Check the Halls (The Ottawa Otters #2)

Chapter 1

MADDY

“Clear your mind.”

A laugh rises in my chest, begging to be released, but I clamp my lips shut to stifle it. Clear my mind? My mind is more cramped than an elevator at maximum capacity. It’s stuffed fuller than any turkey’s ever been. Overflowing with more thoughts, ideas, and anxieties than it has space for.

Marie Kondo couldn’t tidy my mind with an entire Netflix special dedicated to it.

Still, I do my best to at least appear to be thoughtless as I lie on my thin, well-worn rubber mat.

Yoga has been my exercise of choice since I discovered it in University.

More than helping to strengthen my body, it helps quiet my mind.

Now, lying in Plow pose, my legs stretched overhead, ass in the air, and toes hovering an inch from the floor above my head, I try to focus on my breathing.

I fail.

The instructor’s soothing voice floats through the studio, her words meant to guide us toward stillness. “Let your thoughts pass like clouds in the sky,” she says.

A sky right before a thunderstorm, maybe. The more I tell myself to stop thinking, the more my brain seems to kick it into overdrive. It’s like telling a child to behave only to have them respond with, “Or what? You’re going to turn the car around? Go ahead.”

I’ve been this way all my life. My mom insists my first word was “why?” Growing up, I had more questions than my teachers had answers, which made me both an excellent student and a pain in their asses.

At thirty years old, I may not have gotten better at questioning everything, but I’ve perfected acting like I don’t. Outwardly, much like in my yoga practice, I go with the flow.

I let out a sharp exhale and recommit myself to this yoga class. I am going to be the calmest, bluest sky imaginable. There won’t be a cloud in sight.

Not ten seconds in, and already my mind threatens rain.

Am I in over my head at my new job? This position carries so much responsibility and I barely have any leadership experience.

I exhale. Let it pass.

Was it really the right decision to move to Ottawa with Derek?

Exhale. Let it pass.

You’ve barely spent time together in the past three weeks. And admit it—you miss home.

Exhale. Let it—

Oh, screw it.

With a sigh, I surrender and let the storm take me.

“Your home is Derek,” his mother had chided me when I confessed to missing Nova Scotia. “As long as you have him, your location is irrelevant.”

Comforting as always, Kathleen.

Yes, I have Derek. I mean, as much as I’ve ever had Derek.

We haven’t seen one another much since I moved in.

But that’s always been our dynamic. We both work long hours and see one another when our schedules allow.

Still, lately, he’s felt more like an out-of-town roommate than my boyfriend whom I live with.

Fiancé, I mentally correct myself. Derek is your fiancé and has been for nearly a year. Why is it so hard to train my brain to call him that?

I drum my fingers on the yoga mat to release some of my frustrated energy, ever-aware of the large diamond weighing down my left hand.

I used to take it off before I went to classes, but once I’d forgotten to put it back on before accompanying Derek to a work event.

When a senior partner at his firm asked to see my ring and I wasn’t wearing it, Derek was embarrassed.

Since then, it’s never left my finger.

At the instructor’s request, the class gently lowers ourselves out of Plow pose.

I exhale, lowering my back and then legs slowly until my heels touch the floor just beyond my mat.

The floor is smooth under my feet. Too smooth, unlike the scuffed wooden boards at Trina’s I always found oddly comforting.

Even the walls here, painted a calming sage green, feel foreign compared to the cheerful sunflower yellow of Trina’s.

I miss the way the late afternoon sun streamed through the windows back home, casting warm stripes across the mismatched yoga mats.

Here, pot lights are spaced evenly across the tall ceiling.

The space is chic and modern, but feels cool and clinical.

I place the soles of my feet shoulder-width apart and lift into bridge pose on my next exhale. Physically, I’m here. Flexing and tightening all the parts I’m supposed to be. Mentally? I’ve left the building.

“Focus on cleansing your mind of thoughts and concerns,” my teacher instructs and even though there are twenty other bodies in the room, I’m certain she’s talking only to me.

That seems a bit counterintuitive, doesn’t it? It’s like she’s telling us to think about not thinking. I try not to think about it.

“Channel your luminous essence within,” she continues as she navigates herself around the room, weaving in between the sea of expensive yoga mats.

“Draw forth its radiant energy from the sanctum of your being. Now envision this divine force transforming into a glowing sphere of pure vitality. Anchor the sphere by engaging the deepest seat of your power—your glutes. Clench them with unwavering resolve so the sphere of light doesn’t fall. ”

An image forms in my mind of everyone in the room with glowing balls hanging from their butts and a small snort escapes me, audible enough that the woman beside me glances over in annoyance.

Her one-piece bodysuit matches her mat and water bottle, all bubble gum pink.

I give her an apologetic smile. I close my eyes again, grounding my feet and shoulders into my mat, but I can’t shake this feeling of homesickness.

If my mom were on the mat next to mine, I’d have someone to snicker with about the ball in butt analogy.

I miss the familiar voices of my old teachers and the easy chatter before and after class.

“Inhale with intention, drawing the breath not just into your lungs, but into your heart. Hold onto the breath like it’s precious, because it is. As you exhale, release what no longer serves you. Again, breathe. Deeper this time. Allow the universe to enter you and absorb it–keep it inside of you.”

After years of practice, keeping things inside of me is something I’m good at. You might even call it a strength.

When the instructor starts talking about clean chakras and blank minds, I officially throw in the metaphorical towel.

If I can’t sink into a meditative state, I may as well try to get ahead of the game.

I start to make a mental to do list. Thanks to my new job, new condo, new everything, the list is longer than my arm.

First on the list: streamline the gala planning process at my new job.

Second on the list: do number one without stepping on anyone’s toes.

Upon starting in my new position, it was made clear the upcoming annual fundraiser was my top priority.

The previous director of operations and events left things…

chaotic. I’ve spent the majority of my time so far searching for missing spreadsheets, trying to decipher conflicting event schedules, and figuring out how the proposed timeline works in our space-time continuum.

If I want to be seen as an asset to the organization I worked so hard to be a part of, the upcoming Star of Christmas Gala needs to be executed flawlessly.

I mean, it’s only their largest fundraiser, aiming to raise over four million dollars by hosting several hundred of Ottawa’s most prominent citizens. No pressure.

As we move into Happy Baby pose, I add “tidy up the condo before Derek’s mother arrives” to the list. I’m mostly unpacked after moving in with Derek, but if Kathleen Boudreau sees one cardboard box, I know she’ll have something to say about it. Likely several things.

Next, I need to find a new vet for Cheshire.

He needs a vet who understands his physique.

At nearly eighteen pounds, he’s not just a tabby—he’s a force of nature.

A previous vet once referred to him as “fat,” but I prefer “solid” or “substantial.” He’s so much more than a number on a scale.

He’s loving, clever, and occasionally mischievous and I have adored that miraculous ball of orange fur since the day I met him ten years ago.

Don’t go there, Maddy. You have enough things on your mind without thinking about the day you got Cheshire, or the person who gave him to you. The last thing you need is your ex-boyfriend taking up valuable mental real estate.

Who am I kidding? Ben Michaels has his own private suite in my temporal lobe. I’ve tried for years to evict him, but to no avail. At this point, I’ve just learned to live with his ghost.

I let out a sigh that borders on a groan as I make my way into Savasana pose and the pink clad woman beside me aggressively turns her head, glaring at me, but I don’t smile this time. Oh well. At least she made eye contact with me. Human connection is human connection, right?

By the time the class ends, I’m somehow more tense than before I started.

I pack up my things and thank the instructor on my way out.

The September midday heat hits me the moment I step outside, a jarring contrast to the perfectly curated atmosphere of the yoga studio.

I walk quickly to where I parked my car, digging through my oversized purse for my keys which are buried somewhere in the array of items. Ben used to tease me that I’d give Mary Poppins a run for her money given how much I carry with me at all times.

“Ben?”

The worried female voice stops me cold.

Did I imagine it? Or did I manifest it?

No. She's real. Warning bells sound in my head as I scan the area.

False alarm. It has to be.

He’s not here. He can’t be here.

Then I see him.

I stare at him and he stares back.

Ben.