Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
STAR
I sit cross-legged at the front, a battered singing bowl perched on my thigh, and watch the clock tick closer to eight-fifty-five am.
This is my favorite part of the yoga class.
The quiet after the storm, when everyone’s too blissed out to talk.
Half the class is basically melted onto their mats, eyes closed, faces soft and dreamy.
The smell of sage and lemon balm floats in the air, sunlight streaks through the window and paints the bamboo floor gold, and, for one tiny, perfect moment, the world actually feels peaceful.
I tap the rim of my old singing bowl. The note shivers through the air, sweet and low.
I breathe in, slow and deep, and let my whole body go soft. This is it. This is why I do what I do.
“Bring your awareness back to the room,” I say, and the group slowly rises from the dead. I watch as they reach for their water bottles, blink, and begin the ancient ritual of checking their phones.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Maggie Carrington Sharp and Saoirse Stockton lingering at the back of the studio, trading whispers and side-eye glances like teenage conspirators.
Maggie is wearing tight black yoga pants with a rhinestone logo, a pastel crop top that probably cost more than my first car, and hair in a glossy braid that’s somehow totally effortless and also completely impossible to replicate.
Saoirse is in navy leggings and a loose T-shirt with a faded NASA logo, her red hair up in a pile of pins that look like they’re losing the fight.
Maggie’s the first to approach, walking with the purposeful grace of someone who has never known real failure. She flashes a smile and says, “Star, that was the best class yet. I mean it.”
I’ve heard this before, but I still smile back, because one does not survive in Silver Spoon Falls without learning the difference between genuine and strategic flattery. “Thanks, Maggie. Your reverse triangle is looking strong. Have you been practicing at home?”
She shakes her head, waves a hand. “I wish. My house is a disaster zone. This is the only place I can breathe. Honestly, I’d come every day if I didn’t have three hundred meetings before noon.”
Saoirse bobs her head in agreement. “Same. I nearly told a mother to get over herself this week. This class is the only reason I haven’t been fired.”
“Is that the mother who thinks her kid is bound for greatness?” Maggie laughs. “But he’s actually got future cult leader written all over him.”
“That’s the one,” Saoirse mutters back.
They both laugh, and I get a flicker of real pleasure out of it.
Maggie glances around, then leans in conspiratorially. “Can I buy a visitor pass? For my brother?” She drops her voice a fraction. “He hurt his back moving furniture for me, and his chiropractor says he needs ‘core and flexibility.’ I thought yoga would be perfect for him.”
I turn to the little wooden box at the reception counter, pull out a pack of guest passes, and grab four out. “Are four enough?”
“Perfect,” Maggie says, taking the passes from my hand. “You’re a lifesaver, Star. Seriously.”
They linger a moment longer, chatting about upcoming events and gossiping about the new juice bar right up the road. I mostly listen, nodding at the right moments, trying not to think about how much I rely on people like this to keep my business alive.
Eventually, the girls gather their stuff and make their way to the door, waving goodbye as they go.
“See you Thursday!” Saoirse calls, and Maggie flashes a smile over her shoulder.
The door swings shut, and the studio is abruptly silent except for the distant sound of someone power-washing a sidewalk out on Main.
At the end of a long, busy day, I lock up, scoop my bag off the counter, and hustle out, already mentally running through my to-do list for the evening.
Main Street is blinding in the early evening sun, everything buzzing with that extra dose of Silver Spoon Falls perfection.
I duck into my car, crank on the AC, and head home.
By the time I fumble my way to my front door, there’s a set of furious, high-pitched yips coming from the other side. Bruno, my loyal, totally unhinged, five-pound Chihuahua bodyguard.
I open the door, and he’s right there, ears back, eyes laser-locked on me.
I bend down, give him my best “I’m so sorry, I didn’t abandon you forever” smile. He sniffs, pointedly looks away, and stalks off.
Ruthless little stinker.
I dig a treat out of the canister, and he instantly comes back, prancing circles around my feet like I’m his best friend again.
I give him the treat, and he takes it with such dramatic flair you’d think I just handed him a ribeye. He spins off, tail vibrating like a tuning fork, and launches himself onto the couch to demolish his prize.
I shut the door and lean against it for a second, letting my brain slow down. And that’s when it hits me.
My life is actually working. Like, this moment? My bills are paid, my crazy little dog is vibrating on the couch, and the faint after-buzz of a packed yoga class still hums under my skin. I built this. Me. In a town where starting a business isn’t the easiest thing to do. Life is good.
I grab Bruno’s leash, and the moment it jingles, he loses his damn mind.
Spinning, yipping, little paws tap-dancing on the hardwood like he’s about to headline a Vegas show.
I laugh and scoop him up, pressing a kiss between his satellite ears.
He’s vibrating so hard I think he might actually levitate.
Out the door, sunshine smacks us both in the face.
Bruno hits the grass like a missile, nose down, tail wagging with maniacal energy.
Every single inch of sidewalk must be inspected.
Every. Single. Inch. He sniffs a gum wrapper like it’s got federal secrets.
He growls at a dandelion. He nearly pops a blood vessel when he spots a squirrel three blocks away.
We strut down Main, my dog leading like he owns the street, and yeah, not gonna lie—it feels pretty damn good. It feels fantastic.
We strut past the bakery and the flower shop and the new juice bar that just opened a few weeks ago.
Bruno acts like he’s personally responsible for the safety and security of every inch of sidewalk in Silver Spoon Falls.
He barks at some invisible foe, then spins in a circle and almost trips me.
I snort-laugh and scoop him up before he can start shit with a Doberman behind a fence.
His whole body vibrates, a nuclear reactor of pure Chihuahua insanity. I bury my face in his fluff, breathing in that weirdly comforting, sun-warmed dog smell.
God, I love this little weirdo.
We do the full loop of Main, all the way past the falls overlook, then take the scenic route home.
Bruno makes sure to pee on literally everything that protrudes from the earth, with me trailing behind him like an extremely underpaid bodyguard-slash-personal assistant.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it.
Bruno’s on a mission. All that matters is squirrel patrol and maximum territorial coverage.
We pass the big ranch supply store, and he absolutely loses his mind at the plastic horse statue out front. Like, full-body meltdown. Barks, twirls, does this psycho little hop where all four paws leave the ground at once. I’m honestly impressed he doesn’t, like, spontaneously combust.
I scoop him up before he can embarrass us further, and he immediately calms down, melts against my chest, and turns to give the statue what I can only describe as a “next time, motherfucker” glare.
God, this dog is pure chaos. It’s contagious.
I head home, my feet aching, sweat prickling down my spine, but I’m grinning like an idiot.