Chapter 2
two
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Never let them see you sweat.
The motto I adopted six years ago in college is still easier said than done.
Especially when I’m in my hot yoga class where tiny rivers of sweat drip into my spandex shorts.
I release my scorpion pose and massage my trembling forearms. The class begins to settle, some lying, some sitting, to spend our last few minutes of the session in shavasana.
Today, I choose to practice my meditation in a sitting position.
I cross my ankles and wiggle a yoga block underneath my backside.
As soon as I still, the new instructor dims the lights.
Not so dim that I can’t see his impressive calves as he walks past my mat or the way his eyes lock with mine as he settles onto his own.
The calming music swells, and I can’t help but mirror the small grin he gives me.
His dark skin is slicked with sweat, torso glistening like a glazed doughnut, but he’s the one looking at me like I’m the tasty snack.
Unhealthy, unhelpful, but entirely delicious.
I think a tiny part of me will always be the reckless sorority girl I used to be. But using men as distractions isn’t a normal occurrence anymore, thank goodness. All it took was pilfering through a box of my Grandma Chen’s things I inherited after I graduated.
I stumbled upon a picture frame. I must have been about six, holding Grandma Chen’s hand as we gazed up at the cherry blossom trees in Jackson Park.
“See the blossoms, guāiguāi.” She said the same thing every year. “They are fragile, like people. Show them love and respect, and one day, they might bloom for you.”
A sudden sense of shame had clawed its way into my belly. If she had still been alive, if she had seen the way I’d been treating people, she would have been so disappointed.
Since then, I learned much healthier coping mechanisms for my chronically disappointing ways: diagnosing my issues with self-help podcasts, sweating my tears out at the gym, and self-medicating with trashy reality T.V.
A bona-fide, foolproof plan.
However, Mr. Namaste-at-your-place-or-mine is testing said plan. I know I’m still too messed up to maintain any sort of adult-like commitment. You know, the kind that lends way to movie subscription-sharing, his and her towels, etc.
The closest thing I have to that is sharing my WiFi password with my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kovolchuk.
But the instructor’s coal-dark eyes smolder across the room, and I sigh the sigh of a very single girl. I guess some habits die harder than others when you’ve got twenty-seven years of daddy issues under your belt.
He eventually stands and swipes a fuzzy mallet across a set of chimes. We all offer a hushed “namaste” before standing and collecting our things. After rolling my mat and spongeing sweat off my forehead, I look up to find Mr. Namaste-at-your-place-or-mine grinning at me.
“Hey, maybe I could get your number and take you out sometime,” he says.
As a rehabilitated man eater, I’ve decided to only give my real phone number to men with potential—a.k.a. not an obvious psychopath, married man, or serial killer.
I complete a quick scan. Empty ring finger. Eco-friendly water-bottle beside his yoga mat. His duffel bag seems to have a light dusting of some type of pet hair. A dog maybe? If he’s responsible enough for an animal, maybe I can trust him?
“Sure.” I take the phone he offers me, typing my number into it. I tack on my usual caveat. “But I’m not looking for anything serious.” His face falls the tiniest bit.
Crap.
He may as well be holding a neon sign that screams “commitment-minded.” I dunno, maybe most eco-friendly guys are?
My phone rings from the pocket of my spandex shorts. Mr. Namaste-at-your-place-or-mine retrieves his phone as I claw mine out.
Irritation verging on teenage petulance fills me at the sight of Mom’s contact photo. A groan escapes. I would rather wear wet socks for the rest of my life than answer, but I made a promise to Liza that I’d try harder to be amicable.
He nods toward my ringing phone. “You need to take that?”
“I do,” I huff at the innocent, pet-loving stranger, then quickly paste on a sweet smile so I don’t freak him out. “I’ve… gotta go. Talk soon.” I run out of the room.
I’m going to kill Liza.
The memory of last week sends a rock into my stomach. If only I had taken the “L” train instead of a taxi, I would have gotten back to our condo after my mom’s unexpected visit.
After college, I had mistook Mom’s suggestion that I move back into my parent’s investment condo with Liza as a sign Mom was finally accepting my life choices. It didn’t take long to realize she was the same she’d ever been: a wolf in sheep’s Chanel.
During our chance run-in, Mom and I conducted our ninety-millionth argument, yada yada yada. Thinking back, I probably should have eaten a bigger lunch so I wouldn’t have been so volatile.
Being hangry should be a medical condition.
But afterwards, Liza uncharacteristically whirled on me after Mom slammed the door.
“Kate, this is getting ridiculous. It’s been six years! I know you guys have your differences just like I know Mom can be a lot. All I’m asking is for civility. Is that too much to ask?! Mom and Dad aren’t going to be around forever, and I don’t want to keep living like this.”
Liza raked back the bangs that I warned her not to cut. The light brown strands stuck up like a cockatoo. “You know how much I love you. But I also love them. They aren’t all bad, and you are a wonderful person. You all need more time together to see that!”
“I can’t decide if you’re delusional or just plain wrong.”
“Kaaate!” She snapped her fingers and shoved one in my face. “Enough of this! Promise me you’ll try.”
“Who says I won’t lie?”
“Pffft. You never break your promises. Not since Grandma Chen.”
I deflated like a balloon. The last promise I broke was to Grandma Chen. I’d promised to make more time to spend with her, but I was a self-absorbed freshman in high school. She unexpectedly passed three weeks later. Since then, no matter how big or small, I swore to uphold my promises.
Liza folded her arms over her sweatshirt with the words, “Keep calm and stethoscope on.”
I huffed a defeated breath. Liza was right. I was better than this. And even though my parents hadn’t changed, I had. I’d loved and lost too many people to risk losing Liza.
“I promise I’ll try,” I said.
Running past the aerobic classroom, I barely make it to the Pulse Fitness lobby before accepting Mom’s call with a stab.
“Hello?” I pant.
“Katherine! I didn’t expect you to pick up.”
“Then why even call?” My nostrils flare as my chest heaves, but I force the irritation from my voice. “I mean, what’s up?”
My mother’s brisk tone continues like nothing happened.
“Are you coming to our Christmas Eve banquet tomorrow evening?”
Only Vivian Rochester-Chen would call a family dinner a banquet. And hyphenate her name. As if she couldn’t bear to abandon the Kentucky Rochester family legacy in any capacity. Even though the words taste like rotting garbage, I force holiday cheer into my voice.
“Of course I’ll come. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
I must have overdone it, because Mom stretches that inch into a hundred miles.
“That’s lovely to hear, Katherine. I’d also like to touch base about Tanner Evans.”
I hang my head back and silently curse at the bougie ceiling fan. It’s one of those ultra-modern ones that looks like if it fell on you, you’d get sliced and diced like a cheese grater.
Tanner Evans is this ghost of a man—an idea, really—that Mom keeps forcing. Something about an Ivy League graduate, blah, blah, doctor, blah, blah, established family, blah blah. I’d rather go on a blind date with a slice of wonder bread and a glass of milk.
Imagine the sizzling chemistry.
“Nooo thanks,” I say.
“Katherine. Be reasonable. For heaven’s sake, I introduced Elizabeth and Cameron, and look how happy they are! Don’t you want to be happy?”
And there it is. The subtle art of manipulation from the aficionado herself.
Liza and Cameron have been dating for over a year.
While it seems like the real deal, I refuse to give credit to my mom.
As if anyone could meet Liza and not fall head over heels for her warmth and kindness.
Plus, Cameron is a good guy. A bit boring by my standards, but he treats Liza like a queen.
Good thing, too, or we would have words.
“I’m happy on my own. I don’t need anyone.”
“No one is happy on their own, Katherine.”
I blow out a long breath. “You don’t need to understand my choices to respect them.” Thank you, self-help podcast number two-hundred and four.
“I refuse,” she snaps. “Especially when you’re too stubborn to admit I’m right. Honestly, Katherine. And at your age? It’s disappointing.”
My stomach kicks me in the shins at that word, and all bets are off.
“This conversation is over.” I end the call as rage fills my bones.
In a millisecond, I’ve been turned into a teenager again. A hurt, pissed-off teenager who can’t seem to do anything right. Who pushes herself to her limits for a breadcrumb of affection. The anger feels nostalgic, so I settle deeper into it.
Why? Because it’s much easier to hate your parents than hate yourself, but I’m fairly sure I’m doing a little of both at the moment.
My heart begins to ricochet around my chest. I need a distraction, and fast.
My brain helpfully produces a suggestion in the form of the hot yoga instructor.
But I’m not that person anymore.
So, I inhale deeply through my nose for ten seconds and exhale for another ten. I repeat the advice from podcast number one-hundred seventy-four as I continue toward the Pulse Fitness service desk. Besides, I still need to return my yoga mat before I shower off and head to work.
I curse my mother again as I walk just for the fun of it. These glossy halls are sacred. Pulse Fitness is my chapel. My cathedral. And Vivian Rochester-Chen is not allowed here.