Chapter 5
Dane
I'm watching them from my usual perch—the window seat in the library, laptop balanced on my lap, supposedly writing but actually cataloging every micro-expression, every loaded glance, every careful way they avoid physical contact.
Stuart and Claire are a masterclass in unresolved sexual tension, and I'm taking notes.
Literal notes.
"You're doing it again," Jonathan says, dropping onto the ottoman across from me. "That creepy writer thing where you watch people like they're lab rats."
"I'm observing human behavior. It's research."
"It's voyeuristic."
"It's inspiration." I gesture toward the kitchen where Claire is explaining anti-inflammatory meals to Stuart, who's pretending to care about the difference between turmeric and curcumin. "They're writing the story themselves. I'm just transcribing."
"And what story is that?"
"Two people desperately attracted to each other, prevented from acting on it by one person's emotional cowardice and the other's justified self-protection."
Jonathan follows my gaze. "You could just call it 'Stuart being Stuart.'"
"Too reductive. There are layers here. Notice how she angles her body toward him even while maintaining distance?
Classic approach-avoidance conflict. And Stuart—he's memorizing every word she says while pretending indifference.
Filed under 'things that might matter later' in that big brain of his. "
"You're really going to put them in your next book, aren't you?"
"Modified, of course. Character names changed, professions altered, maybe set it in London instead of New York and they travel to a different planet.
" I type a quick note about the way Claire tucks her hair behind her ear when she's nervous—third time in the past ten minutes.
"But the emotional dynamics? Pure gold."
"You're so weird."
"I'm an artist. We're supposed to be weird."
Claire emerges from the kitchen, having given up on Stuart's obtuseness about nutrition. She spots us and heads over, that determined walk that suggests she's about to give us something to do whether we want it or not.
"Meditation session in twenty minutes," she announces.
"I don't meditate," I tell her.
"You stare at screens for sixteen hours a day and survive on coffee. You need to meditate more than anyone."
"Coffee makes me productive. It fuels my creativity."
She fixes me with a look that probably works well on professional athletes. "Coffee is giving you tension headaches, insomnia, and that eye twitch you think no one notices."
I don't have an eye twitch. Do I have an eye twitch?
"Twenty minutes," she repeats, then heads out of the room.
"She's bossy," Jonathan observes.
"She's focused. There's a difference." I close my laptop, already mentally writing the scene in which Character B forces Character A into emotional vulnerability through guided meditation. "This should be interesting."
Twenty minutes later, we're assembled in the living room like reluctant students.
Claire has rearranged the furniture, creating an open space with yoga mats she apparently brought from Lottie's.
She's wearing yoga pants and a fitted tank top that's doing things to Stuart's ability to maintain eye contact.
I’m shocked that Stuart is even here. I figured he would’ve claimed he doesn’t have time for this.
"The goal," she explains, "is to reduce stress through mindfulness and body awareness.
Stuart, your blood pressure is probably through the roof.
Jonathan, you're holding trauma in your shoulders—not just the injury, but emotional tension.
And Dane, you live so much in your head that you're disconnected from your body entirely. "
"I like being disconnected from my body," I argue with her. "My body is inconvenient. It requires food and sleep and other biological necessities that interrupt writing."
"Your body is the vehicle for your creativity. Neglect it, and eventually, it stops cooperating." She moves to the center of the space. "We'll start with basic breathing exercises, then move into gentle stretching."
What follows is ten minutes of me trying not to laugh as Stuart attempts to "breathe into his belly" while maintaining his dignity.
Jonathan, naturally, turns it into a performance, adding unnecessary flourishes to every movement.
I'm just trying to remember what normal breathing feels like when you're actually thinking about it.
"Now," Claire says, moving into a forward fold, "this position opens the posterior chain while calming the nervous system."
She demonstrates, folding forward with impressive flexibility, her hands flat on the floor. The position pulls her yoga pants tight across her ass, and I catch both Stuart and Jonathan noticing. Stuart immediately looks away. Jonathan doesn't.
"Your turn," she says, straightening. "Don't force it. Just go as far as you’re comfortable with."
We attempt the fold with varying degrees of success. Jonathan, surprisingly flexible for someone his size, gets his palms to the floor. Stuart manages fingertips. I make it to about mid-shin before my hamstrings scream in protest.
"Dane, you're fighting it," Claire observes, moving behind me. "Let me help."
She places her hands on my lower back, applying gentle pressure. "Breathe into the stretch. Don't think about the endpoint, just the sensation."
Her touch is warm through my t-shirt, professional but gentle. I try to follow her instructions, though breathing becomes complicated when she slides her hands lower, adjusting my hip position.
"Better," she says. "Now we'll move into a twisting position. This is excellent for spinal mobility and stress release."
She demonstrates something that looks like it requires joints I don't possess, twisting and reaching in a way that defies normal human anatomy. As she moves to show us the modification, there's a distinct ripping sound.
Claire freezes. The seam of her yoga pants has split along her inner thigh, revealing a flash of pale skin and pink lace.
"Shit," she breathes, her face flushing crimson.
Stuart reacts instantly, commander mode activated. "Time for a break so you can change."
"I don't have—these were my only—" She's trying to cover the tear with her hand, mortification written across her face.
"Claire, you could start a new trend," Jonathan jokes, trying to ease the tension. "Strategically placed ventilation. Very avant-garde."
But I'm already pulling off my cardigan—a thick wool one that's too warm for indoor wear anyway. I hand it to her without comment, and she takes it gratefully, wrapping it around her waist creating a makeshift skirt.
"Thank you," she says quietly, meeting my eyes. There's something in her expression—surprise maybe, or recognition of something she didn't expect from me.
"No problem. Though this does prove my point about physical bodies being inconvenient."
She laughs, some of the embarrassment fading. "Fair point. Maybe we should just finish with some guided meditation."
"Or," Stuart says, his voice tight, "we could end the session. You're obviously not... equipped for this."
The words come out harsher than he probably intended, and Claire's face shatters.
"Right. Of course." She starts gathering the mats, my cardigan still tied around her waist. "I'll just—"
"Ignore him," I say, shooting Stuart a look. "He gets cranky when forced to experience emotions. Or physical sensations. Or anything that isn't surgery-related."
"I'm not cranky—"
"You're always cranky," Jonathan interrupts. "It's your default setting. Cranky with a side of repressed."
Claire watches our interaction with interest, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Do you three always bicker like this?"
"Only on days ending in 'y,'" I tell her. "We've been friends too long. All pretense of civility disappeared somewhere around year five."
"How long have you been friends?"
"Fifteen years," Jonathan supplies. "Met at a charity thing when we were all young and stupid. Now we're just older and more stupid."
"Speak for yourself," Stuart mutters, but there's affection beneath the gruffness.
Claire finishes collecting the mats. "I should go change. But maybe we can try again tomorrow? With different pants. Multiple pairs of different pants."
"I have some spare track pants that might fit," Jonathan offers. "Drawstring waist, very forgiving."
"That's... really nice of you, Jonathan."
"We have our moments," I say. "Rare, fleeting moments of human decency between the emotional dysfunction and terrible communication skills."
She laughs again, heading toward the door. "I'll see you all tomorrow then. Same time?"
We agree, and she leaves, still wearing my cardigan. Stuart immediately attacks me.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Do what? Act like a decent human being when someone's embarrassed? You should try it sometime."
"I told her to go change—"
"You barked at her like she was a surgical resident who contaminated a sterile field," Jonathan corrects. "There's a difference between helping and commanding."
Stuart storms off to his office, his favorite retreat when called on his bullshit. Jonathan shakes his head.
"He's got it bad."
"Worse than I've ever seen," I agree. "Which is saying something, considering his usual emotional range runs from 'mildly irritated' to 'professionally distant.'"
"You like her too," Jonathan observes.
"She's interesting. Unexpectedly complex." I consider my words. "And she doesn't treat us like we're special just because of our careers or bank accounts."
"That's because she doesn't know about the bank accounts yet."
"True. But even when she finds out, I don't think it'll matter to her. She's not that type."
Jonathan stretches, his shoulder clearly still bothering him despite the treatment. "So what do we do? All pursue her and let her choose? Battle to the death? Draw straws?"
"Or," I say slowly, an idea forming, "we could try something different."
"Different how?"