Chapter 3
Jess
My meeting at the law office this morning was confusing, to say the least. I was still processing how my college boyfriend, who was, strangely, wearing a tiara with his Tom Ford suit, had run out of the room after seeing me for the first time in almost twenty years.
Maybe it would have been a hit to my ego if my ego hadn’t long ago been destroyed by my ex-husband, along with my self-esteem, my confidence, and my financial future.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d had the strangest interaction when I walked out the door.
Madame Esmeralda, who was a regular at my vinyasa classes, had appeared on the sidewalk.
Instead of the brightly colored yoga sets she wore to my class, she was decked out in a long floral skirt, a knit scarf, and several pounds of jewelry.
She returned my friendly wave by grabbing my forearm forcefully.
“You’re finally here.” She turned my hand over and gently stroked the lines of my open palm.
“Excellent love line. Just as I expected.” Then, before I could extract myself, she patted my cheek and said, “He’s been waiting for you. Keep the faith, Cricket.”
I’d almost fainted on the spot. My dad had always called me Cricket, but I hadn’t heard the nickname since he passed away.
And while I’d met this woman before, we certainly weren’t close enough for her to know that.
Lo had told me she was some kind of psychic, but I had always assumed it was a joke.
After that run-in, I’d needed a long walk to calm myself down. I filled my stainless-steel mug with tea and headed to the studio. I’d get my own workout in, plan today’s class, and then do a deep clean of the space.
The studio was small but gorgeous, with large windows along the street side.
It had been a shoe store many lives ago, and Lana had kept the original woodwork, though she’d painted the walls in calming blue and green tones.
Though it was not what one would expect to see in a place like this, the massive chandelier that hung from the ceiling added to the charm, and the large white cabinets along the back wall that housed mats, straps, and blocks meant it always looked tidy.
I lit the candles on the altar, then opened the windows and the door to let in the fresh spring air. Then I put on my favorite playlist.
My body itched to move, eager to find a natural flow. I’d always been a mover. My mom used to joke that I was “a bad sitter.” She wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t until I found yoga that I could achieve stillness with any sort of success.
The techniques and meditation involved allowed me to still my brain and move my body. It was a foreign concept, but one that I quickly grew addicted to.
I stripped off my T-shirt and tossed it onto the counter. Then, in a sports bra and yoga pants, I rolled my shoulders. Quickly, heat built within me. Today was a day where I needed to sweat.
As I pushed myself through a long series of sun salutations, my heart rate accelerated and a euphoric feeling took root in my bones.
I continued, relishing my strength and flexibility.
There was no better cure for the postpartum body blues than yoga.
As women, our bodies evolved and created life.
The bullshit societal notion that we should be the same size we were as children was absurd. And yet, once in a while, a niggle of shame tugged at me.
I’d get self-conscious, remembering that my belly was no longer completely flat. That I had stretch marks and cellulite that no amount of yoga would destroy.
As I pushed myself from a three-legged dog into a standing split, I focused on breathing in confidence and breathing out negativity.
Despite my best efforts, my ex’s voice would sometimes creep in, taunting me. Tormenting me like he had when he’d buy cocktail dresses a size too small for events, insisting it would “motivate me.” Judging me the way he judged Kit when she once asked for a second popsicle after dinner.
Mentally blocking the memories of his denigration, I rolled into a headstand. I found inversions helped quiet the negative thoughts. From there, I rolled into upward-facing dog to get my back loose.
When my body told me I’d done enough, I reached for my water. Only then did I realize that I’d left it at the check-in desk by the windows.
So I stood and padded through the sun-drenched studio, rolling my shoulders as I went. As I got closer, a figure outside the window caught my eye, and my heart stuttered.
The sun was a bit blinding, so, shielding my eyes, I examined the person. It was definitely a man. He was tall and lean, but muscled, and he was staring through the window.
“Brian?” I gasped.
Eyes widening, he took a step back and dropped his attention to his feet.
His dress pants were gray, and the sleeves of his Oxford were rolled up, exposing his forearms. He hadn’t changed since our meeting, but he’d ditched the coat and tie.
My heart lodged itself in my throat as I took a step closer. What was he doing here?
I waved awkwardly through the open window, anxiety coursing through me, undoing all the work I’d just accomplished.
Movement near his feet pulled my attention down to the oversized animal wearing a harness and a leash.
“Is that… a cat?”
He looked down at the feline, who flopped onto the sidewalk and stretched out like it was dying of boredom.
“Yeah.” He let out a beleaguered sigh. “It’s a damn cat. I walk him every day.”
It took effort not to wrinkle my nose at him. That wasn’t weird at all. Nope. Totally normal. Also normal? How red his cheeks were. Had he been watching me practice?
A fresh wave of mortification washed over me. I’d been facing the back wall, with my sizable ass in the air, and I’d spent the last thirty minutes falling out of handstands.
Heart thumping, feeling awkward, I took a big swig of water and shuffled toward the door I’d left propped open. I’d wanted to invite the breeze in, yet I’d also garnered confused stares from my new lawyer–slash–college sweetheart.
He ran a hand through his hair, discomfort radiating from him. Interesting. If anyone needed some time on the mat, it was Brian.
The tension in his shoulders flowed down his arms, past where his sleeves were rolled, the muscles in his forearms flexing. His skin was dotted with light freckles and brown hair with a reddish tint.
“Why?” I brought my water bottle to my mouth again, cringing at how unruly my hair must have looked.
He watched me with a confused frown.
I patted the messy bun on my head, certain the look had morphed from cute Instagram influencer to deranged raccoon over the course of my yoga practice.
“Why do you walk the cat?” I clarified.
“For exercise,” he replied, like it was the most natural answer in the world.
“For you or the cat?”
“The cat,” he said with an awkward laugh.
“It’s a large cat.”
“Comically large.”
His eyes darted away, and he ran his hand through his hair again.
If I remembered correctly, it was one of his nervous tics.
He wore the facade of a polished lawyer well, but beneath it, the working-class kid from Brooklyn I’d known all those years ago still existed.
The guy who loved boxing and greasy pizza.
His auburn hair was darker and shorter than it had been back in college, and his face was leaner, his cheekbones more angular.
He filled out that dress shirt well, like he wasn’t the kind to skip a workout, no matter how heavy his caseload.
Shame flooded me, and on instinct, I laced my hands over my abdomen to hide the sliver of stomach between my sports bra and high-waisted pants.
It was silly, really. He’d already seen my body.
Dressed like this, all my curves and lumps were on full display.
After giving birth to two kids, my hips were wider and my boobs way less perky.
I’d worked hard to battle my insecurities these last few years, but standing in front of this gorgeous man, it was hard not to wish I still looked like the fresh-faced farm girl he’d met all those years ago.
Before a toxic marriage and the loss of my parents had sucked the life out of me.
Back when I was young and wide-eyed and hopeful. When we’d walk around Castle Island eating one-dollar hot dogs and planning a beautiful future together.
He looked back down at the bored-looking cat. “I know. Getting out like this helps with the litter box situation. Plus it needs regular exercise or it gets depressed.”
I nodded, lips pressed together. “Cat depression…”
“Is a thing, sadly,” he explained. “Cal came home with this beast, and now it’s my feline overlord. I’m the one who feeds him, so he’s latched on to me.”
The navy blue harness with matching leash was pretty adorable, especially against the creature’s long gray and white fur.
“Is it a bobcat? I saw one at the Central Park Zoo when I took the girls there last year. That size and the super pointy ears are sus.”
“He’s a purebred Maine Coon,” Brian said. “Cal has his papers and everything. But he behaves more like he’s half dog, half face-eating leopard with a superiority complex.”
The exasperated look he gave the cat was pretty adorable.
“What’s its name?”
“Dammit,” he replied and I shot him a look.
“His legal name is Fuzzy Wuzzy Murphy, but he terrorizes me, so I call him Dammit.”
I gazed down at the cat, who, aside from enormous, looked harmful. “He looks like a Fuzzy,” I declared with a smile.
“Anyway, I’m sorry I bothered you,” Brian said. “We don’t usually walk this way. But Madame Esmeralda suggested it.” Frowning, he looked down the street. “Right after she told me that baked goods are the love language of the unworthy.”
I blinked, not sure what he was referring to.
“I’d been thinking about sending you some muffins, to apologize for my behavior earlier.”
I nodded.
“And then she said I’d find what I was looking for on 8th Street.”
“Esmeralda strikes again,” I whispered. “Is she really psychic?”