Facing Dog. As usual, I circulate around the room guiding them through the poses, only spending a little time at the front to demo a pose or transition. I can’t completely avoid the center section where Graham is, and despite my best efforts, every time I reach that area my eyes travel back to him.

  It’s clear that Graham has never done yoga before, his movements slightly slower as he finds his way into the unfamiliar positions. I’ve found men, especially beginners, often have a hard time with certain parts of yoga because they tend to be less flexible than women. He’s out of his depth tonight—this is my intermediate class and a lot of the girls here have been practicing consistently for years, so I don’t pull any punches when planning their pose combinations. Although Graham struggles with some of the poses, he manages to follow along and keep up, and I have to admit I’m impressed. In certain parts of the flow, he’s even able to compensate for his lack of flexibility with his strength. For instance, a lot of my girls skip or half-ass the Chaturanga pushup in their Sun Salutations, but he executes it with ease, lowering his body to the ground in a perfectly controlled slow motion with elbows tucked in tight along his sides.

  We keep the studio hot, around eighty degrees, and not long into the class Graham’s shirt starts to stick to his body. The clinging white fabric only emphasizes what was clear to me even in his jeans and jacket the other day: he is all chiseled muscle. His biceps threaten to rip the sleeves right off his shirt during those pushups.

  And then he sits back on his heels and takes his shirt off.

  This isn’t unusual for male yogis—I’ve had plenty of shirtless men in my classes before. But none of them caused me to nearly trip over a student’s mat out of sheer distraction. My throat dries up and the muscles in my lower abdomen pulse without my permission.

  Graham was always in great shape—he played football and was the starting quarterback of our high school’s team junior and senior years. Back then he had the body of an athletic adolescent, but now he’s something else entirely. It looks like he spent the last five years doing nothing but honing that body, polishing and perfecting it into a weapon of mass seduction.

  I instruct the class to continue their salutations independently for the duration of the next song, giving myself a break to get my shit together. I walk over to the corner where my water bottle is stashed and take a long drink. Inexorably my eyes fly back to the expanse of taut skin and straining muscle in the center of the room. Shirtless, the sleeve of roses on his left arm is now on full glorious display, and I can see every contraction of muscle and tendon as he goes through the poses.

  I’ve never been so turned on by shoulder blades.

  I make it through the rest of the class, but I’m running on autopilot.

  At least half of my brain is caught up in totally inappropriate fantasies of being in this room with Graham alone. I would free his long hair from the tie currently holding it and run my fingers through it. Rub as much of myself as possible over every inch of those sweat-slicked muscles, slide my palms over those too-thin pants clinging to the defined spheres of his ass and squeeze, the scrape of his stubble against my skin as we kiss the soundtrack to our yoga porno.

  Oh my God. I’ve completely lost it. I need some prolonged alone time with my vibrator followed by a lobotomy.

  As the bodies before me lie prone and still for the final minutes of class in the total relaxation of Savasana, I am as far from serene as I have ever been.

  Seeing him yesterday was a shock to my system. It was as though I had a delayed PTSD reaction. My hands shook for a full hour after I ungracefully sprinted away from him and escaped in my car. Marisa offered to talk, but I avoided her and holed up in my room, something the version of myself that existed before Graham’s arrest wouldn’t have done.

  I used to be a sharer, seeking out solace from others when I needed to process pain. But Graham broke something in me that makes it hard to trust even my best friend with the innermost parts of my soul. I now retreat into myself to deal with the hardest parts o
f life, so I spent last night trying to ease the surprisingly deep ache of seeing him again with music and wine. The shock cracked open my scabbed-over wounds, causing memories and feelings I thought had healed long ago to bleed through even in my dreams.

  While I was overwhelmed by grief and remorse and anger yesterday, lust was the last thing on my mind. I’d welcome those feelings back now, because they are less confusing and unwelcome than the response I’m currently having to him.

  Seconds after class ends with a bow and group “Namaste,” I dart out to the reception area, beg the girl at the desk to close up the studio for me, and exit into the night before the students have even finished rolling up their yoga mats. Running away. Again. I am not a cowardly person, but I tell myself this is strength through survival. I cannot deal with him right now.

  At home, I have an emergency therapy session with my vibrator that provides only partial relief and then open bottle of wine—my second in two nights—to try and drown the shame for my weakness.