Chapter 7
LAINE
"Ithink I'm actually dying," I groan, rolling up my yoga mat while sweat drips down my face. "Like, medically speaking, I'm pretty sure my legs have detached from my body."
Jamila, the woman who's been next to me for the past three classes, laughs while toweling off her neck. Her dark skin with gold undertones is gleaming in the sunlight. “Those warrior poses were brutal today. I don't think Jaycee's fully human."
"Right? Normal people don't hold those positions for that long without breaking a sweat." I glance toward the front of the room where our instructor is calmly packing up her things, looking like she just finished a leisurely stroll instead of putting us through an hour of torture.
Even Jamila looks pretty put together. Her dark braids are piled on the top of her head in a way that makes me think they’re about to tumble down any minute. But even in down dog, they didn’t. The woman is magic.
Or she superglued her hair before class.
Meanwhile I look like I fell in a lake. My hair clip gave up twenty minutes ago — just surrendered, popped right off my head like it had somewhere better to be — and my face is a color that exists in some tropical rainforest. "Meanwhile, I look like I've been through a car wash. Without the car."
She laughs. "But you made it through the whole class this time," Jamila points out. "Last week you had to take a break during the flow sequence."
She's right. Three weeks ago when I first started coming to this studio, I could barely make it through the warm-up.
The thing about yoga when you're built like me — curvy, solid, what my mother diplomatically calls "sturdy" — is that every pose has a physics component nobody talks about.
Warrior two is a completely different experience when your center of gravity lives in your hips.
And don't get me started on crow pose. My body heard the instructions and laughed. Audibly.
But I'm keeping up now. Sweating buckets, but keeping up.
"Progress," I say, wiping my face with my towel. "Slow, painful progress."
Jamila's nose wrinkles with her smile. She's got this warm, direct energy — the kind of person who looks you in the eye when she talks and actually listens to the answer. "The best kind. You coming next week?"
"Definitely. I need to figure out how to do that crane pose without falling on my face."
"I finally got it down last month. I'll stick around after class and we can practice together if you want."
I have a crush on her. I think I want to be her best friend. “That would be great, thanks."
Such a small thing. Making plans for next week with someone who isn't leaving town.
Someone who'll actually be here when next week comes.
I spent ten years socializing almost exclusively with other travel nurses, which meant a constant revolving door of people.
You'd get close to someone over three months of shared shifts and bad cafeteria coffee, and then one of you would leave and that was it. Friendship with an expiration date.
I don't know why I didn't try harder to get to know locals wherever I worked. Maybe they could sense the temporary on me. Maybe they didn't want to invest in someone who was already halfway out the door.
Maybe I didn't want them to invest either.
"Hey," Jamila says as we're walking toward the door, "a few of us are grabbing smoothies after class next Saturday. You should come."
This is it. This is the moment I've been waiting for. Play it cool Laine. It's just a possible friend. Don't be desperate. "I work most Saturday nights, but if it's early enough..."
"We usually go around four. That work?"
"Perfect. I'd love to."
"Great. See you next week, Laine."
I wave goodbye and head out to my car, still dripping and probably looking like a disaster.
But I'm smiling. It's not a deep friendship yet — we don't know each other's middle names or childhood fears.
But it's a start. I like her. She's funny and direct and she doesn't make me feel like I have to perform.
Which, honestly, is rarer than it should be.
I sit in my car for a minute, letting the air conditioning cool me down. My phone buzzes and for a split second my heart does this stupid little skip, wondering if it's Reid.
It's not. Because he doesn't have my phone number. Because we are both apparently incapable of exchanging basic contact information like functional adults. I've been low-key annoyed about this for two days. At him, for not asking. At myself, for not offering. At the universe, for not intervening.
You could have written it on a napkin. On his arm. On the table in syrup. You had OPTIONS, Mitchell.
Bethany
Still on for drinks tonight? That new place downtown?
I stare at the message. The past two days feel like they happened in some alternate universe.
Festival night with the tripped-out patients, breakfast with Reid that lasted until almost nine in the morning.
Yesterday I slept until three, went to work, and had that car accident come in.
Seeing Reid again, but not really getting to talk to him. We were flat out almost all night.
So do I want to go out for drinks?
Why the heck not. It's not like I'm going to meet people at home in my pajamas. But god, wouldn't that be amazing if I could? Maybe I should invent some app that would let lonely women connect with other women to get together and read books in silence. In their pajamas.
Yeah. That's a moneymaker idea right there. Too bad I don't know how to build an app. Or run a business.
Sure. What time?
Bethany
Eight? I'll pick you up.
Sounds good.
I put my phone away and head home. It's funny — a month ago, going out with Bethany would have been automatic. Tonight feels more like a choice. A conscious decision to maintain a friendship that I'm not entirely sure is working anymore.
That's not fair. She's your friend. She's been your friend for years. Just because you're changing doesn't mean she's doing something wrong.
But maybe it also doesn't mean I have to pretend I'm not changing. I wonder if she crochets? Would she be into a casual hangout at home?
Somehow, I can't picture it.
My apartment feels cool and quiet when I walk in. I drop my mat by the door, check on the fiddle leaf fig — still alive, still thriving, still my most stable relationship — and head straight for the shower.
The hot water feels amazing on my sore muscles.
I stand there longer than I should, letting the steam clear my head.
When I get out, I catch myself in the bathroom mirror.
Hair damp and messy, cheeks still flushed, and I look.
.. content. Not the restless, always-calculating-the-exit person I used to be.
Just someone who had a good workout and is looking forward to next week's class.
Look at you. Owning furniture. Making plans. Not googling flights to anywhere.
It's scary, how good it feels to stay put.
I'm digging through my closet, trying to decide what to wear, when my phone buzzes again. I'm expecting Bethany with some change of plans or asking what I'm wearing.
It's not Bethany.
Unknown
Hey, it's Reid. When can I see u again?
I sit down on my bed. In my towel. Staring at my phone like it just spoke to me in French.
He got my number. Somehow. Probably from Joyce — I may have casually mentioned to her that if a certain paramedic happened to ask, she should feel free to share my contact information. And by "casually mentioned" I mean I asked her directly. And also wrote her a note. In case she forgot.
Very casual. Very breezy. No desperation whatsoever.
And he actually messaged. Part of me expected him to flake. But seriously, two days? Doesn't the girl handbook say to wait a while before responding?
No. I don't want to do that. I don't want to play games. I like him. He likes me enough to track down my number. Why complicate it?
Soon, I hope. I'm going out with a friend tonight, but I'm free tomorrow.
Send. Before I can second-guess it.
My phone buzzes almost immediately.
Unknown
Perfect. I'll figure something out. Have fun tonight.
Thanks. Sleep well.
And that's it. No analysis. No games. No trying to guess his intentions. Just a normal, adult text conversation.
So what if my palms are a little sweaty.
I get dressed — jeans and a sweater, nothing fancy — and I'm putting on mascara when Bethany texts that she's downstairs.
"You look good," Bethany says when I climb into the ride-share. "Very... wholesome."
She's wearing a dress that probably costs more than my rent and heels that could be classified as weapons. Travel nursing pays well — really well — especially when you don't have rent and insurance and all the things I'm paying for now. Bethany's got the wardrobe to prove it.
"Thanks?" I buckle my seatbelt. "I think?"
"No, it's cute. Very Oregon-y."
And there's the tone. Not mean. Bethany is never mean, not deliberately anyway. She just has this way of describing my choices that makes them sound like a phase I'll grow out of. Like settling down is a rash that clears up with enough nightlife.
She angles toward me. "So, catch me up. What's been happening in the exciting world of permanent employment?"
"Not much. Work, yoga, sleep. The usual."
"God, that sounds boring."
Six months ago, that comment would have stung. Would have made me wonder if she was right. Tonight it just bounces off, because I know something Bethany doesn't — boring is a luxury. Boring means the ground under your feet is solid enough to stand on. I like this version of boring.
"What about you? How's the temporary gig going?" Even though we're at the same hospital, her shifts are all over the place. And usually, not at night. We don't really cross paths much.
"Fine. You know how it is — same old stuff, different country." She glances at me. "Although there was some crazy festival thing the other night. Did you work that?"