Chapter 15 Upside Down
UPSIDE DOWN
BANKS
Bet she thinks I don’t know my utkatasana from my uttanasana.
But when the instructor—a guest teacher from San Francisco—calls out the first instruction I bend my knees, lower my hips, and move into the chair pose easily.
I peer to the right as Ripley stands awkwardly and jerks her gaze to the right too, avoiding me to check out the woman next to her, then does something vaguely resembling a squat.
Since this is a vinyasa flow class, the teacher’s already moving into uttanasana, a forward fold.
She’s using the English words for the poses too, but she calls those out a few seconds after the Sanskrit now, so Ripley’s moving on a five-second delay.
“And now, if you want, take a flow into your chaturanga or go straight into urdhva mukha svanasana.”
Once again Ripley cheats to the right, watching the woman next to her fluidly shift from plank to an upward cobra as the instructor adds, “And we all meet in downward dog.”
But Ripley—oh, sassy Ripley who tried to ditch me with yoga—doesn’t know her cat from her cow, and I am here for it.
I smother a smile as she’s a few steps out of sync, but her jaw is set, her gaze is focused, and her determination is screwed to the sticking post.
As the instructor guides us into a mountain pose, she must see that Ripley’s lagging behind, since she stops at the very obvious newcomer and offers some tips.
My yoga companion breathes a noticeable sigh of relief, then rises into a standing pose with the rest of the class.
Did Ripley even read the schedule online?
If she knew this was an intermediate class, would she still have taken it?
Or did she just want to scare me off that badly?
Well, she’s going to have to work a lot harder to give me the slip, especially given what’s on Page Six today.
A little later, when the instructor guides us through a twisting chair pose, I’m vaguely tempted to tell Ripley she doesn’t need to sit so low. That she might risk overextending something.
But why bother? She’d bite my head off.
And you’d like it.
Yeah, I would.
After forty-five minutes of Miss Stubborn white-knuckling it through the class, the teacher gracefully pads to the front of the studio again.
“And now we’ll start to slow down. It’s easy to focus on strength and balance.
We spend all day going, going, going. We check things off our lists.
We do all day. And so we often are drawn to the strength poses, the balance ones, the ones we feel like we should do, but slowing down is just as important. ”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ripley’s expression soften. It’s like tension melts away as the instructor gives her maybe something she doesn’t often give herself—permission.
“Let’s take a child’s pose now,” the instructor says.
In a heartbeat, Ripley sits on her knees and leans forward with a contented sigh as she rests her forehead against the mat, stretching, easing, then letting out a long breath.
Then another.
Soon, all that tension she holds seems to slough off her shoulders.
When we move into the final resting pose, flat on our backs on our mats, Ripley’s like a happy dog, settling in at night in bed, before she closes her eyes.
I should close my eyes too. Really, I should. Since I’m not technically worried about her safety during a yoga class, it would be no big deal to do it.
But I can’t close my eyes. I just…can’t.
So I lie there as I stare at the ceiling.
Wishing this painful part of the class would go faster.
Willing the second hand to tick by at a higher speed.
C’mon. It’s taking forever. Pretty sure the old dude a few mats away is snoozing.
The young woman on my other side looks so serene.
Ripley’s practically murmuring as she just… lies there.
Me? I’m trying not to bolt up, roll away my mat, get the hell out.
After a few laboriously long moments, the instructor speaks again, leading us out of that pose as she sits cross-legged at the front of the classroom.
“Thank you for coming to this intermediate flow class here at Downward Dog All Day. I’m Briar Delaney.
I live and work in San Francisco, but occasionally get the chance to lead special classes like this.
If you want more yoga classes from me, try my Flow and Flex Fitness app.
And I hope you all have a beautiful day. ”
I really shouldn’t rib Ripley about her lack of research in trying to give me the slip as we clean our mats and return them to their baskets.
Truly, I shouldn’t, as we say goodbye to the instructor, then grab our shoes in the lobby.
I absolutely should refrain from teasing her as I head outside first, scanning the street for photographers or anything out of the norm. The coast is clear, so I hold open the door for her.
Then, fuck it. “So, you were thinking you’d give me the slip, but you wound up in a yoga class a little tougher than you were expecting?”
She digs her heels in. “I knew that was an intermediate class,” she says, lying through her teeth. It’s cute, the way she tries so hard to be so tough.
As we pass a tourist shop peddling sunglasses and beach hats, I check behind us once more, then look at my watch.
It’s eight-fifteen. “What’s next? Are you planning on face masks?
A spa day? Taking me to a salon? Oh, I know!
Should we get a blowout?” I stop to run both hands through my hair, like I’ve got a luxurious mane.
With a confused look, she stops too, asking, “What was that?”
“What was what?”
She twirls a finger around my face. “That thing you just did with your hands in your hair.”
Was it not clear? “Like I’m a shampoo model.”
She gives a long nod. “My bad. I thought you were doing a stripper move.”
I huff. “I was not doing a stripper move.”
“Looked like a stripper move.”
I set my hands on my hips, then punch them forward. Add in a little gyration. “How’s that for a stripper move?”
Her eyes pop, but she holds her own with a comeback. “I didn’t know your bodyguard services included a free show.”
“Who said it was free?” I counter.
“I guess I could go get some dollar bills and make it rain.” She snaps her fingers.
“Better idea. Maybe we should sign up for a pole dancing class!” She bats her lashes.
“Would that work for you? We could learn together.” Then she pauses, tapping her chin.
“But you probably know how to pole dance already. Like you know yoga. And when I’d be up. And that I’d ride my bike.”
“If you can find a place that teaches pole dancing, I’m there.” Just let her try to call my bluff. She has no idea I don’t have a bluff to call.
She lifts her chin. “Bet you think we don’t have dance studios in small towns.”
“Bet you think I wasn’t raised in one.”
She blinks. “Oh.” There’s a furrow in her brow—a momentary truce in our zings as she asks earnestly, “You were? Which town?”
“Lucky Falls,” I say.
At the mention of the little town thirty or so minutes away, a genuine smile tips her lips. “That place is so cute. I love the bookstore there. And there’s a great wine shop.”
“It’s not a bad place.” Too bad we couldn’t stay there after my father’s lies were exposed. After everyone stared at Mom, my sister, and me, whispering about our family.
“There’s not actually a dance studio here though,” she says, flapping a hand toward the street, as if to indicate all of Darling Springs.
“But the community center has been adding some fun new classes. Candle-making and pottery and stuff. Maybe pole dancing will be next. You never know,” she says, then her gaze strays longingly toward the end of the block, landing on the chalkboard sign with the coffee cup on it.
Pick Me Up.
She lifts her nose slightly skyward, like she’s trying to catch the faint scent of freshly brewed beans. I know a caffeine hankering when I see one, especially since I’m feeling it myself.
“Want a coffee? It’s on me,” I add.
Her eyes widen in surprise. Possibly delight. Then, she’s all sarcasm once more as she says, “In that case, I’ll have a dozen coffees.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if that was what you ordered.”
We turn toward Pick Me Up, and as we walk, I set a hand on the small of her back. The second I touch her, a small shudder runs down her body.
Same here.
Same fucking here.
She looks down at my arm. “Is that…to keep me safe?”
She asks only with curiosity. Maybe a hint of hope.
The coffee shop is a few feet away. She’s safe. I don’t want to worry her. But I don’t want to admit the truth either.
I’m touching you because I want to.
“It’s just…a good idea.” That sounds true enough. But really, it’s a bad idea, and I’m doing it anyway.