Chapter 4
The first class on the Saturday schedule at Power + Grace Yoga starts at nine a.m., which means I’m in the parking lot by eight thirty.
Ian thinks I’m meeting with a potential client, so I left the apartment in a sheath dress over a sports bra.
Once I was out of the city, I pulled behind a gas station and wriggled into yoga pants.
Now I watch and wait for the olive-green Audi.
Eight fifty-five and still no sign of it. I am at least thankful that Jack Lombardi doesn’t drive a black Range Rover. There appears to be an infestation of those here. I, on the other hand, occupy the only dinged-up, decade-old Prius. A collector’s item, really.
At a little after nine, one more Range Rover tears into the parking lot, followed by a BMW. Two blond ponytails bounce into the studio. Still no Audis.
The classes here are fifty minutes long and start every hour, on the hour, until two o’clock.
I packed a sandwich and plenty of water, and scouted a convenient public restroom at the Starbucks in this same complex.
But judging by how put together Jack was yesterday, I’m guessing he’s a morning-class guy.
For now, I’m way down the rabbit hole of Zoe Estelle’s Instagram, scrolling through before-and-afters.
This woman is a genius, presumably an obscenely expensive one. Fuck Erika.
As the first round of students begins to trickle back out, I see a flash of olive green pull into a spot by the entrance. Jack emerges, mat under his arm, in red short-shorts and a tight gray tank top, white sweatshirt draped effortlessly over his shoulders. All these housewives must worship him.
I wait a couple minutes so he can get settled; then I scramble inside. The girl up front makes me fill out a form and takes my credit card. The classroom is through a glass door to the left. I lean back from the desk to look for Jack. He’s in the second row, an open spot still beside him.
As soon as I have my card back, I kick off my Birkenstocks and hustle through the door. Hundred-degree heat blasts me like bad breath. How did I miss that this was hot yoga? And, shit, my water bottle is still in the car. But if I go back for it, someone else will swipe my place.
I hike up my leggings, tucking the soft part around my midsection into the high-rise before I make my approach.
“Mind if I grab this spot?” I ask Jack breezily, as if my skin doesn’t feel like it’s fusing to Lycra.
“All yours,” he says. I catch it then—the flicker of recognition. “Have I seen you here before?”
“No, it’s my first time,” I say, unrolling my mat. “But you look familiar, too.”
He snaps his fingers. “You’re the woman from yesterday! From in front of my house.”
I laugh and bring my hands to my face, just as I practiced in the mirror. “Oh geez, how embarrassing is this? I was such a mess.”
“No, no, not at all. Did you find your way home okay?”
“I did, thank you. I can’t believe I’m running into you again! So mortifying.”
“Don’t worry about it. We all have those days.”
“I’m Margo, by the way.”
“Jack. Nice to meet you. Or, I guess, see you again.”
I have a script in my head—about how I’m getting into yoga to relieve the stress of the adoption process.
How my doctor thought it would be good for me, which is barely a lie, since she did suggest yoga once.
But Jack’s phone is between us, face up, and an incoming text brings it to life. Penny is the wallpaper.
“Oh my gosh, is that your daughter? She’s gorgeous!”
“Yeah, that’s our Penny.” He grins. “You know, it’s funny, when we were chatting yesterday, I thought, I wish Penny were with me.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
He hesitates. Just say it, Jack. Come on.
“Well, you know, she just doesn’t have a chance to interact with many … well, with many Asian women.” He cringes. “Oh my God, does that sound completely awful? Am I being totally offensive?”
I laugh. “No, I get it!” Then I drop the hammer. “My husband and I are considering adopting. So, trust me, I know what a big deal all the literature makes about cultural representation.”
Jack’s mouth falls open; his eyebrows lift to a height our Botoxed classmates could only dream of. He’s about to say something, when a firm handclap snaps our attention to the front of the room. A size-zero in a white sports bra beams an even whiter smile at us.
“Good morning, everyone! We’ve got a full house of regulars today,” she says, “but I see a couple new yogis among us. Very exciting! Welcome! I’m Shannon, and this is Fire Flow Level 2. Let’s get started in a tabletop position.”
Jack mouths: “We’ll talk after.”
I am squealing inside. Although I might be about to die. I haven’t taken a yoga class since before the pandemic, and I don’t make it down to our building’s gym as often as I mean to. Hence my size-four ass turning steadily into a six.
This warm-up seems doable enough, though. We’re on all fours, doing a series of cat-cows, alternating between arching our backs and rounding them.
“Let’s do four more,” says Shannon. “Remember to stay connected to your breath. That’s all yoga is—just moving and breathing.” She has good delivery. I can see why Jack likes this place. “Now let’s step it out to a plank. And we’re holding for ten … nine … eight…”
These are the longest seconds I have ever heard. But I’ve got this. We’re just moving and breathing. Moving and breathing. That’s all Shannon says we’re here to do.
“Are we feeling spicy this morning?” Shannon asks. “I think we’ve got a spicy bunch here!”
I do not know what gave her that impression.
“Let’s turn it up with some slow-motion mountain-climbers. You’re gonna bring right knee to right triceps—hold, two, three, four—now left knee to left triceps—hold, two, three, four. Three more each side, double time, let’s go!”
Fuck you, Shannon. Am I about to be sick? Breathe. Just breathe. Moving and breathing. I am moving and breathing.
“Nice work, guys, take a child’s pose.”
I collapse onto my mat, then peek at Jack. Are you kidding me? He’s holding in a head stand, a layer of sweat glinting off every ripple of his shoulder muscles.
“Honey, are you okay?” Shannon is leaning down to whisper in my ear. “If you need to step out, feel free.”
“Uh, thanks, I’m fine.” I whisper back. “Just haven’t done hot yoga in a while.”
This is humiliating.
“Okay, team, let’s come to the top of our mats for our sun salutation As.”
I make it through the sun As and sun Bs, two sets of side planks, and the first flowing series, only because Shannon keeps looking directly at me and saying things like, “Remember, crew, listen to your body” and “Don’t be afraid to take it down to the mat for a child’s pose” and “If you disconnect from your breath, take a beat to find it again.” All euphemisms for: “Hey, chub in the second row, do what you need to do, just don’t pass out on me. ”
Now we’re holding in a high lunge, and I’m determined to power through because I have already spent half the class in a child’s pose. But I’m losing the feeling in my front leg and the room is starting to narrow. My vision is … staticky.
Two hard claps. “Vinyasa!” Shannon stares at me like a doe in high beams. “Everyone, go ahead and take it down to the mat.”
I steady myself and attempt to begin my descent, but Shannon is at my side, grabbing onto my elbow. She leans in. “Ma’am, I really think you need to take a water break outside.”
Jack casts a side-eye in my direction. He must think I’m a mess.
“Okay,” I say. “Good idea.”
Being called ma’am by a twentysomething Blake Lively look-alike might be the only thing as devastating as losing eleven bidding wars. The class is almost over anyway. I gulp water from a paper cup in the lobby while I wait for Jack. When he emerges, I see he has my mat.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, handing it to me.
“Just really regretting that third round of cocktails last night,” I say, looking sheepish.
“Ah. I’ve been there.” He laughs. I notice several women noticing him, noticing me. “Well, if you’re feeling up to it, I’d still love to talk adoption. My husband says I’m basically an evangelist for it—always trying to convert everyone.”
I smile. “I would love to be your convert.”
“We could grab coffee at the Starbucks right there. Or, if you don’t mind driving, we could go to Clover. You know it, right, since you live in the neighborhood?”
I have prepared for this.
“One of my best friends lives in the neighborhood. We were running together yesterday and I’d just dropped her off at her house when you found me. My husband was coming to pick me up on the corner of Mass Ave.”
“Oh, got it. Did your friend tell you about Power + Grace, too?”
“Yeah, she was supposed to meet me this morning, but her son is sick. I was already most of the way here, all the way from Shaw, when she bailed, so I figured why not?”
“Shaw! How hip. We’ve been dying to try Causa.”
“Oh! I could get you a table if you want. My firm does their PR.”
He gasps. “That is so cool.”
Maybe I do love my job.
The eleven a.m. cohort is crowding into the small lobby, so we clear out. Clover is less than five minutes away. It’s shabby-chic like the set of an Anthropologie shoot. We grab a table in the courtyard, under an arbor.
“This place is adorable,” I say, taking a sip of oat-milk cappuccino. “Does it always feel like you’re on vacation in this neighborhood?”
“It really kind of does. We’ve loved every second here. But Curt, my husband, has an opportunity at King’s College in London that he can’t pass on. They just asked him a week ago to join their economics department, and we’ve always said we’d try living abroad one day.”
“Wow! That’s so exciting. He must be brilliant.”
Jack laughs. “Penny and I try to keep him humble.”
“And what about you?” I ask. “What will you do in London?”