Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Oliver
Parking behind the yoga studio, I grab my new mat and water bottle, shut my car door... and freeze. My reflection stares back from the side mirror—five days of stubble, circles under my eyes that no amount of sleep seems to fix.
What am I doing? Yoga? In a class with other people?
My stomach ties itself into a knot tighter than any yoga pose could manage.
Practicing at home with YouTube videos is one thing—no judgment from the laptop screen when I topple over during tree pose.
But being in a group with others, even if they’re all senior citizens taking an arthritis-friendly class, feels like stepping onto ice without skates.
The only reason I’m here is because Sophie wouldn’t let up about this teacher.
“She’s incredible, Oliver. Trust me. One of the best I’ve ever taken classes from.
Your wrist will thank you.” She’d said it with that knowing look, the one that suggested she knew something I didn’t.
I also can’t deny that I need as much help as I can get with my wrist. I’m trying to do as much as I can on my own but clearly it’s not enough.
My wrist throbs, reminding me why I need this.
The morning run hadn’t helped—five miles of pounding pavement in the January cold, each impact jarring up through my arm.
But I’m not about to give up running. It’s the only thing keeping me sane these days, even if it’s destroying what’s left of my wrist.
“Fuck it.” The words fog in the cold air. One foot in front of the other, I stride across the salted parking lot, my shoes crunching on the ice-melt crystals. If the class sucks, I never have to come back. And if it really sucks, I can fake a leg cramp and bow out halfway through.
Even as I tell myself that, though, I know I’m skirting around the real issue.
It’s not fear of downward dog or warrior pose that’s making my pulse race.
It’s fear of being seen, recognized, whispered about.
Three times since arriving on Pine Island—three times in two and a half weeks.
The grocery store clerk who asked for a selfie.
The guy at the gas station who wanted to talk about that playoff game from 2019.
The teenager at the coffee shop who recognized me even with my cap pulled low. So much for my incognito life.
At some point, people will forget about me. I hope. I’ll become old news. A newer scandal will re-direct the frenzy of whispers and pointed stares. That, or I’ll age enough that no one will recognize me. I just have to hold on, figure out how to cope, until then.
I just really hope it’s sooner rather than later, as I don’t want to have to wait years for some peace.
The woman at the front desk points me toward the room on the right with a cheerful “Enjoy your practice!”
The studio surprises me. Instead of the geriatric gathering I’d imagined, there’s a woman in her twenties unrolling a purple mat, a couple in their forties stretching by the mirror, men and women scattered throughout, ranging from college-age to retirement.
The knot in my stomach loosens slightly.
At least I won’t be the only guy crashing what I’d worried would be a ladies-only party.
Finding a spot in the back corner—escape route noted—I unroll my mat.
The rubber smell is overwhelming, that new-mat chemical scent.
Some awkward stretches follow. Bend forward, feel the pull in my hamstrings.
Rotate my wrist—mistake. Pain shoots up my forearm, sharp enough to make me inhale through my teeth. The class hasn’t even started yet.
The door opens again. Soft footsteps pad across the bamboo floor, barely a whisper of sound.
“Hi, everyone. I’m subbing for Amanda today. If you haven’t been in my classes before, I’m Devin.”
Everything stops. My heart, my breath, possibly time itself.
I turn slowly, like moving too fast might shatter this moment, and Devin’s gaze lands on me at the exact same second.
Her eyes—those deep brown eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon—widen.
Pink blooms across her cheeks, traveling down her neck to disappear beneath her fitted tank top.
Then she looks away, deliberately focusing on everyone but me.
“I know this is an arthritis-friendly class.” Her voice wavers for just a second before she finds her teaching rhythm.
“And I want to assure you that I’m familiar with all of the modifications.
I’m a physical therapist by day, so we’ll be going really slow, making sure nothing is too strenuous.
This is about feeling good in your body, not pushing through pain. ”
My heart beats so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it. Should I leave? Roll up this embarrassingly new mat and flee before this gets more awkward? The way she looked away—was it because she doesn’t want me here? Because seeing me brings back memories she’s worked hard to bury?
Or is she just as shocked as I am?
She was friendly enough at the rink, professional and kind when I was hyperventilating like a rookie before his first game. But maybe that was just her being a good therapist, nothing more.
“We’ll start with some gentle warm-ups,” she continues, her voice finding its steady rhythm, that stream-like quality that used to lull me to sleep.
“Then move through a series of poses designed to improve flexibility without stressing your joints. I have cards here—red means no adjustments, green means yes. Place them at the top of your mat so I know your preference.”
She moves through the room with an economy of motion, each step deliberate but graceful.
Five years, and she still moves like a dancer, all controlled strength and fluid lines.
When she reaches my mat, she extends a card.
Our fingers brush as I take it, just the briefest contact, but electricity shoots up my arm more intense than any wrist pain.
“Thank you.” The words come out rougher than intended.
A ghost of something flickers in her eyes before she moves on. I watch her walk to the front of the room, noting the slight favor of her left side—so subtle most wouldn’t notice, but I know her body’s language, even after all this time.
The card sits in my palm. Red for no, green for yes. If I choose green, will she think I’m some creep trying to manipulate her into touching me? But I genuinely need the adjustments. My form is probably terrible. Green side up.
“Let’s begin in child’s pose,” Devin says, demonstrating at the front. “This is always available to you throughout class. If something doesn’t feel right, come back here.”
The first poses are gentle, exactly as promised.
But the best part isn’t the stretch in my spine or the surprising relief in my shoulders.
It’s Devin’s voice, washing over me like warm honey.
That same steady cadence, pitched low and soothing.
“Breathe into the pose. Don’t force anything. Your body knows what it needs.”
If anyone asked, I would say it’s been five years since I heard that voice guiding me through movements.
But that’s not the truth. After we broke up, I found her online yoga videos.
Downloaded every single one like some desperate digital hoarder.
For months, I’d play them on repeat as I fell asleep.
On nights when anxiety clawed at my chest and my mind raced through every mistake I’d ever made on the ice, her voice was the only thing that could reel me back from the edge.
The breakup was my fault. I’d fumbled the most important thing in my life, though it took me years to understand exactly how. The way I’d dismissed her exhaustion as laziness. The way I’d acted like her chronic fatigue was somehow about me, an inconvenience to my life.
“Now, moving into downward dog. Remember, this isn’t about creating a perfect triangle. It’s about finding what feels good for your body today.”
The woman next to me flows into the pose like water. I lumber into position like a bear waking from hibernation.
“Spread your fingers wide,” Devin instructs. “Press through your palms, but if your wrists are sensitive, you can modify by coming down to your forearms.”
She’s not looking at me when she says it, but somehow I know it’s meant for me. I stubbornly stay on my palms, even as my wrist screams in protest.
We move through a series of poses that sound simple but leave my muscles shaking.
Warrior one, warrior two, triangle pose.
My balance wavers during tree pose, my standing leg trembling.
Devin passes by, and I catch her scent—still the same after all these years, something floral mixed with something uniquely her.
“Let me help with your alignment,” she murmurs, professional but gentle.
Her hands settle on my hips, adjusting the angle with light pressure. Her fingers graze the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up, and heat barrels through me. Every nerve ending zeroes in on those points of contact. The room suddenly feels too warm, too small.
She must feel it too because pink creeps up her neck as she steps back, turning away quickly to help another student.
The rest of class blurs together. Poses flow into each other while I try to focus on breathing instead of the way Devin’s voice wraps around me like a familiar blanket.
By the time we reach final relaxation, I’m sweating more than I do after a five-mile run, and my muscles feel like overcooked spaghetti.
“Take your time coming back,” Devin says softly as people begin to stir from savasana. “There’s no rush. When you’re ready, roll to your side and press yourself up to seated.”
People start rolling up their mats, chatting quietly as they filter toward the door. Devin stations herself there, apparently committed to saying goodbye to each person. The couple thanks her for the modifications. The twenty-something tells her she’ll definitely be back.