One Night Hand Stand

Chapter 1

Sarah

It's 5:44 a.m. and there's a naked man in my bed.

His name is... um...

His name is...

He told me to call him...

Let's just call him by his initials.

N.M. for Naked Man.

Or for Never Mind.

Because in ten minutes, we're going to pretend this never happened.

Pretend I didn't go to a bar last night and have three glasses of Pinot Grigio, violating my strict two-glass limit.

Pretend I didn't let my friends talk me into jumping up on stage and singing “WAP,” complete with properly choreographed dance moves.

Pretend I did not let N.M. here buy me a drink and kiss him like my tongue had developed magnets that sought out his iron tonsils.

And he most certainly did not kiss me back with a suave, athletic grace that made my body shimmer and my P, indeed, become deeply W.

Oh, no.

While technically, all of that did happen, and I invited him back to my apartment and we did the two-back nasty so many times I am pretty sure we need to invent a new prime number for it, in ten – now, nine – minutes, Mr. N.M. doesn't exist.

My life has firm boundaries.

Speaking of firm –

“Mmmm,” he groans, splayed hand searching for me in the spot next to him on the bed.

I shove Wufflepookie, my teddy bear, under his hand. For whatever reason, Mr. N.M. considers it a reasonable substitute for me.

I really need a good waxing, don't I?

Standing slowly, thighs aching in ways that make me want to never forget, but knowing I have to banish him from my life, I tiptoe into my own bathroom and stare in the mirror.

Sex hair? Yep.

Running mascara? Umm hmm.

Raw lips from being kissed out of my mind? Oh, yeah.

A quick look at my nether regions shows chafing marks and – oh, dear.

Is that a bite mark on my inner thigh? I shiver with delight, remembering where that tongue went after the love nip.

The wall clock in the bathroom tells me I have to be out the door in eight minutes. My yoga class starts promptly at six.

And I can't be late.

No, not because I'm a glutton for punishment, or a nama-type-A yoga freak.

It's because I'm on assignment.

Okay. Fine. I'm on spec . My goal is to sell this exposé to a major magazine and have my breakout career moment.

My friend Adriana's massage therapist told her that her sister-in-law's lash person has a brother who has inside dirt that the man who founded Chakroga123, the hot chain of yoga studios that makes Peloton look like a Big Wheel, is a fraud. A liar, a cheat, a dictator, a sexist pig, and –

Well. That is enough to make any recent journalist-wannabe grad like me turn to a puddle of goo.

And grow a backbone of steel.

Prakash Shanti founded the chain, and Chakroga123 is as ubiquitous as Starbucks now, here in Boston. Can't spit without hitting one. There are three hundred locations across the East Coast, and California, Oregon, and Washington are next.

And now I need to get to my class.

First things first.

The shower stings as I jump in, but I can't go to Hot Yoga class smelling like Hot, well...

P.

And a two-minute shower will control my racing hormones. They're telling me to go crawl back into bed with Mr. Sculpted Ass, but if I do that, ghosting on him won't be as simple.

I like simple.

Writing about people for a living is complicated. My complexity cup is full. Hopefully, he gets the hint and leaves.

As I soap up my thigh, the bite mark taunts me.

Let him nibble a little more , some voice inside me whispers.

That's the voice that thwarts Pulitzers, though.

Bzzz

My phone. I brought it in the bathroom with me, but it's buzzing under the towel. Shoving my unwashed hair into a messy bun will have to be enough. I jump out of the shower, towel off, take my birth control pill, and find myself clean and dressed in four minutes.

Not bad, Sarah. Not bad at all.

The phone beckons with a simple text from a guy whose name I don't recognize.

C.

Thanks for last night. You make Meghan Thee Stallion look like an amateur.

Hmmm. I don't know a C.

Block.

And the clock says I have one minute to get out of here.

Creaking the door open slowly, I peek my head out and – whew .

He's gone.

We were on the same wavelength all along.

Ghost? Meet Ghostess.

The bed is neatly made, all my throw pillows retrieved from the floor, stacked like Zen rocks. Perfectly balanced, carefully aligned.

It's very peaceful.

Graceful.

Beautiful.

Wufflepookie is at the top, looking like he's having the time of his life.

A pang of longing ripples through me, sentimental and yearning. The taste of Mr. Never Mind is still on my tongue, the imprint of his large, muscled hands on my body, the brush of his body hair against my belly a tactile reminder of last night.

You know what else is a reminder of last night?

The wine gong in my head.

Scritch scritch scritch.

I look over in the corner of my studio apartment to find Dumpling, my stray tabby, digging for treasure in the clean litter box. He's a tiny kitten, no more than three months old, named after what I was buying from the Chinese restaurant next door when I found him.

Wide eyes meet mine, then they narrow.

He's judging me.

“It's all the Pinot Grigio's fault,” I inform him with a finger wag as I push the espresso machine's button and hope it pumps out enough energy in time for me to swallow before class.

An image of the last thing I swallowed makes me blush.

Huh. Guess I had a protein-filled middle-of-the-night snack.

Bzzz

How was he? Adriana texts me, adding emojis meant to convey sex, but there's a gray horse in there and unless she's gone over to some fetish I don't want to know about, I'm pretty sure she hasn't changed her disposable contacts this morning.

Why are you up so early? I reply, dodging the question.

Early? Haven't gone to bed yet. We're at The Agora having omelettes.

Yum, I type back. Stay there until my yoga class is done. Hold me a seat.

We're in line. The place is stuffed with gray hairs. Maybe we'll still be here in an hour. Check in. We need deets.

He put Tab A in Slot B , I reply.

Those aren't details!! Did Slot B enjoy it?

Slot B gives him a good review. If Slot B were on Yelp, he'd get four stars.

I look at the stacked pillows.

Make it four point five. I swig half the espresso shot.

Four and a half?? Five is marriage material!

Marriage. My heart stops for a beat. Does he get that final half star?

I don't reply. Let Adriana sweat it out and wait for me. She's probably there with Luna, my other friend from college and Adriana's twin. We all set out to be writers.

I'm the only one writing for a living now. Adriana works as a coordinator for a college internship program, and Luna, well...

Luna makes ASMR videos for a living. She's a TikTok sensation. You know who she is. The one with the tie-dyed Frenchie bulldog?

Yeah. That one.

Who knew a dog smacking its lips could make so much money for a fresh-out-of-school Zoomer?

Luna knows.

Because she's the only one of the three of us who paid off all her student loans.

“Bye,” I say to Dumpling, who is in her habitat and ignores me completely. Kittens are one step up from being electric wires covered in fur. She sprints under the heating register and cowers.

As I lock my door, it hits me:

Mr. Never Mind left without saying goodbye. Not even a note.

As with all things adult, I teeter for a moment, checking my reaction. Is it good he just... disappeared? Or should I be hurt? Outraged? Offended?

Wasn't I about to do the same to him?

Can we find a new word for the feeling you have when you're simultaneously relieved and taken aback?

How about Relieveaback?

Indigna phew ?

Hmm. Let's work on that one.

I jog down the three sets of stairs to the outside door, bursting onto the sidewalk, my espresso drained within half a block, the tiny cup tucking easily into my workout bag. It's a misty morning, a little dewy, so not washing my hair is fine. It would be a frizzed brown mess regardless.

Chakroga123 has a steady stream of people going in and out, with classes offered every hour, on the hour, twenty-four hours a day. Prakash Shanti says everyone's inner organ rhythm must be honored with yoga at the right time for synchronization.

I think they just love to attract high achievers.

Given the steep cost for a monthly membership, I know I'm right.

The magazine I'm writing for only pays on acceptance, so I'm footing the bill for Chakroga123, hoping the combination of my payment for selling the story and my long-term increase in income from selling a high-profile exposé will be worth the investment. Considering a month's membership is more than my student loan payment, this better pay off.

At least it’s a deductible business expense.

As I walk into the high-ceilinged, wood-lined yoga room, all warm tones designed to mimic a womb, I feel emboldened. Brazen. Confident.

Last night I had the best sex of my life.

This morning I have the worst headache in ages.

I'm about to blow open the story of the year.

All my work is about to pay off.

I have a lot riding on this idea of mine.

Nothing's going to stop me.