Chapter 13 Lucy
Lucy
Plot twist: I did not spend the night with Harris.
I did not pass go as much as I may have wanted to.
Baby steps, Lucy.
I don’t care that he’s only in town for a few days.
I.
Do.
Not.
Want.
A.
Fling.
It has been decided. I simply do not have the stomach for casual sex.
At least . . . I don’t think I do?
Sighing, I do my best to refocus, the men on the beach surprisingly agile for such an early morning—and considering they’re so large.
Harris was a no-show, but his new friends showed up.
“Breathe deeply, gentlemen,” I call out, adjusting my tone to sound both authoritative and calm, like the yoga instructor I am. “Feel the sand under your feet, the stretch in your muscles. Focus on the now.”
The guys grumble a little, but they follow my lead, leaning into their stretches with a surprising amount of effort for a group of men who probably think yoga is glorified napping.
“I don’t want to feel the sand under my feet,” one of the guys mutters. “I want to be in bed.”
I rack my brain, struggling to remember their names.
Eli? Miles? Why can’t i remember who is who anymore?
“I’m not hating the view, though,” the other one (I think his name is Quinn? Quinton?) whispers, not-so-subtly glancing my way.
I roll my eyes. “You better be talking about the lake and not my ass.”
There. That sounded commanding, didn’t it?
Professionalism, Lucy. You’re a yoga instructor, not a flirt instructor.
“I love a sunrise over the water.” Someone giggles—actually giggles.
I roll my eyes, facing forward, then twisting my torso. “Eyes on your mats, boys. Pay. Attention.” Jeez, they’re as bad as a group of unruly elementary school kids. “This isn’t a spectator sport.”
A few of them laugh, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve had worse students. Much worse. I taught a bachelorette party once, and they came hungover, loudly laughing and falling over one another, shouting. Giggling.
The sun climbs higher, warming the sand beneath us, and for a moment, I forget about lumbersexual Harris and his infuriating appeal.
Why can’t I take my mind off him?
This is so unlike me.
I concentrate on the rhythm of the class, the sound of waves lapping against the shore, the groans of men struggling not to fall on their faces the way Harris did in the one and only class he’s taken with me.
One by one, they start to drop out of their poses, collapsing into the sand like soldiers after a battle.
Elijah flops onto his back dramatically and grumbles, “I thought yoga was supposed to be peaceful.”
Who on earth told him that? Ha.
“Peaceful when you’re doing it right,” I shoot back, earning a low chuckle from Quinton, who’s been doing surprisingly well. He seems to be taking it seriously.
“Or. Maybe you’re making it hard for us on purpose,” Dex teases, brushing the sand off his forearms. His grin is full of trouble, and I get the sense that he loves to goof around and give his friends a hard time.
“On purpose?” I scoff. “Why would I do that?” I flip my hair over my shoulder and motion to the area around me with my hands. “This is a safe space.”
“So you keep saying. Dude, I’m not feeling safe,” Miles adds, pointing at his legs. “My hamstrings are cooked.”
“I’m flattered.” I laugh. “I also noticed you skipped half the stretches.”
This is a him problem, not a me problem. He who skips stretching pays for it in the end. As an athlete he should know to stretch. It’s as if he thought yoga would be easier the third time around.
Miles scratches the back of his neck, caught. “Fine. You got me. But in my defense, I’m not bendy. Flexible but not bendy, if you catch my drift.”
Oh brother.
Dex snorts, ass planted in the sand. “He was built to tackle, not touch his toes.”
“Excuses, excuses,” I say. “You don’t get to blame skipping stretches on already being in incredible shape. I had an older woman with two left feet in class last week who managed to stay in downward dog without collapsing.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a challenge,” Quinton says, grinning as he feigns a weak stretch.
“Nope.” My chin hitches up. “Merely pointing out a fact.”
Miles studies me before leaning back on his hands, digging his heels into the ground. “So what’s your story, Luce? Is this your full-time gig?”
I laugh. “Yup, pretty much yoga. Which largely consists of wrangling hungover tourists when they think it’s a good idea to book a sunrise class.”
Dex raises an eyebrow. “So what you’re saying is that we’re better behaved than some of your other students?”
“Shockingly, yes,” I reply, chuckling. “You’d be surprised how rowdy people can get when they’re recovering from margaritas.”
Miles gestures toward the shoreline. “But you like doing this, right? I mean, you’re not teaching because you got tired of corporate life or something?”
“I love it,” I say. “There’s something peaceful about being outside, hearing the waves . . . even when my students are stubborn guys who complain more than they stretch.”
Quinton chuckles. “I feel seen.”
I smile, squinting at them through the sunlight. “What about you guys? What do you do in your spare time?”
Dex shakes his head. “Uh, sometimes we play football together. Sometimes we work out. Other times we, uh—condition.”
Miles raises his hand. “I took a ballet class once.”
I bet. These guys don’t look like slouches, and the fact that so many of them have been showing up for this early-morning session proves how dedicated they are to their health.
Harris not included.
Not that I lump him in with these guys; he’s in Star Lake strictly for lumberjacking and whatever postworkout muffins I want to bribe him with.
But I know for a fact he works out, considering I was the reason he was bending and twisting last night.
Late last night . . . and had I not had this class scheduled—I’d be home, in bed, asleep, too.
Definitely maybe dreaming about his stupid grin . . .
“Do you guys have anything planned for the rest of the day?” I ask, shaking the thought of Harris loose before it takes over, and stand, dusting off my knees. “Knitting, perhaps?”
Quinton cracks his knuckles, stretching lazily. “Ha ha, pretty much.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
Dex yawns as if he’s just waking up. “Maybe I’ll build a sandcastle later. And there’s a pool at the lodge. I might take a nap later.”
“Sounds like a solid itinerary.” I smile. “Do you mind my asking . . . if you have families?” I ask, genuinely curious about what their lives are like. “Kids, girlfriends, stuff like that?”
Dex grins, sand and dirt covering his arms as he props himself on his elbows. “Yeah, I have a girlfriend. Margot—she’s cool about these trips and shit. She knows the deal.”
The deal. I wonder what he means by that but do not pry. “How long have you two been together?”
“Since December,” he replies with a lazy smile. “She’s basically a saint for putting up with me.”
Miles laughs. “That’s putting it lightly. Margot should get a trophy.”
“Ha ha, very funny, dickhead.” Dex throws his towel at him and scrambles to stand. “Shit, that reminds me—we have a date to FaceTime this morning, so I have to hustle.”
The remaining guys begin standing, too, brushing nature off their legs and limbs and collecting their things.
“What about you, Lucy?” Elijah wants to know. “You married or somethin’?”
I shake my head the same way I always do when someone asks this question—it’s a question I get a lot, actually. “Nope. No boyfriend. No husband—just me.” I shrug. “Hey. You don’t have to look shocked. People survive without being in a relationship with someone.”
Elijah grins. “Yeah, but it’s surprising someone hasn’t snatched you up.”
I roll my eyes. “Or maybe I’m too busy being awesome.”
Miles has the nerve to snicker, twirling his black water bottle. “That, or you’re dodging idiots like us.”
Idiots like them? Hardly. A girl would consider herself lucky to be involved with any one of these guys—I mean, granted, they’re a tad pervy but not terrible. Stable jobs, up at dawn? Most of them seem like a good catch.
A soft breeze rustles through my hair, and I close my eyes, letting it cool my flushed cheeks. I open them to the sound of laughter carrying over the boats gently bumping against a nearby pier, and the sound of water lapping against the rocks.
The morning sun glints off the hood of the guys’ truck, and the scent of pine and earth lingers in the air, fresh and clean.
Miles slings a towel over his shoulder, no doubt making a wisecrack that has them all doubling over as he tosses their gear into the bed of the truck.
Elijah loudly calls shotgun, leaping onto the step with the kind of energy that only comes from a post-yoga high.
I stretch my arms overhead, the warm ache in my muscles a reminder of how long we stayed on the beach, breathing in the fresh air.
In.
Out.
In.
Out . . .
The rhythm of it calms me, but my mind refuses to stay still. I tilt my head back, letting the sun kiss my skin, and flirt with the idea of dating someone who lives in another state entirely—not that anyone is asking me to.
Not yet, anyway.
But that’s how it always starts, isn’t it?
Someone you can’t stop thinking about, conversations that last long past midnight, and suddenly you’re trying to convince yourself that distance is just a number.
Harris lives so far away. Arizona. Seriously? It’s such a far cry from where I am now, and it’s not the physical miles that weigh me down—it’s everything those miles represent. Time zones. Missed calls. Moments I’ll never be a part of.
Could I do it?
Could I be the girl who spends her Friday nights curled up with her phone instead of with him? Could I handle waking up to texts instead of lazy morning kisses? And what if those texts start feeling like a substitute for something I really want but can’t have?
I sigh, rolling my shoulders as seagulls call overhead.
It’s not like Harris has promised me anything, but the way he looks at me . . . it’s enough to make me wonder if he’s thinking about it too.
“We’ve had orgasms but haven’t had sex sex. Yet. Relax,” I mutter under my breath, half laughing at myself.
We’ve only just met.
But meeting him doesn’t feel new. It feels familiar in a way that shouldn’t be possible. Like he skipped the awkward introductions and walked straight into the places that make me vulnerable.
Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him.
“Girl, get out of your head. The first step would be inviting him over.”
Inviting him over.
To your parents’ house.
Above their garage.
I groan, lifting a hand above my head and tilting to one side, fingers pointed to the sky.
The stretch loosens the tension in my back, but it doesn’t do much for the knot twisting inside me.
Inviting Harris into that space—into my life as it is now—feels like asking him to see everything I usually try to gloss over.
The hand-me-down furniture, the patchy Wi-Fi, the constant sound of my dad hammering away in the workshop below.
I mean, can you imagine?
The horror.
I tilt my head back, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky. There’s a simplicity to their movement that makes me wish I could think less and feel more. Let the uncertainty sit where it is without constantly trying to solve it.
But that’s not how I’m wired.
Instead, I picture Harris standing in my tiny studio space, ducking slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. I laugh, imagining it. Exhale slowly and drop my arm, the breeze catching strands of my hair and brushing them across my face.
Maybe the question isn’t whether or not I could make long distance work, but whether or not I’m ready to let him see every messy, imperfect piece of me—and stay for the night.
Just do it . . .
“Do it.”
Don’t be scared.
Before I can continue overthinking it, I grab my phone out of my belt bag and stare at his number, tapping on it.