Chapter 9
Chapter nine
I didn’t come here to name my vagina
Lulu
The fluorescent lights in the produce aisle hum like they’re mocking me while I debate avocados that are either rock hard or already halfway to guacamole. My phone buzzes, and when I glance down, Dusty’s lopsided face fills the screen—tongue out, ears flopped, pure chaos.
Logan: Dusty’s already camped by the door. Don’t let him talk you into a second dinner.
Logan: Would’ve said bye in person, but it was too early for a Saturday.
I bite back a smile that would probably get me weird looks from the woman squeezing cantaloupes beside me, but my heart skips at the idea of seeing him all sleepy and fresh out of bed anyway. Too early for him, maybe, but apparently not too early for my insides to stage a parade.
Me: Wow. Abandoned. Ghosted. Crushed before breakfast.
Three dots bounce around, then pause.
Logan: It’s called efficiency.
Me: Is that the only word in your vocab? And for the record, I’m a delight at 6 a.m.
Logan: Doubtful.
Me: Bold from a man who panic-bought an entire tray of macarons this week.
Logan: Efficient.
Me: Thoughtful.
Logan: Don’t push it, or I’ll withhold your macarons.
Me: Monster.
Logan: Efficient monster.
Me: You may have a limited vocab, but you’re all heart, Miller.
Logan: Don’t get used to it, Ms. Parnell.
I snort out loud, earning a side-eye from cantaloupe woman. Shoving my phone back into my tote, I try to focus on the avocados and my groceries before meeting Zoe and Charlie. But the truth is obvious: this flutter in my chest has nothing to do with produce.
***
The studio smells like a candle shop and a spice market had a lovechild. Incense curls through the air, silk scarves drape from the ceiling, and a group of women already sit cross-legged on an array of yoga mats and velvet cushions.
Zoe freezes in the doorway. “Lulu. This is not yoga.”
Charlie’s already biting back a laugh, water bottle half-raised and bracing for impact. “What is this?”
I kick off my sneakers, grinning as I roll out my mat between two scarves that definitely came straight from a thrift store. “It’s yoga. With… extras.”
A woman glides to the front of the room in flowing white linen, palms pressed together. “Welcome, sisters. Today, we honor our sacred feminine, our inner goddess, our yoni energy.”
Zoe chokes on air. “Our what?”
Charlie leans in, eyes wide. “Did she just say—”
“Yes,” I whisper, delighted. “She absolutely did.”
The instructor continues, voice soft and reverent. “Your yoni is your portal, your power. To awaken her fully, you must give her a name.”
Zoe snaps her head toward me, whisper-yelling, “A name? Lulu, I didn’t come here to name my vagina.”
Charlie’s shoulders shake with contained laughter. “Oh my god, I cannot wait to tell Jake about this.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Zoe warns with a shake of her head. “Chase already has a name for mine, and he’s obsessed with using it.”
That does it for Charlie, who collapses onto her mat. “Of course he does. He probably had it engraved on a mug.”
“Cake, actually.” Zoe crosses her legs neatly, mimicking the instructor. “Red velvet. Buttercream cursive. Very chic.”
I slap both hands over my mouth, squeaking. “No!”
“Yes.” Zoe nods solemnly. “The man’s committed to branding.”
A smug smile tilts my mouth. “You’re welcome.”
Zoe narrows her eyes. “Wait—what do you mean, you’re welcome?”
“Just so you know, I didn’t know what the message was gonna be… But I gave him the bakery name,” I whisper, grinning. “And the idea for buttercream cursive. You think Chase knows where to buy a cake that doesn’t come from Safeway?”
“You’re an absolute menace.” Zoe sighs, turning her head forward and closing her eyes.
“Correct,” I say, prim as a princess. “And I regret nothing.”
Charlie nudges Zoe with her elbow. “What’s the name? You have to tell us!”
“Obviously.” Zoe leans in, lowering her voice for maximum suspense. “It’s—”
The instructor materializes in front of us, a serene smile plastered on. “Sisters, laughter is welcome. Yonis love joy. Tell me, what does your yoni crave?”
We all snap ramrod straight, choking back hysterics.
“My yoni—it, uhh—it…” Charlie squeaks, then dissolves into another fit of laughter.
I plaster on a solemn face. “Mine craves macarons. Pistachio and rose.”
Zoe presses her lips together so tight they blanch, her shoulders shaking with the effort of not completely losing it.
The instructor beams, utterly unbothered. “Sweetness for your sweetness. Beautiful.”
As she floats away, Charlie’s still wheezing, and Zoe hisses, “I hate you,” through her grin.
That’s when the chanting begins—low, droning ohhhms that vibrate the floor.
Zoe leans back on her elbows, shooting me a sideways look. “Nope. I’m not ohhming about my vagina.”
“Your yoni,” I correct, swaying side to side, already half caught up in it. “Come on, free your goddess, Zo.”
Charlie peeks an eye open. “If you don’t chant, I’ll tell Chase you’ll reenact it for him later instead.”
Zoe glares, but her mouth twitches. “Fine. But I’m chanting in lowercase.”
Begrudgingly, she joins in, muttering an ohm so flat, it makes Charlie snicker all over again.
After class, we spill out onto the sidewalk in a wave of incense and muffled laughter. The air feels cleaner after all that candle smoke, cool against my flushed cheeks.
“I’m filing a lawsuit,” Zoe declares as we walk. “False advertising. That was not yoga.”
Charlie snorts. “My abs hurt more from laughing than from core work, so I’d call it a win.”
I stretch my arms overhead, grin wide. “You’re welcome. Goddess energy unlocked.”
“Unlocked and shoved back in the box,” Zoe mutters. “With duct tape.”
We duck into the café across the street, and the girls order their coffees while I go for my usual matcha latte. Zoe eyes it like it’s radioactive.
“You know that tastes like grass, right?”
“Delicious, healing grass,” I chirp, hugging the cup to my chest.
Charlie shakes her head, amused. “Only you, Lulu.”
We snag a corner table, sliding into the seats with that giddy, post-class energy still buzzing between us.
Conversation tumbles easily—Charlie griping about campaigns she’s working on from home between diaper changes, Zoe bragging about a recent video that’s gone viral, me venting about Principal Delacourt’s dragon routine and Pamela’s latest PTA ambush.
“Dylan’s mom tried to convince me detention stifles creativity,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Apparently, throwing paper airplanes during a test is an act of artistic expression.”
Zoe’s brow furrows. “Please tell me you laughed in her face.”
“I smiled,” I correct, sipping my matcha. “And gave Dylan extension problems.”
Charlie grins. “You’re savage.”
“I prefer strategic,” I say primly, but the corners of my mouth twitch. “Honestly, I think Pamela’s less worried about Dylan’s creativity and more worried about keeping her precious soccer star’s schedule intact. The kid struts around like he’s already been drafted.”
Zoe snorts. “Middle school Messi.”
“Middle school menace,” I mutter.
Charlie tilts her head. “Is that the same mom who cornered you at parent-teacher night about how she’d like you to help Dylan cut the sirloin steak she puts in his lunch each day?”
“The very one,” I deadpan.
“If Dylan’s such a prodigy, maybe he can cut his own steak,” muses Zoe.
“God, she sounds like half the PTA at Noah and Meadow’s school,” says Charlie. “That’s why I steer clear—it’s not about the kids, it’s about who can run the bake sale like a Fortune 500.”
Zoe leans back, lip curling. “PTAs are just high school mean girls in cardigans. If it’s really about clout and cookies, I’ll happily write a check and save myself the estrogen cage match.”
“Not all PTA moms are like that, though,” I add, thinking of all the wonderful mothers who take time out of their day to help fundraise. “It’s just that, unfortunately, at my school, Pamela runs it like her personal empire.”
The conversation shifts, and when Charlie gets up to use the bathroom, I turn to Zoe and lower my voice a little. “Okay, hen’s night planning. I know you’re Maid of Honor, but I have ideas.”
Zoe arches a brow. “Hit me.”
“Karaoke,” I say, tapping the table for emphasis. “Costumes. Sequins encouraged. Maybe… a choreographed group number.”
“I’ll allow sequins,” Zoe says, considering. “But no choreo. Nobody wants to see me attempt a high kick in heels.”
I sip my matcha, pretending to think. “Noted. Maybe just… one song? You know, a classic. Something ABBA.”
She gasps, and her eyes widen. “You know I can’t resist them!”
I nod and lean in conspiratorially, watching in case Charlie reappears. “Imagine it. Super Trouper. Lights flashing, disco ball spinning, the girls on stage singing it to her.”
Zoe stares at me, then grins slowly. “I hate how much I love that.”
“Exactly.”
She clinks her coffee cup against mine. “Fine. But if we do it, you’re leading.”
“Gladly.”
When Charlie comes back, we fold her into a different conversation, and soon, the table hums with laughter and chatter loud enough to draw side-eyes from the barista.
By the time we spill back onto the street, my cheeks ache from smiling, and I’m pumped to go fetch my favorite golden retriever for the evening.
Zoe insists on giving me a ride, and when her car pulls up to my driveway, Betty is already outside next door. Perfect slacks, cardigan buttoned, pearls neat as a debutante—except for the generous glass of chardonnay in her hand. At three in the afternoon.
She narrows her eyes at the car until she spots me and Zoe behind the wheel. Her smile spreads slowly as we emerge.
“Hey, Betty, this is Zoe.”
“Well, well. So you’re the firecracker I’ve heard about. God help the man trying to keep up with you.”
Zoe blinks, caught off guard, then breaks into a grin. “Oh, I love her.”
“Everyone does,” I say cheerfully. “Betty collects fans.”