by M. E. Carter
“Let me guess—she was smart, beautiful, and motivated,” Tabitha says while ticking off her fingers.
“Exactly.” I nod. “You know that’s not the kind of woman I go for.”
“Yeah, I know. What I don’t understand is why? You’re a nice guy. Easy on the eyes, not hurting for money. What’s the problem?”
There are about a thousand answers to that. But to make things simple, I’ll only give her my main one. I’ve been thinking about it more and more lately, so what the hell? Maybe saying it out loud will make something click in my own brain.
Leaning my arms on the counter, I push my drink to the side. “My mother always used to say the only purpose of a relationship is to hang out with someone until you gradually get bored enough that you want to find someone else to be with.”
Without skipping a beat, she says, “Your mom sounds jaded.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she was just wise.”
“Or maybe she was just heartbroken and never let it go.”
Pushing back, I grab my drink again. “Please. I never saw my mother cry. Not once.”
Tabitha sighs. “Oh, Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. You may be the smartest businessman I know, but you are an idiot when it comes to emotions.”
A lesser woman would offend me with these same words, but that’s the great thing about Tabitha. We’ve been friends for years and she loves me just the way I am. “By all means,” I say playfully with a wave of my hand in invitation, “enlighten me.”
She leans her arms on the counter, settling in for this conversation. “Women who don’t cry have trained themselves to hold back the hard emotions.”
I smirk because she’s wrong. “I know a whole group of women who knit for fun who would disagree with you. They almost never cry.”
“I will ignore the knitting part because I have no idea how that is relevant. But you misunderstood me. I didn’t say women who don’t cry in front of you. I said women who don’t cry ever. Let me ask you, this group of women that you know. Are any of them in relationships?”
My mouth slams shut because every single one of them is attached. They are some of the smartest, most successful, emotionally strong women I know. And yet, they are all in a relationship.
“That’s what I thought. They just don’t let you see that side of them, but their men probably do,” Tabitha adds when I don’t respond to her assessment. “I’m willing to bet your mother never cried about anything at all because she was burned so hard by a man, she shut it down. Her wisdom, as you call it, was a defense mechanism, Carlos. Not truth.”
I keep the straw firmly in my mouth, so I don’t end up saying anything. I honestly don’t know how to respond anyway. I always assumed my mother was just a wise woman who prided herself on being able to do it all—career, motherhood, friends. It never occurred to me her lack of dating had anything to do with being hurt before I was old enough to remember. I thought she was just content with the way things were.
I feel like part of my world just shifted, and I’m not sure I like it.
“I’m sorry.”
I look over at Tabitha who is now giving me a sympathetic look. I don’t like that either.
“I may be all wrong. I don’t know your mother. She might be that rare woman who loves the single life.”
I nod, because she might be. But suddenly, I don’t think so. I think—I think maybe she was and is lonelier than I ever realized. That the look in her eyes when my dad came over through the years wasn’t just sadness for her boy who didn’t have a live-in father. Maybe some of it was sadness for herself as well.
Taking a deep breath, I nod at Tabitha’s apology. “Yeah, my mom is the strongest, happiest single person I know. Except for me of course.”
She and I laugh at my quip, but it doesn’t feel as funny as it might have twenty minutes ago. If I misunderstood my mother for all these years, did I also misunderstand myself?
Suddenly I wish I could take my mother’s words back. Saying it out loud didn’t help at all. In fact, I’m more confused than ever.
“And me,” Tabitha adds. “You know I have no desire to ever get married again after the shit I went through with my ex-husband. Dating? Sure. Sex? Sure. Companionship? I’m game. But I’ll be keeping my last name, thank you very much.”
“Ah, Tabitha, you’re proving my point. Single life is where it’s at.” I flash a panty-dropping smile at her, even though it would never work. We’re too good of friends for her to fall for my fake flirting.
As I finish my smoothie and toss the cup away, another customer takes her attention away from me. Rapping my knuckles on the counter twice so she knows I’m leaving, she nods again as I walk away.
I like Tabitha. Our relationship is easy. There’s no attraction beyond good conversation and the occasional dinner with friends. It works for me.
Or at least it did. This new philosophical side of her, I can’t get it out of my head. And I don’t like it at all.
Chapter Eleven
RIAN
I hate having to admit Francesca is right. Mostly because I don’t like being wrong. But after several days of being tortured whenever I walk, stand, sit, roll over, lie down, breathe, basically just being alive, I’ve not been able to forget that my muscles are revolting against me. I need some relief and Bengay isn’t cutting it anymore. Plus, I’m tired of smelling like peppermint. People keep asking me for gum, and I’m assuming it’s because the odor reminds them they need fresh breath.
But I need for my body to stop hurting, and the only three options I could think of were springing for a massage, hot tubbing, and Francesca’s suggestion of yoga.
Massage fell off that list in about one second flat simply because a stranger would be touching my naked body. Ew. No. Hot tubbing remained for a few seconds longer until I remembered this isn’t a spa so there wouldn’t be glasses of bubbly champagne to go with the bubbly water, plus I’d have to put on a bathing suit in the one building where pretty, skinny people congregate. So again—no. That leaves me with one viable option. I’m not happy about it, but walking like a ninety-eight-year-old woman is not a good alternative either. No tall, dark, and handsome do-gooder has offered to help me across the street yet, so there isn’t even a silver lining to this pain.
I made the mistake of asking Abel for his thoughts on yoga. He, of course, got his bright, torture-loving smile and went on and on and on about the health benefits of making regular stretch a part of my workout regimen. I’m still not convinced. But I did pay for a six-month gym membership package and need to use it. Included is access to almost all their classes, and since I can barely move, Zumba is out of the question. But I also hate the idea of throwing away money by not doing something.
In hindsight, I should have remembered I’m not really a commitment girl, but signing up gave me a ten percent discount. That’s how those sales agents get you. They get into the heads of people like me and find out what makes us tick. What makes us spend. Then, they flash a shiny discount at us, and once we’ve signed on the bottom line, they guilt us into coming four times a week to get our money’s worth. I know because I do it all the time at my job. Every day I convince people to upgrade their cable package. Football lover? We have a fantastic NFL package. Love to DIY? There are channels you only dream about with the home improvement package. Music lover? We have not one, not two, but three music video channels in our premier package, and not those crappy former music video channels that only play teen reality shows now.
See? I’m the queen of the upsell. I’ve won the office award for it twice. Which is why I’m even more disappointed in myself for falling for the tactic.
Abel doesn’t notice my irritation, though. He barely notices how much trouble I’m having walking up the stairs. Why isn’t there an elevator in this place? Isn’t that an ADA requirement or something? Damn these old buildings and their being grandfathered into old building codes.
Huffing, partially from exertion and partially because I just really like to
complain while I’m at the gym, I keep a heavy grip on the stair railing, practically using it to pull myself up.
Abel, agile asshole that he is, trots to the top and turns around, staring down at me. “What’s taking you so long?”
I glare at him, still slowly climbing. “Did you forget about that rope thing you made me do already?”
He barks a laugh, which is not funny to me at all. But the sound is fitting since I’m more than happy to refer to him as a dog until I get control of my body back.
“I told you to take it slow since it was your first time.”
“You most certainly did not,” I argue, almost to the top. I’m almost… there… just a few... more… steps… “You yelled ‘Just ten more seconds!’ and then your stopwatch conveniently broke for fifteen more.”
He shrugs confirming that his watch accidentally broke on purpose, just like I thought. He denied it, but he doesn’t fool me. My watch has accidentally broken on purpose before, too. Just usually on the “quitting early” side, not “keep going until you die” side.
Taking one last excruciating step, I’m finally on the second floor of the gym. I’ve only been up here once—when I was taking a tour of the facility before signing my life away for that damn discount. There is a track off to the left that overlooks one of the exercise areas, but to the right is where most of the exercise machines are. Not the treadmills. Those are all downstairs. No, these machines I could easily get tangled up in with as many wires and hangy-down things are attached to them. But there are also a couple additional rooms for classes. I guess the yoga room is up here. Makes sense. It is quieter than downstairs. Not that I’ll ever know for sure. Unless this class does something miraculous to my body, there’s no chance I’ll be able to make it back downstairs to compare properly.
“Are you going to bitch this much during yoga?” Abel asks, as he leads me to the back where we approach a dark room. The door is open, and several older women are taking their shoes off and putting them in cubbie holes against the wall. “I might pretend I don’t know you if you are.”
“No guarantees, buddy,” is all I can think to grumble when I realize I have to bend down to take my own shoes off. I groan when I reach down to my toes. I already hate yoga, and I’m not even bending for the health benefits yet.
Abel leaves me behind as he saunters into the room, all fluid movements and graceful steps. Must be nice to have muscles that recover quickly.
Okay, now I’m starting to annoy myself. I need to get over it and just get some relief already!
Finally freeing myself of footwear, I hobble into the room, not sure what to expect. The only thing I know about yoga is what I’ve heard—that hippies do it while sitting cross-legged and chanting “Oooooommmm.” Oddly, I don’t see any hippies in the room. Only people wearing normal workout clothes. I wonder briefly if I’m in the right spot until Abel calls my name.
“Rian!” He waves me over, which I find incredibly rude considering he’s the one who can walk these days. But I obey because I don’t find it rude at all. Just painful. “I want to introduce you to Helena. She’s the instructor of this class.”
This tiny blond woman teaches yoga? I expected long, unruly hair, and gauchos. Maybe the scent of patchouli mixed with body odor from the lack of deodorant. That’s not what this woman is like at all. She’s wearing short workout shorts and a tank top, fun socks pulled up to her knees. Her hair is pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. And when she shakes my hand, she has a firm grip. She looks like she’s better suited to be running a marathon than helping me stretch. And she smells like lavender with a hint of lemon. Huh. I wonder what other surprises are in store for me.
“It’s really nice to meet you, Rian,” she says kindly with a big smile. What is it with all employees with perfect teeth? Is that a requirement to work here? “Abel was giving me the rundown on your new workout program.”
I quirk an eye and look right at him. He gives me a condescending smile right back. “Yes, I did tell her how much you love to complain, but that it’s all an act and means you just need to be pushed harder.”
Looking back at Helena I ask, “Does he like to torture everyone, or is it something I said?”
Helena laughs and leads me over to a stack of purple yoga mats. “Torturing you means he likes you. Just don’t let him convince you to use the battle ropes. It’s his favorite method.”
My jaw drops. “That’s exactly why I’m here. I haven’t been able to move in days.”
Helena sucks in a breath and shakes her head. “Oh, man. I feel for you. The first time he tricked me into that exercise, I thought all my limbs were going to fall off. Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to start me off with three sets of a hundred?”
I blink rapidly. Three sets of a hundred? I barely hit the floor ten times in thirty seconds. Clearly, I have a long way to go before I can claim to be fit.
“Anyway,” Helena continues, “grab a mat and roll it out anywhere. Since this is your first time, I want you to really listen to your body. Push hard enough to feel it, but not enough for it to be painful. Sore is okay but sharp pain isn’t good.”
I nod, pretending I understand the difference. In my current state, sore and pain are basically synonymous.
Helena continues to greet people as they walk in the door while I get settled in the back. The way back. Since I’ve never done this before, I have no idea what to expect and no one needs my butt in their face while I figure it out. Nor do they need to see me fall over, which is a very good possibility.
Besides everyone having their shoes off, the one thing I like is that everyone seems quieter in here. I’m not sure if it’s due to the nature of the class or because we’re up here away from the music, but it’s peaceful. Calming. I feel really mellow just being here and class hasn’t even started yet.
My calm is short lived, however, when Helena announces it’s time to begin. That’s when my anxiety shoots up a notch.
“Stand on your mat, feet slightly apart and put your big toes together, like you’re pigeon-toed. Arms together,” Helena says calmly, the bounce she had her in step a few minutes ago gone, replaced by a very Zen teacher. “Breathe in through your nose and raise your arms to the ceiling, looking up at your hands.” I, along with everyone else in the room, follow her instructions. “Now out slowly through your mouth and bring your arms back down. Again.”
We go through a few more breathing movements with our arms going up and down. So far, I’m keeping up. If we do basic movements like this the whole time, I’ll be just fine.
“Reach up to the sky, fingertips together.” Helena looks up at her hands and breathes in. “Now fold your body over, reaching for the floor.”
I can’t help the groan that comes out of me as my back stretches forward for the first time in days. My toes are still so far away, and my stomach seems to be blocking my movement. Am I really supposed to reach my feet?
“Only go as far as your body can go.”
Oh. I guess Helena can read minds, too.
“Touch the floor and look forward, stretching your neck and your back.”
Um… I don’t know that my head can go that way. But I try. Nothing happens, but I still give myself an A for effort.
“Now walk your hands out into the downward dog position.”
The downward what? Breaking my less than perfect form, I look around the room to try and figure out what I’m supposed to do. Sure enough, everyone has their feet on the floor and are walking their hands forward, their butts still in the air. Hmm. I guess I can try…
It’s not pretty. I have to bend my knees and spread my legs to get close enough to the floor for my hands to touch, but eventually I have walked my hands far enough out to look like everyone else. Sort of. I mean, their bodies are in sharp angles and mine like a deflated triangle, but that’s close, right?
“And hold the position, feet flat on the floor, breathing in and out.”
Suddenly there are hand
s on my hips. Why are there hands on my hips while I’m in a compromising position? The scent of lavender and lemon invades my nose, tipping me off.
“Relax, Rian,” Helena says quietly to me, pulling my body backward and my feet flatter to the floor.
Do not fart, Rian. Do. Not. Fart. Squeeze those cheeks…
“Breathe slowly and let your body do the work for you,” she continues. “Good. Is it sore or painful?”
“Uhhhh…..” That’s the only word that comes out. Partially because I don’t know how to answer her and partially because the blood has been rushing to my head for about ten seconds too long. “Sore,” I finally croak out.
“Good.” Releasing my hips, she moves from behind me back through the class to adjust other people. I’m not sure if I’m more relieved to relax out of that stretch or because I didn’t break wind with her behind me.
“Slowly, move one leg forward into a lunge position, arms out in a warrior’s pose.”
Again, I feel like a cheater looking around, because I have no idea what she’s talking about. And again, when I see what everyone else is doing, I begin to wonder how my body is going to contort into that. Sure enough, everyone is lunging, right arm out straight, left arm straight behind them.
Welp, this is going to be interesting.
I try to move my foot gracefully forward like everyone else, only it sounds like a clap of thunder when it finally gets in position. My hands are still stuck on the floor and I can’t breathe with my stomach pressed up into my ribs. I don’t think this is what Helena was hoping for. Balancing on one hand, I put my other hand on my knee and push up.
I did it! I’m in a weird lunge position I’ll never be able to get out of, but I did it!
Moving my arms out, I have a surge of pride run through my body. I’m balancing. In a warrior’s pose. In yoga. Francesca would be so proud.
“Breathe in, bringing your arms up to the sky, looking at your fingertips—”
Wait, what? I just got balanced. Now I’m supposed to look up again?
