Cera
TWENTY-NINE
My breath stops halfway through my greeting. My palms go damp against my thighs. The words in my mouth dissolve, and for one sharp second the room blurs at the edges before it sharpens again.
Wells Stone is sitting ten feet away from me in my yoga class. Yoga and Wells. Surely I'm seeing things.
But I'm not. Sure as shit, Wells is sitting in the second row of the class I'm about to lead.
He doesn't move. His eyes lock on mine, and I watch the shock mirror back at me. He looks different. Broader, maybe, his face sharper. But it's him, the same dark intensity, the same stillness that used to make me want to crack him open just to see what was underneath.
My heart slams against my ribs, and my throat goes dry.
I'm standing at the front of a full class, and twenty people are waiting for me to begin. I pull air into my lungs, force my shoulders down, and drag my gaze away from him, sweeping it across the rest of the room.
"Let's start in child's pose."
My voice comes out steady, calm, like the instructor I've become. Inside, I'm free-falling. I wasn't prepared for this on my first day back.
I kneel at the front of my mat and fold into child's pose with everyone else. My forehead presses into the floor. My breath drags in through my nose and barely makes it past the knot in my chest.
"Draw your awareness to your breath."
I'm saying this to them as much as I am to myself.
"Feel your ribs expand on the inhale. Release on the exhale."
I count four in, six out, the way I taught myself to reset a thousand times in the ashram when the grief swelled bigger than the room.
It doesn't reset me now.
I lift my head and move into tabletop. My hands press into the mat, and I guide the class through cat and cow, the slow ripple of the spine that's supposed to wake the body gently.
"Inhale, arch. Lift your gaze. Exhale, round. Chin to chest."
My gaze lifts, and Wells is still there in the second row, near the window. His spine curves on the exhale, and his shoulders move exactly as I cue them. He's following the class without looking like a deer in headlights. He's comfortable in his own skin, and his body moves fluidly.
"Walk your feet to the top of your mat. Fold over your legs. Let your head hang."
I guide them through sun salutations. The rhythm should soothe me, but it doesn't. Every time I glance up to check alignment, my peripheral vision catches the second row.
I make it through the whole sequence without losing my place, and by the time we near the end, some of the tension in my chest has loosened.
"Lie down on your backs. Savasana."
I hold the room in stillness for a few minutes, then guide them up and sit back slowly, pulling my legs into an easy pose.
"Bring your hands to your heart. Thank yourself for showing up today."
My hands press together. My heart pounds against my palms.
"Namaste."
The class echoes it back, and I bow my head.
Students roll mats behind me and murmur quiet thanks as they move toward the door. I stay at the front of the room and stack blocks on the wooden shelves against the wall. My hands grip each foam cube a little too hard, but the task gives me something to do while the space empties.
Wells doesn't leave.
He rolls his mat and tucks it under his arm, then steps to the side near the window. He waits without approaching, just standing there while the room clears around him.
I coil a purple yoga strap and hang it on its hook.
My heart still hasn't settled. The grief that rose during class still sits in my chest. I figured the chances of running into Wells in New Orleans were slim, but I would have said nil to running into him in my studio.
I never braced for seeing him here, of all places, and now I'm paying for it.
But I've got this.
Two students linger near the door, talking about dinner plans. I adjust the blocks on the shelf one more time, then turn and walk toward the cart of bolsters in the corner.
Wells moves then. He crosses the room in four strides and stops a few feet away.
"Cera."
The sound of my name in his voice hits harder than I want it to. I lift a bolster and set it on the cart without looking at him.
"Wells. I wasn't sure if I was seeing things when I saw you here."
"I didn't know this was your class."
I glance up. His face is the same, the sharp angles, the dark eyes that watch too much, but something in him looks different now, settled, calmer than I remember.
"Well, that makes two of us surprised. I hope you enjoyed it. You've improved since the last time we did yoga."
Summoning that day instantly makes the back of my neck ache.
He nods. His hands stay loose at his sides, and he waits while I finish stacking the bolsters.
The last two students leave. The studio goes quiet except for the soft hum of the diffuser in the corner.
"What are you doing here, Wells?"
"Taking a class."
"You don't do yoga."
"I have been for the last several months."
That stops me. I search his face for the angle, the lie, the thing he's not saying. He looks back at me without flinching.
"That's wonderful, Wells."
The words sound rehearsed. I want to say something else, but I don't know what to say.
"You might find this interesting, but yoga helped me quit smoking."
"Shut the front door. You quit smoking? I thought you said that would never happen."
The air goes out of my lungs. I blink at him, my arms loosening enough that my hands drop to my sides.
"Going on three months."
My face softens before I can stop it. The image of him breathing easier, sleeping deeper, finally letting something go, hits me somewhere I thought I'd sealed off. My chest aches, and I hate that it does.
Then the guard rises, because every soft thing in my life has had lies underneath. Every calm moment turned into something that hurt me later.
I nod and take a step back, putting more space between us.
"That's a big deal, Wells. Congratulations."
Congratulations? Is that what you say to someone who quits smoking? God, I'm such an idiot.
"When did you get back?"
"About a week ago."
He doesn't ask any more, and I don't offer. Students for the next class start filtering through the door. A woman in black leggings waves at me, and I lift my hand in return.
"You look good, Cera."
I meet his eyes, those warm brown eyes that are so serious, so intense.
"Thank you."
He shifts the mat under his arm and steps toward the door.
"I'll let you get back to work."
"It's great seeing you."
He pauses at the threshold and glances back.
"You, too."
I swallow. My throat burns.
He leaves. The door closes behind him, and I watch through the window as he crosses the parking lot and disappears around the corner.
My chest caves. Just a little. Just enough that I have to press my hand against my ribs to hold myself together.
I turn back to the room. The next class is settling onto their mats. I walk to the front and adjust my blocks even though they are already perfectly placed.
I breathe. Four in. Six out.
By the time I reach Tchoupitoulas, my breath has evened out. The wind in my hair is exactly what I needed after teaching four classes, starting with the one with Wells.
The river air drifts in from the right, cooler and slightly metallic, mixing with exhaust from a delivery truck idling at a stoplight.
I slow down as I approach the block I've ridden past a hundred times. The building sits on the corner, set back from the street behind a low iron fence.
Except it doesn't look the way it used to.
I brake hard. My feet hit the pavement, and I stare.
The building is restored. The brick has been cleaned until the red shows through decades of grime.
The windows are new, framed in white trim that catches the light from inside. The front steps have been rebuilt, and planters sit on either side of the entrance, spilling green ferns and bright purple blooms over the edges.
A banner stretches across the front porch.
The Sol House, A Youth Wellness Center. Grand Opening Sunday, Backyard Crawdad Boil
This is the building I used to stop for, the one I imagined transforming into something for kids who needed a place to land. I blink to make sure I'm not dreaming this.
I walk my bike to the fence and lean it against the railing, then climb the steps. The front door is open, light spilling out onto the porch. Music plays somewhere inside, something instrumental and soft.
I knock on the doorframe and call in.
"Hello?"
Footsteps approach, and a man in his forties appears in the hallway. He's dressed in khakis and a polo shirt, and his smile is easy.
"Hi there. Can I help you?"
"I saw the sign. I wanted to see what you've done with the place."
"Come on in."
He steps aside, and I walk into the front room. The floors are refinished hardwood, gleaming under new lighting. The walls are painted a warm cream, and there's a large bulletin board near the door covered in bright flyers.
"I'm Lin Tepple, acting general manager of the Sol House."
I shake his hand.
"Cera Simum."
"Welcome. Have you been watching us transform?"
I look around the room, taking in the clean lines and the careful restoration. It's beautiful.
"Actually, I know the house well. I used to dream of restoring it. But I've been out of the country for the last six months, so needless to say I was surprised to see the transformation. Wow. This is wonderful."
"We're very proud of it. It will be a safe haven for inner-city kids. Free yoga, meditation, crafts, exercise, outdoor play. Mentors who stay."
"Who are we, if you don't mind me asking?”
"The Krewe of Argentum."
I blink.
"Argentum?"
"One of the old New Orleans krewes. They raise serious money for projects across the city. This one is their newest endeavor."
My throat tightens. I press my hands together, unsure where to put them.
Lin gestures toward the hallway. "Let me show you around."
I follow him through the open doorway. The hallway is wide, lined with framed photographs of New Orleans landmarks. Our footsteps echo on the hardwood.
He opens the first door on the right, and I step inside.
The room is enormous. Three walls covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Hardwood floors polished so clean I can see my reflection in them. Natural light pours in from tall windows along the back wall.
"Yoga, barre, and pilates studio."
My hand drifts to the doorframe. I grip the wood and stare at the mirrors. I can see kids in here already. Mats in rows. Small bodies learning to breathe.
"The floor is cork underneath. Better for joints."
I kneel and press my palm flat against the surface. It gives slightly under the pressure. Warm. Solid.
"This is beautiful."
Lin grins.
"Wait till you see the rest."
He leads me out and opens the next door. Inside is a full gym with treadmills, stationary bikes, a rack of dumbbells. Medicine balls are stacked in the corner. Everything is clean and new.
"We'll run fitness classes in here. Cardio, strength training, anything they want."
I nod, in awe of everything they've done here.
We move to the next room. Crafts. Long tables with plastic bins full of supplies. Paint, markers, construction paper, beads. A shelf along the back wall holds books and board games.
"Art therapy and free play. Sometimes kids just need to make something."
I walk to the table and run my fingers over the smooth wood.
"How many kids are you expecting?"
"We're starting with twenty-five. We'll scale up if the demand is there."
"Is the program free?"
"Completely. We're funded through Argentum and a few private donors."
I swallow. This level of restoration, this equipment, the staffing. Someone put serious money behind this.
Lin opens the door to the media room. Couches line the walls. A projector hangs from the ceiling, and a white screen sits rolled up above a flat-screen television.
"Movie nights. Game nights. Sometimes they just want to sit and watch something."
I stand in the doorway and picture it. Kids sprawled on the couches. Laughter and popcorn and safe fun off the streets.
Lin walks me to the back door and pushes it open. The backyard stretches out under string lights hung between the trees. A play structure sits on one side. Swings, a slide, monkey bars. On the other side, an open-air gym. Pull-up bars, kettlebells, and mats spread across the grass.
"We want them outside moving and playing."
I step onto the grass and breathe in the humid air. The ferns rustle near the fence. The streetlights glow orange beyond the property line.
"You won't believe this, but I dreamed of doing something almost exactly like this. With this building."
Lin's eyebrows lift.
"You're kidding."
"I'm not. I mean, this is more extensive than I had envisioned, but I wanted to have a place for kids to come and do yoga, introduce them to something calm and peaceful."
"I love it," he says, clapping.
"I actually teach yoga. I used to ride past here and imagine it. This is just so incredible."
He grins.
"Well, it's real now."
"Do you need volunteers?"
"We have a funded position for a yoga teacher, as it turns out, that we haven't filled yet. Five afternoons a week. Are you interested?"
My heart pounds.
"Are you kidding? Yes, of course."
Lin walks to a table near the door and hands me a printed application.
"Fill this out and bring it back. Come to the party on Sunday and meet the team and some of the kids."
I take the paper, my hands shaking slightly.
"Thank you. I will come on Sunday."
"Thank you for stopping in."
When I step back out the front door, the banner catches the light. The Sol House.
In India, one of my teachers used to say a sankalpa was not a wish.
A wish was soft and hungry and always reaching.
A sankalpa was different.
It was an intention planted so deeply inside you that it began to change what you noticed, what you chose, what you allowed yourself to believe was possible.
This exact building was part of my dream. I pictured mats on the floor, snacks in the kitchen, and a backyard where children could run without anyone yelling. A place quiet enough for a kid to hear their own breath and safe enough for them to exhale.
I thought I had been dreaming. Now I’m standing in front of it.
I don't go looking for who or how. Six months ago I might have, but the ashram unwound that reflex, and standing here I find I don't need to.
I didn't build this, and the dream was never the building anyway.
It was the part of me that wanted to make a safe place for a kid to finally exhale, the part I set down to survive, the part people kept calling small.
It was never small. It stands in the world now, real, even if someone else's hands made it stand.
I climb onto my bike and ride home lighter than I've been in years. The dream was here the whole time, in me, waiting for me to come back whole enough to give it away.