17. Jami
Jami
Tension fills Brody’s body the second he turns away from me. It’s not subtle. It rolls through him like a shockwave, snapping his spine rigid, locking his shoulders in place.
I crane my neck, trying to see the woman the voice belongs to—the woman who has him tied in knots—but Brody’s broad frame blocks the doorway, as if his body has decided, all on its own, to stand guard.
“Hi, uh… wow.” He clears his throat and reaches for the doorknob. His grip is too tight, fingers curling like he’s afraid he might fall if he lets go. His knuckles turn white. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
What the heck is going on?
“Home for a visit,” the woman says easily, like this is no big thing. Like she hasn’t just dropped a live wire into the room.
Brody doesn’t move right away. He just stands there, shoulders drawn up around his ears, legs locked, as though his brain is lagging behind the moment. Like if he stays perfectly still, time might rewind itself.
“You were talking to someone?” she asks gently. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
That seems to jolt him back into the present.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He pushes the door open wider and steps aside, movement stiff and mechanical.
And that’s when I see her.
She hovers just outside the doorway of my studio, not quite entering, not quite retreating.
Average height. Dark hair cut to her shoulders.
Blue eyes. She’s wearing sleek, expensive-looking yoga wear—the kind you definitely can’t buy around here—and my stomach knots painfully at the similarities between the two of us.
“Jami…” Brody begins, but his words fall off.
I glance up at him. He’s looking at me, but he’s not really seeing me. His eyes are unfocused, distant, like he’s slipped into another version of himself—one that exists in a different time, a different universe. One where I’m not standing here at all.
I step past him before I can overthink it and hold out my hand.
“Hi, I’m Jami.”
“Elise,” she says, taking it.
His ex.
From the way Brody’s jaw tightened, I should’ve guessed it.
“Nice to meet you, Elise.” I keep my smile polite, steady. “I’m not sure if you know Brody’s partner, Jaxon, but I’m his sister. I’m staying here for a few months.”
Her smile flickers—small, cautious—like she’s trying to read the room and coming up short. Like she knows she’s walked in on something, she’s just not sure what.
So I keep talking.
“I started teaching yoga here.” I tilt my head toward Brody, who’s still lingering in the doorway of my private space, looking like he doesn’t know where to put himself.
“I was showing Brody my secret project, but I guess it’s not so secret anymore.
” I lean in conspiratorially. “I’m designing clothing for the studio. ”
Her eyes widen, genuine interest lighting her face. “That is such a great idea. You’re a designer?”
I nod. “Yoga and athletic wear.”
“I do costumes,” she says. “Mostly for theater. I’m just home visiting from Toronto.” Her gaze drifts around the room, curious now, more comfortable. “I can’t wait to sign up for your classes. You’re not full this week, are you?”
“Nope,” I say easily. “Sign-up’s out front.”
But as I say it, I can feel Brody behind me—silent, wound tight, caught between past and present—and I know this chance encounter isn’t nearly as casual as Elise wants it to be.
Outside my door, voices drift back to me. “I’ve got a class right now,” I hear myself say, bright and professional. “I could squeeze you in.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun, but I…” Elise trails off.
The pause stretches just long enough to register. Long enough to tighten my chest.
Her gaze lifts. I turn in time to see exactly where it lands—locked on Brody.
“I was hoping we could catch up.” Her words are soft. Casual. But they carry an echo of hope, of regret, of unfinished things that never really stayed finished.
“On what?” Brody asks.
Two women step into the studio then, murmuring hellos as they head for their mats, and Brody finally pushes off the wall. He walks over to Elise, and the rest of the conversation disappears down the hall.
I don’t hear her answer. And while I know—logically—that it’s probably for the best, I absolutely hate the look on Brody’s face when she asked to catch up. The way hurt flashed across his expression.
He still loves her.
A fashion designer.
From Toronto.
Who looks an awful lot like me.
I shove the idea away. Nope. Not doing this. What happened between Brody and me was sex. Great sex. Fun sex. Convenient sex. Not love.
Definitely not love.
I plant myself at the door and focus on greeting clients as they arrive, smiling like nothing inside me has just shifted.
“Did you see that?” Jessica—middle-aged, sharp-eyed, and someone I met at the café—whispers to her friend Brittany as they step inside.
They both glance over their shoulders.
“Yeah,” Brittany mutters, disgust thick in her voice. “Who the hell does she think she is? Acting like she didn’t leave town because she thought she was better than us. Now she looks like she’s trying to get Brody back.”
“I hope he’s smarter than that.”
“I know, but…” Brittany winces. “It might not take much. Did you see the way he was looking at her?”
I can’t—won’t—listen to this.
“Hello, ladies,” I cut in, voice bright. They both jump, then smile like nothing happened. “Please get yourselves settled.”
They hurry to their mats and I greet a few more people, then Mr. Cheeseman walks in.
I nearly swallow my tongue.
“Mr. Cheeseman,” I say, genuinely surprised. “So happy you could join us.”
“Just wanted to see what the hype was all about,” he replies, scanning the room like the idea of yoga is new to him.
Since he’s wearing sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, I gesture lightly. “You’re staying for the class?”
He shrugs, noncommittal. “We’ll see how it goes.”
I bite back a grin. Something tells me that as the town mayor, he simply can’t stand not being part of whatever’s happening—even if it means he might end up in traction. Honestly, the man really is adorable.
“Henry, over here!”
I turn to see Sandra Phillips waving him over, already settled on her mat. As the room fills and the chatter softens, I take a breath and square my shoulders. Class is starting. The door is closed. And whatever just walked back into Brody’s life will have to wait—at least for the next hour.
I jack the heat in the room and take my place at the front of the class.
The soft hum of the heater vibrates through the wooden floor, mingling with the faint, calming scent of lavender from the diffuser.
I draw everyone’s focus, and in doing so, work to center my own.
I tap the playlist, letting gentle, airy music fill the space, a soundscape that threads through the rising warmth.
For the next hour, we move together. Limbs stretch, shoulders release, spines lengthen, muscles waking slowly in the rising heat.
I call for drink breaks at intervals, careful to remind everyone that hydration is sacred here.
I don’t want anyone leaving depleted. Between breaths and movements, I watch faces soften, hear exhalations that feel like tension leaving the room.
It’s meditative and chaotic all at once—the kind of energy that leaves the skin tingling and the heart quiet.
When the final pose dissolves into stillness, we sit quietly, mats creaking slightly beneath us.
The air is warm, heavy with effort and calm.
I finally open my eyes and let my gaze drift across the room.
Chatter begins to fill the space, low and easy, people laughing at small, shared moments.
Everyone looks relaxed, happy, their bodies glowing with post-practice satisfaction.
A little bubble of warmth wells up inside me. I feel…happy.
I’m not home in Nova Scotia, but here, in this studio, I’m doing what I love.
And now, thanks to Brody, I’m back to designing athletic wear—beyond just yoga clothes.
The pieces I’m working on feel like they have purpose.
They’re niche, intentional, not just another pair of leggings in a sea of identical designs.
They carry a little more meaning now and honestly I never would have gone down this road back home.
Home.
I don’t even know where that is anymore.
What was that Jaxon said about making a home here? I snort, because that’s ridiculous.
People begin rolling up their mats. Even though I’ll need to wipe them down, I don’t stop them.
Their energy is alive, their muscles sore but invigorated, and I don’t want to interrupt that glow.
I move toward the door to see them out, inhaling that faint scent of sweat and eucalyptus that lingers after a good session, and for a heartbeat, the world feels perfect.
Then I glance out toward the court, and reality bursts the bubble I’ve built around myself over the last hour. Liam is chatting with Elise, the overhead light glinting off his paddle as he laughs. He spots me and raises the paddle in greeting.
“Jami, you ready?” he calls, grinning. He gestures toward Elise. “I found a partner.”
Well, isn’t that swell.
“I need to grab a shower first. Hot yoga.” I could go out there like this—sweaty, warm, flushed—but I’d look disastrous.
Oh, are you cleaning up because it’s Elise—Brody’s ex—and you’ll be playing against her?
Nope. Not at all.
Are you feeling a bit competitive, maybe even jealous?
Not even a little.
Whatever you have to tell yourself to sleep at night, girlfriend.
I retreat to my private space and grab the clean clothes I’ve tucked in my cubby. The fabric smells faintly of Brody’s laundry soap. Back in the hall, clothes tucked under my arm, I pass Brody’s clinic. The door is open. My steps unconsciously slow. He’s hunched over his desk, head down, working.
I’m about to walk past when his head lifts, and his eyes lock on mine.
“Jami,” he says quickly.