Chapter 56
The lights of Brookside College Sports Centre flicker overhead as I dig my phone out of my bag for the hundredth time today.
Caleb: What about after?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, but my brain's got nothing. Just like the last six times I've opened this message.
"If you check that phone one more time, I'm going to throw it in the nearest toilet," Amelia announces, adjusting her gym bag on her shoulder. "Either text him back, or stop acting like your phone's a Ouija board trying to channel his spirit."
I lock the screen, then immediately unlock it again. "I don't know what to say."
"How about 'stop stalking me at the grocery store'?" She smirks, holding the door open as we enter the locker room. "I've got to hand it to you, dropping your basket and bolting was pretty entertaining."
"I did not bolt." My phone hits the locker with a little more force than necessary, the metal door rattling in protest. "I remembered I had something else to do."
"Right." Amelia's voice drips with sarcasm as she changes into her workout set.
"I need time to think."
"Make him sweat," she says, pulling her black hair into a sleek ponytail. "Let him work for it. You're not some consolation prize he gets to claim because he finally got his head out of his ass."
My teeth catch on my lip, the familiar taste of cherry balm mixing with anxiety.
"I know, but . . . I miss him. And before he came back, I thought one day we could be friends again.
But when he said he wanted to earn my friendship back," My stomach twists.
"It made me realize I don't want that. I don't want maybes anymore. We lived in those for years."
"No shit." Amelia rolls her eyes, but her voice softens. "You two weren't exactly the poster children for healthy friendship boundaries. I mean, who schedules weekly movie nights, complete with cuddling, and still claims they're 'just friends'?"
We push through the frosted glass doors into the yoga studio. The familiar scent of eucalyptus and sandalwood wraps around us, and soft instrumental music drifts from hidden speakers.
"I want him." The words come out barely above a whisper as I unroll my mat. "I want it to work. But only if he's all in. The chemistry's always been there, but that's not enough anymore. I need something real this time."
She snorts, dropping onto her mat beside me. "Didn't you say the sex was shit?"
"Amelia!" I whip my head around, but the early crowd's too busy perfecting their pre-class stretches to notice my mortification.
My voice drops to a desperate whisper. "Yeah, okay, it was .
. . underwhelming. He was there, but not there there, you know?
It started hot and just . . . fizzled. But that's not the point.
I want him to show up for real this time. "
"Hard to show up when you sprint in the opposite direction every time he breathes near you."
"I do not sprint," I protest, crossing my arms.
"Uh-huh." Amelia's perfectly shaped eyebrow arches with enough skepticism to fuel a conspiracy theory. "You keep living in your little delusion land."
Before I can defend myself, familiar voices cut through the zen atmosphere.
"I swear to god, if Jacob texts one more sad face emoji because you're at yoga instead of watching him play video games . . ." Katie's laugh echoes through the studio as she and Zara claim the mats behind us.
"He's not that bad," she protests, but her grin gives her away. "I mean, okay, maybe I had to physically pry his hands off my waist to leave, but that's kind of sweet, right?"
"Disgustingly sweet," Katie agrees, pulling her auburn hair into a messy bun. "Like a touch-starved octopus,"
"Leave her alone," I say, unable to hide my smile. "She's in love. It's cute."
"It's your fault," Amelia points at me accusingly. "You had to play matchmaker with those movie tickets. Now we've lost her to the dark side of relationship bliss."
"Next thing you know she'll be posting those 'my person' captions on Instagram," Katie adds with an exaggerated shudder. "With heart emojis. So many heart emojis."
The studio fills gradually, mats unfurling like colorful islands across the bamboo floor. The instructor, Jazmine, glides in with her usual serene presence, all long limbs and perfect posture.
Her voice carries through the room. "Let's settle in, everyone. Find your center, close your eyes."
The lights dim to a soft glow, and the heat kicks up a notch. I try to focus on my breath.
SLAM!
The door crashes open with enough force to rattle the zen right out of the room. My eyes fly open, and for a moment, I'm sure I'm hallucinating.
Because there, standing in the doorway, like some kind of sweaty fever dream, is Caleb.
In basketball shorts, and a T-shirt that's seen better days.
His hair is already damp at the temples like he ran here, and he's wearing the exact expression of someone who's realized they've made a terrible mistake.
Amelia chokes on her water. "No fucking way."
"Uh," Caleb's voice cracks slightly. "Is this the hot yoga class?"
Jazmine doesn't even blink. "You're in the right place. There's a spare mat up front."
Which is directly in front of me.
Lucky me.
Caleb's eyes meet mine as he makes his way forward, and that familiar dimpled grin spreads across his face. He looks ridiculous and adorable and completely out of place.
"What are you doing here?" I hiss.
He glances over his shoulder, all fake innocence. "Just craving a good stretch. Very into the mind-body connection lately."
"So you're saying this isn't about me leaving you on read?"
"Nope." His grin widens. "Here for the endorphins and sweat."
Someone behind us shushes loudly. I catch Katie and Zara exchanging looks that are going to turn into gossip later.
"Eyes forward, please," Jazmine calls out. "Let's begin with some gentle neck rolls."
What follows is an exercise in secondhand embarrassment. Caleb's Warrior II looks like he's trying to hail a taxi while having a leg cramp. His broad shoulders are working against him as he tries to twist into positions his body isn't used to.
"Find your center in Tadasana," Jazmine instructs, and I watch Caleb wobble in what should be a simple standing pose. His T-shirt is already soaked through, dark patches spreading across his chest and back.
He keeps sneaking glances at me between poses, and every time Jazmine catches him with her hawk-like vision, she calls out, "Eyes forward, please," with increasing exasperation.
"Does she have eyes in the back of her head?" he mutters, and I bite my lip to hold back a laugh.
By the time we hit our Sun Salutations, his curls are plastered to his forehead. The rest of us flow through our Chaturangas, while he does something that looks more like a full-body spasm.
Then comes Adho Mukha Svanasana—downward dog.
Jazmine moves through the room adjusting alignment. When she reaches Caleb, her hands guide his hips into proper position.
He yelps. "Whoa! Lady, at least buy me dinner first."
A ripple of surprised laughter breaks through the room, and Jazmine's expression doesn't change, but I swear I hear her soul sigh.
"Let's transition into Bakasana," she announces and turns to Caleb, who's still trying to catch his breath. "There's a modified version for beginners—"
"I got this," he interrupts, having no idea what he's about to attempt. "How hard can it be?"
The next thirty seconds unfold like a disaster in slow motion. While the rest of us press into the arm balance, Caleb stares at his hands. His mat's turned into a slip-n-slide of sweat, and his attempt to lift his feet involves more grunting than grace.
"What the actual f—" The word cuts off as his arms give out and he goes down, his right wrist taking the brunt of the fall.
"Are you alright?" Jazmine rushes over.
"I'm fine." Caleb tries to push himself up, but he bites back a grimace when he puts weight on his wrist. "Think I bent it wrong."
I'm off my mat before I even realize I'm moving, crouching beside him. The joint's already starting to swell, angry red marks promising impressive bruising later.
"Perhaps you should ice that," Jazmine suggests, though her tone implies she'd really prefer if he left and never came back.
"You're clearly not fine." I stand up, offering my hand. "Come on."
In the hallway, I march him straight to the reception desk, demanding an ice pack from the startled student worker. Caleb leans against the wall, trying to look casual despite being in pain, and soaked in sweat.
"That was so stupid," I say, pressing the ice pack to his wrist a little harder than necessary. "You could've seriously hurt yourself."
"I didn't do it on purpose." He winces, but doesn't pull away from my touch. "Probably not my smoothest move."
"Why are you here?" I ask, softening my grip on the ice pack.
His eyes meet mine, all traces of humor gone. "Because you've been ignoring me and I wanted to see you. Even if it meant falling on my ass in a room full of strangers." He swallows hard. "I know I'm a fuck-up, but I'm trying. I want a chance to show you I can do better."
"You aren't a fuck-up," I say quietly. "You just need a bit of TLC."
He snorts, but there's no real humor in it. "Yeah, well. That little goes a long way with me."
"How's your wrist?" I ask, gentle now as I lift the ice pack to check the swelling.
"Fine. Kinda." He flexes his fingers and tries not to wince.
I inspect it carefully, my touch clinical despite how my skin tingles where it meets his. "Doesn't seem broken, but it'll bruise like hell." I look up at him. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the ER?"
"I've had worse injuries during high school football," he says, but his voice has gone slightly husky.
"Yeah, when you got steamrolled by that linebacker from Brookside senior year." The memory of the sickening crack of pads colliding, and Caleb crumpled on the field, not moving, hits me. "Broken rib and a concussion. You were out cold for three minutes."
His eyebrows lift. "You remember that?"
"I broke formation and sprinted onto the field with my stupid pom-poms." My cheeks heat at the admission. "Coach Larsson was furious, but I had to make sure you were breathing."
Something shifts in his expression. "I remember waking up to you yelling at the team physician. All wild hair and mascara streaks."
"You scared the hell out of me." The words slip out. "This feels familiar."
"Except this time," his voice drops to that dangerous register that makes my insides twist, "I'm conscious enough to appreciate the view when you fuss over me."
"Alright." Heat creeps up my neck and I step back before I do something stupid. "But I'm still driving you home. Not risking you wrapping the car around a tree with one working hand."
His face lights up with that dangerous grin. "So protective, Shortcake. I'm starting to think you like taking care of me."
"Don't make me take it back."
He mimes zipping his lips. "Silent as a saint."
The studio doors open, releasing a stream of yoga enthusiasts who give Caleb a wide berth as they pass. Amelia saunters over with my bag, her eyes dancing with barely contained laughter.
"Wow," she says, looking Caleb up and down. "That was something. You are truly terrible at yoga."
"Thank you," he says with complete sincerity. "I strive for mediocrity."
"I'm driving him home," I say, taking my bag from her.
"Cool. I'll grab a ride with Daphne. She should be done with her hospital shift soon."
"Are you sure?" I ask, but she's already backing away.
"Absolutely." She winks. "Have fun. Don't murder each other."
We watch her disappear down the hallway, leaving us alone. Caleb shifts beside me, rubbing his wrist again.
"Come on," I say softly. "Let's get you home before you hurt anything else."