Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
RILEY
“You’re leaning forward too much,” Andrew says from behind me. “Your knee should be over your ankle, and your hips should be level, with your torso upright.”
I try turning my head to glare at him, but that makes me even more unsteady in my Warrior II pose, so I resort to grunting in response.
I didn’t ask to come to this yoga class.
Sure, I wanted to hang out with my brother, and when he suggested I join him here because he didn’t want to miss it, I agreed.
But I’m not a big yoga person like him. Yogaphite? Yogi? Whatever.
At home, I work out regularly with my personal trainer, of course, because my job requires me to have some strength and stamina.
But my workouts don’t typically ask me to be this flexible.
My hips have complained and now my quads are burning.
I guess it doesn’t help that I haven’t exercised at all since I’ve been here.
I should probably find a local gym to start visiting—if I survive this class.
Studying Andrew’s friend Toby, who’s on the mat on my other side in a lime green crop top and tight spandex shorts, I try to mimic the position he’s holding effortlessly.
I see what Andrew means about me leaning forward, and I adjust myself.
But there’s no way I can get quite as low as Toby. His thigh is parallel to the ground.
“That’s better,” I hear Andrew say, and I hope that our next position is one that gives me the opportunity to kick him.
Or, even better, I hope our next position is the final one where you get to lie on the ground and play dead. I’m over yoga.
It probably isn’t helping that I can’t concentrate today.
Truthfully, I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything since Addison dropped me off at the inn yesterday.
My mind keeps drifting back to that evening spent listening to music with her.
To playing for her and feeling a high that I’m not sure I’ve gotten from performing in a while.
I was upset about all the negative press that sent me into exile—I still am—but maybe I needed to step back from my career in order to realize that it hasn’t been as fulfilling in the last year or so as it used to be.
My creativity was starting to feel a bit stifled, and I think that’s because everything had become such a routine. Write new songs, work with the same producers, put out an album that sounds pretty much the same as all my previous albums, then go on tour in the same major cities as before.
I felt so lucky getting to live my dream that I never stopped to question if I might want to do anything differently. Until I came here, and now I’ve had nothing but time to question things.
The way Addison looked at me when I sang “Silver Springs,” it was like I can’t even describe.
It was different than when I sing my own songs to crowds of people who are shouting all the words with me.
I’m proud of my music, of how much fun people have singing along.
But having someone sitting only a few feet away paying such close attention, like every word out of my mouth was important, was worth really hearing. .. that felt incredible.
I almost miss the instructor cueing us to come out of the warrior position, and then I have to scramble to catch up when I see Toby transitioning his body smoothly into a new pose. The low lunge isn’t much relief for my thigh, but we go from there into pigeon pose.
Now my hip is mad at me again, but as soon as I settle into the pose, my mind drifts some more.
This time, to waking up yesterday morning in Addison’s house.
To coming downstairs and finding her already cooking breakfast for us.
To the way she let me fit myself into her space like I belong there and wasn’t just an interloper.
I smile, remembering the domesticity of it.
It’s not like I’d rather be a housewife than a musician.
But it felt nice having someone to do simple tasks with while we make sleepy morning conversation.
All of the small, casual ways Addison touched me as we passed by each other also felt nice.
More than nice. But I did my best to ignore the more than part.
Somehow, I manage to survive the class, and Andrew, Toby, and I leave together—the two of them with significantly more pep in their step, while I’m dragging my tired muscles along.
When Andrew suggests we all grab lunch at Reed’s, I happily agree, because the idea of sitting down sounds wonderful.
And thankfully, the diner is right across the street, so I only need to make it a few more feet before I can do that.
It’s fairly busy when we walk in, but we’re able to snag the last open table.
Travis Reed gives us a nod of acknowledgement as he passes by, his arms loaded up with plates. He graduated high school the year before I started, so we weren’t ever friends, but I still know him in the way that everyone knows everyone in Mayweather.
A couple minutes later, he comes over to take our orders, leaving no room for small talk, which tracks with how I remember him. He’s a good guy, but he’s not particularly friendly.
Our food comes out quickly, considering the full diner.
As we eat, I ask Toby about his job with the local newspaper, The Mayweather Gazette.
He mentions the last few pieces he’s written, though he doesn’t talk about them with much enthusiasm.
It’s understandable, I suppose, since being a reporter in Mayweather isn’t exactly high-stakes journalism.
Then Andrew nudges his elbow against Toby’s arm and says, “Tell her about the other stuff you’re writing.”
Toby nearly chokes on his food, his face immediately turning red. “Oh, no, uh, that’s okay,” he stammers once he’s managed to swallow without dying.
Andrew laughs at him, and I’m not sure what that’s about.
Before I can ask anything, we all get distracted by Mitch Alderson marching into the diner and yelling out to Travis as he approaches the counter. “Hey, man, how fast can you make me a tuna melt? I left Delilah outside.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever timed it,” Travis says dryly, punching the order into the computer.
Turning my head to peek out the window, I’m hoping not to find a small child standing alone outside. Instead, I see something far more alarming. There’s a chicken on the sidewalk, with a harness around its feathery orange body and a leash tied to a lamppost.
“Um, what the heck is that?” I whisper to Andrew.
Toby laughs. “You’ve never met Delilah?”
“You moved away before Mitch got her,” Andrew explains. Not that I’d really call that an appropriate explanation for a chicken on a leash, but okay.
As I watch, a woman walking by outside pauses and bends down to pat Delilah on the head before continuing past the diner.
Just another day in Mayweather, I suppose.
“So neighbor, how’s it going?” Mitch asks Travis after paying for his food.
Rolling his eyes, Travis tells him, “We’re not neighbors.”
Mitch chortles. “You really gonna pretend like you ain’t moved into Brenden’s house? I can’t remember the last night I didn’t see your truck there.”
Wait a minute. The boyfriend I’ve heard Brenden talking about is Travis? That’s a bigger surprise than seeing the chicken. I had no idea Travis was anything other than straight.
“Seeing him every night is not the same thing as living with him.” Travis’s jaw looks tight, and it’s clear he doesn’t want to be engaging in the conversation.
Everyone in the diner is listening. No one’s even trying to pretend they’re not. But to be fair, it’s kind of hard not to listen when Mitch talks so loudly.
“If you sleep in a place every night and wake up there in the morning,”—Mitch waves his arms around like he’s trying to demonstrate something—“I’m pretty sure that means you live there.” Turning to address everyone else, he asks, “Am I right?”
And people don’t hesitate to chime in with their agreements.
Travis stands there, his hands gripping the edge of the counter and his lips pressed together, now looking like he could commit mass murder.
Luckily for Mitch—and possibly the rest of us—a cook pops his head in the passthrough window and sets down a plastic bag. “To-go tuna melt!”
Travis grabs the bag and thrusts it over the counter at Mitch. “Your chicken’s waiting for you. Better get going.”
Mitch walks to the door with his food, but before he leaves, he turns back, pointing a finger at Travis. “You know, if you didn’t want people to talk about your relationship, maybe next time don’t ask the whole town to do a crazy dance on the green so you can tell the guy you love him.”
When Travis moves threateningly around the counter, Mitch rushes out the door.
Clearing our plates a few moments later, Travis grumbles to no one in particular, “Wonder if I could buy Brenden a new inn in a normal town.” But despite his words, I catch the hint of a smile on his face.
After Travis disappears into the back area of the diner, I tell Andrew and Toby, “I feel like I missed so much. There was a town dance?”
“Flash mob,” Andrew says.
Toby nods. “It was so much fun. You can read the article I wrote about it.”
We finish our lunch, then head back to Andrew and Toby’s apartments. Andrew lives right above the yoga studio, and Toby is above the empty space next door. There was a candy shop there for as long as I can remember, but Andrew told me the couple that owned it recently retired and moved to Florida.
Andrew unlocks the red door that’s nestled between the two store fronts, and the three of us walk up the narrow staircase together. Then Toby goes into his own apartment on the right, giving me and my brother the chance to hang out alone.
I follow Andrew into his tiny studio apartment and immediately throw myself onto the couch, kicking off my flip-flops and stretching my legs across the cushions.