Cera
TWENTY-ONE
Setting the Mask Down: By tradition the disguise comes off at the end of the night, set aside among the people you trust to see you plainly. She lets him stay, and for once does not reach for a costume.
The kids at the rec center ran me through three sun salutations, a partner pose that nearly landed me on my back when one of them overbalanced, and ten minutes of savasana where I got to lie on the mat and stare at the water-stained ceiling tiles and breathe like a normal person.
I always leave there lighter than my own practice ever leaves me. I wish I could bring every one of those children home with me and hold them and tell them they are loved, make sure they have enough food, clothes, a warm bath.
But forty-five minutes of yoga will have to suffice. They break my heart and fill my heart at the same time.
My thighs burn a little. My hips ache in that good, stretched-out way that reminds me my body can do more than sit at a desk and stress-eat string cheese.
The faint smell of disinfectant and rubber mats clings to my hoodie. I crack the window and let the humid evening air push through the car.
The phone sits in the cup holder where I left it before I went in. I don't need to pick it up to know Cas's text is still sitting there unanswered, glowing like a problem I already solved once and have no intention of solving twice.
A red light stops me two blocks from my apartment. I glance at the screen out of habit.
I can't, for the life of me, figure out why he didn't pick up on the signals the other morning. Sure, I agreed to coffee with him, and we did a surface-level catch-up, but I never gave any indication we could pick up where we left off.
Maybe he just wants to check whether I'm still mad so he can sleep more easily about how he left. I don't care which one it is. I don't have the energy to decode a man who has already spent two years of my life.
The light turns green. I press the gas and leave the phone where it is.
I think about typing something short and final, something like I'm good, thanks, but even that gives him more than he's earned. Silence is cleaner. It doesn't open a door or invite the follow-up questions and explanations and circular back-and-forth that come with one.
I'd rather put my energy into seeing what comes of Wells and me, and I don't owe him an accounting of this.
We haven't put a name on what we are yet.
Volunteering a text from an ex I bumped into would be making something out of nothing.
I refuse to drag old weight into new territory before I even know what the territory is.
Luckily, my phone rings, pulling me out of that cesspool. Locke's name fills the screen.
I tap the steering wheel to answer through the car speakers.
"Did you leave whatever happened last week in Vegas?"
"Let's hope the blood test comes back negative."
"You're a pig."
"Do you know what a 'Disruptor Lounge' is? Because I do now, and it's not disruptive. It's the saddest two-for-one happy hour in a windowless ballroom with a DJ who only knows three songs."
I snort. The light turns green.
"Did you learn anything?"
"I learned that the Venetian has incredible lighting in the bathrooms and absolutely no follow-through in the men who compliment you under it. Tragic waste of infrastructure."
"You didn't go to a single session, did you?"
"I went to two. One was about blockchain for day traders, which is a scam wrapped in a PowerPoint. The other was about macroeconomic sentiment, which is just vibes with a lanyard. I left both early. But at least I got a week in Vegas to write off."
I shake my head, turning onto my street.
"So basically you prowled for four days and called it professional development."
"Exactly. And I'm better for it. What happened while I was gone?"
I pull into my parking spot and kill the engine. The sudden quiet makes a chill run through me.
"Well, in the span of a week, Wells and I ran the gamut from ice-cold shoulder to 'let's see where this goes.'"
"Shut the front door. Are you two dating?"
"That's a loaded label. We're talking. And it's super new."
I press my forehead to the steering wheel and close my eyes.
Locke makes a sound I can only describe as smug satisfaction filtered through delight.
"I knew it. What does 'talking' mean? Are we talking dinner? Are we talking multiple dinners? Are we talking you finally stopped pretending you don't like him?"
"All of the above."
"Oh my God. Cera."
I lift my head and stare at my building. The porch light flickers. Someone left a bike chained to the railing.
"It's good. I think. I mean, it's probably wildly inconvenient and destined to cause professional digestive distress, but once we stopped pushing against whatever it was pulling us together, and we talked about it like adults, he's been more consistently nice."
"I swear I knew it would become something the minute you said you were working there. I've seen the pictures of those Stone men, and they have good genes."
"He is nice on the eyes, but there's more to a relationship than that."
"See what happens when you take what you want instead of sitting back and trying to follow all the rules?"
I laugh, but I don't respond.
"Okay, that advice turned out to be solid."
My stomach flips.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat and push the door open. The humid early spring air wraps around me.
"I just got home after a long day that ended at the rec. Can we catch up tomorrow after food, a shower, and sleep?"
"Give me five more minutes. I need to know what's going on with Midnight, you little vixen, with your two men."
"Midnight's done. The whole thing is over."
Locke's voice shifts.
"What do you mean over?"
"I mean he didn't show up for Thursday's call, and when I checked Sunday, the whole account was gone. He deleted it. No message, no goodbye, nothing."
My pace increases as I reach my building and count four breaths before Locke speaks again.
"I knew it. Wife. She probably caught him."
"I guess. Who knows?"
I sound calm, like I mean it. I press the button for the elevator.
"That's probably the best-case scenario if you're trying to build something with Wells. Clean break and no overlap. Now there's no weird guilt about double-dipping on emotional real estate."
"Yeah, you're right."
I swallow before I say it. My throat is dry, and the elevator is going up especially slowly tonight.
I miss the version of me who showed up on those calls safe enough to let pieces of the real story slip through. I'm supposed to be relieved. What sits under it is a small sting, like one more person walked off without a backward glance.
"I know you want to go, but I have to know. How's it playing at the office? Is Wells acting normal or is he giving you longing looks across the conference table?"
"We decided to keep it professional at work. For now. We're not hiding it. We're just not naming it yet."
"That's smart. Less pressure."
"He's bringing takeout tonight."
"Ohh. A man who brings takeout after work. Dreamy. Very boyfriend-coded behavior, Cera."
"I've got to go, Locke. I'm at my door."
"Text me tomorrow and tell me how it goes."
"I will."
"And Cera?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad the side hustle is over. You deserve to stop performing for rent money. Even though it was a fabulous run while it lasted."
I fumble with the key in my door. "Thanks, Lockey-Boo."
"Love you. Go eat your definitely-not-a-boyfriend's takeout."
The knock comes right on time.
I push off the couch and cross the room barefoot, pulling the door open.
Wells stands in the hallway holding two paper bags and a drink carrier with three cups balanced inside.
His tie is gone, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows.
He looks less like my boss and more like some takeout I could enjoy.
"Did you order for an army?"
He steps inside without answering and sets the bags on the counter.
"I didn't know what you wanted."
"So you bought everything."
"Half of everything."
I pull one of the bags toward me and open the top. The smell of garlic and ginger hits first, then sesame oil and something sweet underneath. My stomach wakes up and reminds me I had exactly one protein bar after yoga and nothing since.
"What's in the cups?"
"Thai iced tea, water, and matcha."
I look at the carrier and then at him.
"You brought me matcha at seven at night?"
"Are you not supposed to drink matcha after dark?"
I lean in and kiss him on the cheek. "It's perfect. Thank you."
Wells starts unpacking the bags while I grab plates and utensils. He lines up the cartons on the counter with the same precision he brings to everything else. Pad Thai, green curry, spring rolls, rice, something with shrimp I can't identify but want immediately.
"Plates or straight from the carton?"
He glances at me.
"Straight from the carton."
"I agree." I turn back to the cabinets and put the plates back.
I grab two forks from the drawer and hand him one. We stand at the counter and open lids and dig in without ceremony. The pad Thai is sweet and tangy and exactly what I needed. The curry burns just enough to make me reach for the water.
"Let's sit on the sofa," I suggest. He grabs three cartons, I get the other two, and he follows me over.
"How was the rec center?"
I swallow and wipe my mouth.
"Good. Exhausting. One of the kids tried to do crow pose and face-planted into his mat. He laughed so hard he couldn't breathe. I was just glad he didn't knock out a tooth."
Wells almost smiles.
"Did you laugh?"
"Not at first. But once I knew he was okay, I couldn't hold it in."
He picks up a spring roll and bites into it. I watch him chew and realize he's actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk, or checking his phone, or doing the thing people do where they ask a question and then glaze over during the answer.
I take another bite of curry and let the silence sit.
"It's always a good, if not exhausting, day after I go there."
Wells looks at me. "What is it you love about it?"