Chapter 4
four
. . .
Stella
I'm balancing on one leg, with the other extended behind me, trying to focus on breathing through my nose while thinking about the off-handed comment Brandon made last night about lessons.
I want them. The idea that he could help me get more comfortable and confident around guys makes my heart rate pick up, which isn't helping my already wobbly balance.
I lower my back leg and step into a deep lunge, feeling the stretch along my hip.
Then I slowly rise, turning my back foot sideways and sinking into a wide stance.
My heel presses down, steady and strong, as I extend my arms out to either side.
I root through my feet and breathe into the stretch, letting my mind float back to the possibility of no longer being the single girl in a sea of couples. My mother would be ecstatic.
Natalie's voice floats through the room. “Ground through your feet. Find where you're holding tension. Let it go.”
I take a deep breath and think about all the tension that would be released if I could actually get a date and some regular sex.
It's not exactly my mom's version of happily ever after, but to be fair, that looks more like me being married by now.
She wants wedding bells and grandchildren.
The fact that I'm twenty-five and single is basically a personal failing on my part—never mind that I have a career I love and a life that's actually pretty great.
It's not that my mother's pushing is mean-spirited—quite the opposite. She genuinely wants me to be happy, settled, and taken care of. The problem is, I'm just not sure that is my idea of happiness.
Class ends with a long savasana, and I let myself melt into the mat. Natalie dims the lights and moves through the room with effortless grace. And even though she’s wearing a lavender crop top and speaks with a soothing, soft voice, she still radiates don't-mess-with-me energy.
When she dismisses us, I roll up my mat and make my way to the front desk to find my bestie.
Natalie Cruz is a fiercely loyal friend who'll hex your ex and then hand you a turmeric latte without breaking a sweat.
Her dark hair is braided down her back, streaked with violet, and there's an intricate constellation map tattooed along her left forearm, delicate lines connecting tiny stars that seem to shimmer when she moves.
She's got that post-class glow and the kind of I-don't-care confidence that's completely earned.
Born and raised in LA, she knows every hidden trail, underground supper club, and parking trick in this city. We became inseparable after I wandered into this very class two years ago.
“Time for breakfast?” I ask her.
“Yes, I'm starving.”
We walk to the café across the street, and Natalie orders a green tea and mango acaí bowl. I go for a breakfast sandwich and an extra-large vanilla latte. We claim a table on the sidewalk patio; the metal chairs are still cool from sitting in the morning's shadows.
Natalie settles into her chair with the fluid grace of someone who's spent years perfecting her posture, crossing one impossibly long leg over the other.
She wraps her hands around her mug and, as steam curls up from it to catch the morning light, fixes me with those sharp green eyes that have a way of seeing straight through whatever mask you're wearing.
“What?”
“You seem stressed,” she says.
I take a sip of my coffee. “I'm not stressed. Just thinking.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I pause, peeling back the wrapper on my sandwich. “Well, first, I found out I get to manage Ava St. James while Blair is out on maternity leave.”
“Holy shit. That's amazing, Stella. Congrats!”
I can't help the smile that creeps across my lips as I take a bite. I'm still so excited about the assignment. “Thanks. If only my mom felt the same.”
“I'm not following.”
“Oh, I'm just bitching. My mom sent me a text this morning trying to set me up with the son of one of her friends who just moved out here. Apparently, he's very polite, very stable, and—her words, not mine—very ready to settle down.”
Natalie raises one perfectly shaped brow. “How romantic.”
“She included a photo. It's giving insurance brochure.”
“Is he holding a Labrador and standing in front of a kayak?”
“Golden retriever. Canoe.”
“Close enough.”
We both laugh, and I already feel the tension melting. Natalie has a way of making me feel better about what's bothering me.
“I know she means well,” I say. “But one minute, I'm on top of the world, feeling successful and proud of myself, and then I get a message from her, and it's hard not to feel like I'm failing some invisible checklist.”
Natalie leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “What do you mean by 'checklist'?”
I take a breath. “It's like I won't be successful in her eyes until I'm all wifed up.”
Natalie almost spits out her tea. “Do you even want to date?”
“I mean, I'm not gonna say no to a date. It wouldn't be the worst to find a hot guy who wants to pamper me, buy me dinner, and give me good sex.”
She snorts out a laugh. “Well, is there anyone you have your eyes on?”
I shrug.
She tilts her head. “What about Brandon?”
The question blindsides me. “What?”
“Brandon. You've said he's hot. And funny. And sweet. And I'm sure he could give you the good sex you're after.”
“He's my friend.”
Natalie raises one shoulder, unbothered. “So?”
“So, he's Brandon. We watch Love Island and eat sushi off paper towels. It's not like that.”
She gives me a look. “I'm just saying, if he looked at me the way he looks at you, I'd have climbed him like a tree ages ago.”
My stomach flips. I brush it off. “It's not Brandon.”
“Then who?”
I hesitate. There's a beat of silence. Then I take a sip of my coffee and say, “His name's Mason. He lives in my building.”
Natalie sits back, her eyes lighting up with interest. “Ohhh. The hallway crush.”
I nod miserably. “I keep running into him, and I keep embarrassing myself. I saw him in the elevator last week, and I couldn't even say hi. Just stood there like a deer in headlights.”
“I'm sure it wasn't that bad.”
“Brandon even asked me what the hell my problem was,” I tell her as my head falls into my hands in dramatic fashion.
She shrugs. “So, ask him out.”
I shake my head. “Natalie, you don't understand. This man is…he's Superman hot—David Corenswet version—and I turn into a mute statue every time I see him.”
“Have you seen you?” she shoots back. “Stella, you're gorgeous, successful, funny when you're not overthinking yourself into paralysis. Any man would be lucky to have your attention.”
“You're biased.”
“Absolutely, I am, but that doesn't make me wrong. Here's a crazy idea—you could just knock on his door and ask if he wants to go grab coffee.”
I nearly choke on my latte. “I couldn't. There's no way I have the nerve for that.”
“Why not? What's the worst that could happen?”
“He could say no, and then I'd have to move out of the building in shame.”
“Or he could say yes, and you could stop torturing yourself with elevator small talk, or in your case, no talk.”
I'm quiet for a minute. “There is one thing I've been thinking about.”
She waits for me to continue, and when I don't, she puts her hand out and motions for me to go on.
“Last night, I made a comment to Brandon that I wish I had his confidence.”
“Yeah, we all do.”
“He said something about giving me lessons.”
She leans forward and rests her chin on her hand. “What kind of lessons?”
I shrug. “How to be confident, I guess?”
Natalie is just staring at me.
“What?”
“It's not the worst idea I've heard.” She checks her phone and sighs. “I have to get back for my next class, but if it's a man you're looking for, then I say go after what you want.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Natalie just smiles. “I'm just saying. You've gotten everything else you've wanted. Why not this?”
It's a good question.
“See you soon?”
“You know it, babe. Love ya!”
After she leaves, I sit there for a moment, turning her words over in my mind. Maybe she's right. Maybe I should stop overthinking and just go after what I want. The question is figuring out exactly what that looks like and working up the nerve to do it.
I check the time on my phone. Brandon's probably finished his Sunday morning family call by now.
I can picture him in his kitchen, still in whatever he slept in, surviving on nothing but coffee because he had good intentions of making breakfast but got distracted by his sisters' latest drama or his mom asking when he's coming home for a visit.
Without really thinking about it, I get up and walk back to the counter, where the barista is cleaning espresso cups.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Could I get an avocado bacon Benedict to go? And maybe throw in one of those almond croissants?”
It's his favorite weekend order. I try to bring him food from here when I take Nat's class. For now, it's Brandon I bring food to. Maybe, if I can figure out how to form actual words around attractive men, Mason could be next.