Chapter 25 Abbie
ABBIE
The yoga mat is too thin.
That's what I'm thinking as I lower myself into what the instructor calls "supported goddess pose," which is really just lying on my back with my knees flopped open like a frog that's given up on life. The bolster under my spine helps.
"Now, partners, I want you to place your hands on your person's belly. Connect with the energy of new life."
Gray's hands hover uncertainly over my stomach, like he's afraid it might bite him.
"You can actually touch me," I whisper. "I won't break."
He lowers his palms, warm and broad, while I feel a faint flutter beneath them. His eyes go wide, the light blue practically luminous in the studio's soft lighting.
"Did you feel that?"
"Not yet." But he's grinning, almost boyish. The woman on the mat next to us glances over with obvious interest.
"Now, partners, we're going to transition into supported tree pose. Pregnant people, you'll stand. Partners, you're their trunk."
I struggle upright, which at nineteen weeks is starting to become a process. Gray practically levitates to his feet, all six-foot-three of tattooed muscle in the gray athletic shorts and fitted black t-shirt I picked out because his initial suggestion was jeans. Jeans. To prenatal yoga.
"You're going to stand behind her, hands on her hips for stability, while she lifts one foot to rest against her opposite calf or thigh."
Gray positions himself behind me, his hands settling on my hips with careful pressure. I can feel the heat of him through my leggings, smell the familiar woodsmoke and cedar of his cologne.
"Other foot up, pregnant people. Find your balance."
I lift my right foot, pressing it against my left calf. So far so good.
"Now raise your arms overhead, fingers reaching toward the sky—"
I reach up. The baby shifts. My center of gravity does something physics hasn't prepared me for, and I wobble dramatically. Gray's hands tighten on my hips, steadying me.
"I've got you."
"This pose is a hate crime," I mutter.
The woman on my other side, hugely pregnant, maybe thirty-five weeks, snorts with laughter. Her partner, a nervous-looking man with round glasses, shoots her a worried look.
"Partners, now I want you to mirror the arm position while maintaining hip contact. Reach toward the sky."
Gray looks at me in the mirror along the front wall. "She wants me to—"
"Reach toward the sky, Valentine. You heard the woman."
He raises his arms overhead, one hand still steadying my hip while the other reaches upward. He looks absurd. The tattooed billionaire in a room full of pregnant women and their various partners, attempting to be both trunk and branches simultaneously.
"Beautiful," the instructor says, passing by us. She pats Gray's shoulder. "Really beautiful commitment to the pose."
"Thank you," he says solemnly. "I'm very committed."
I catch his eye in the mirror and have to look away before I laugh out loud.
After class, we walk to his car, the Range Rover, not the Porsche, because he's apparently decided the Porsche is insufficiently safe for precious cargo.
I drove myself here, but he has offered to take me to lunch before bringing me back to my car.
I climb into the passenger seat, letting him close the door.
He rounds the hood and slides behind the wheel.
"Well?" he says.
"You're really committing to this, aren't you? You looked ridiculous in there, by the way."
"Did I?"
"You're six foot three, Gray. With tattoos. Doing tree pose between a bunch of pregnant women."
"Tree pose is a legitimate stretch."
"It's a legitimate stretch that you did while taking up approximately four mat spaces."
"I was being thorough."
"You were being enormous."
"I can't help my dimensions."
"You could help your... enthusiasm."
"I was not enthusiastic. I was focused." He adjusts the mirror, which does not need adjusting.
"You were grunting."
"It was effortful breathing."
"It was grunting. The instructor looked concerned."
"She was not concerned. She praised my commitment."
"That was a pity compliment."
"There's no such thing as a pity compliment."
"There absolutely is, and you received one."
"I'll take it. A compliment is a compliment."
"You're impossible."
"I'm committed." He says it to the windshield, but the corner of his mouth gives him away.
For a moment we just sit in the parking lot while the other class members filter out around us.
"Why do you keep coming to these?"
"Because I want to."
"That's not a real answer."
"It's the only answer. I want to be there. I want to do this with you."
"You want to do prenatal yoga with me."
"Yes."
"The thing with the breathing and the poses and the meditation about connecting with the baby."
"Yes."
"You realize you look insane, right?"
"I'm aware of how I look."
"And you don't care?"
"Not particularly."
"Why?"
"Because I'd rather look insane and be there than look cool and miss it."
I turn that over. He waits, hands loose on the wheel.
"Miss what, exactly?"
"All of it. The weird poses. The breathing exercises. The part where everyone lies on their side and you pretend to be comfortable when you're clearly not comfortable."
"I am not comfortable. Nothing is comfortable. My body has been hijacked by a tiny human who hates my bladder."
"I know."
"You don't know. You can't know. You get to have a normal body that does normal body things."
"My body is currently protesting that warrior pose, if it helps."
"It doesn't help. But thank you for trying."
"You're welcome. Do you want lunch?"
"Depends. What kind of lunch?"
"Whatever kind you want. I'll drop you back at your car after."
"So this is a hostage situation."
"It's a lunch invitation. Very different legal implications."
"What if I want something weird?"
"Define weird."
"Pickles and ice cream weird."
"Do you actually want pickles and ice cream?"
"No. I want a burger. With extra cheese. And onion rings."
"Done."
"Fine. Lunch. But I'm picking the place."
"I would expect nothing less."
"And you're not allowed to comment on how much I eat."
"Wasn't planning on it."
"Or how fast I eat."
"Also wasn't planning on it." He finally starts the engine.
"Good. And I'm ordering dessert too."
"Order whatever you want."
"I want pie."
"Then you'll have pie."
"Same class next Thursday?"
"Thursday works."
His smile is quick and pleased, and I pretend not to notice the warmth that spreads through my chest at the sight of it.
* * *
Weekends have become a thing.
Not officially. We haven't discussed it, haven't made any declarations or set any terms. But somehow, over the past several weeks, I have started coming to Gray's house in Topanga on Friday evenings and not leaving until Sunday night.
He sleeps in the guest room. He cooks while I work on client decks, then reads pregnancy books on the couch. When VTG calls, he takes it on the back deck.
It's domestic in a way we never quite managed before. Companionable. Easy. It's also driving me slightly insane.
* * *
Three AM. I stare into the open refrigerator. The floorboard creaks behind me and I spin around, heart hammering, to find Gray standing in the kitchen doorway in sweatpants and nothing else.
"You scared me," I say. "I was busy staring at the refrigerator hoping pickles would materialize through sheer force of will."
"How's that working out?"
"Poorly. We have mustard, questionable yogurt, and something in a container that I think used to be soup."
He moves past me to check the fridge himself, like maybe I missed a secret pickle compartment. "You're right. This is bleak."
"I told you."
"What kind of pickles are we talking about?"
"The garlic dill ones. From the Silver Lake farmers market."
"Those are good pickles."
"They're perfect pickles. Crunchy, not too sour, that little kick of garlic at the end—" I stop, aware that I'm describing pickles like they're a romantic partner. "Pregnancy is humiliating."
"Pregnancy is a biological process that you're handling with remarkable grace."
"I'm standing in your kitchen at three in the morning monologuing about pickles. That's not grace. That's insanity."
"Our kitchen," he corrects gently. "And it's not insanity. It's a craving. What else?"
"What do you mean, what else?"
"Singular craving or plural cravings?"
I hesitate. "The lavender shortbread. From Ojai."
We went there for our second anniversary.
"That's a longer drive," he says carefully.
"I know. It's fine. I can survive without lavender shortbread. I'm not going to perish."
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, and I try not to notice the way the kitchen light catches the lines of his tattoos.
"Here's what I'm thinking," he says. "The bakery opens at six. Ojai's about an hour and a half from here, maybe two with traffic. I could leave around four, be there when they open, grab the shortbread, and swing by Silver Lake on the way back for the pickles."
"That's insane."
"That's logistics."
"It's a four-hour round trip for baked goods and pickles."
"It's a four-hour round trip for your baked goods and pickles. Different category entirely."
"Okay. Fine. Go to Ojai," I say.
"Don't crash your truck."
"I'll do my best."
He grabs his keys from the counter and I watch him go. I go back to bed. I don't expect to sleep, but I'm out within minutes, the baby apparently soothed by the promise of incoming pickles.
When I wake up, the light through the windows is soft and golden. I lie there for a moment, disoriented, and then I remember. Ojai, shortbread, pickles.
I pad toward the kitchen, but a flash of movement on the porch catches my eye. Gray, sitting in the Adirondack chair, feet up on the railing, eating a cookie. A white bakery box sits beside him.
I push open the screen door. "Started without me?"
He turns, and he doesn't startle, just smiles like he was waiting for me. "Quality control. Had to make sure they were up to standard."
"And?"
"Still perfect. Some things don't change."