Breathe In, Cash Out

by Madeleine Henry

  “That would be great,” I say.

  We cross the classroom threshold. There are only a dozen people here in a space for thirty or more. I grab a rental mat from the stack against the wall. Skylar approaches the olive-skinned student and taps her once on the shoulder.

  “Hi!” Skylar whispers.

  The rest of the class is quiet. I wait, hip cocked.

  “Skylar!” the woman whispers.

  They hug.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Skylar whispers.

  “Thank you!” The woman’s green eyes widen.

  “Would you mind moving your mat over just an inch?” Skylar slaps the air to say, This way. “I’m here with a student, and we’d like to flow next to each other.”

  “Of course.” She obliges.

  “Thank you so much,” Skylar says.

  She smiles and gestures for me to come over. I unroll my mat next to hers as she unzips her hoodie to reveal a crocheted bra top I’ve seen in her feed. I actually looked into buying it online before I saw the price tag: two hundred dollars Not to-fucking-day. Skylar sits in lotus, closes her eyes, and engages in three deep breath cycles. I settle in, eager. I haven’t practiced with someone in months, excluding class with Mark—which was more foreplay than yoga.

  “Close your senses,” the instructor says. His hair is long enough that it could be braided into the cursive phrase I smoke a lot of pot. He tucks it behind both ears in preparation. “Now, let us welcome the practice. If you don’t like hands-on adjustments, let me know. Just—do it courteously.”

  This gets a weak laugh.

  “You’d be surprised,” he says. “Let us begin in downward dog.”

  The room falls silent, and my mind is as quiet as the classroom. The peace puts me in touch with how I’m actually feeling. I like just being with Skylar. Her positive energy is empowering. It makes me feel like I’m on a higher vibration already.

  I savor this feeling as I climb onto all fours. My head hangs, and a state of relaxation begins, so decadently deep that I notice my slackened elbows giving way. I lock my arms in time to prevent a belly flop. When the second micro-nap hits me, it takes all of my mortal powers to keep sweet sleep from drowning me. I recover, for now.

  Eventually, I collapse.

  chapter 9

  I wake up on Yoga Mala’s sofa.

  “Let’s go,” I say, sitting up. The phrase is a meaningless by-product of chronic sleep deprivation. Skylar restrains me with a firm palm on my chest. What the fuck just happened? I sift through wispy memories to figure out how I got here. I know we were flowing through sun salutations, and my balance was shit. I remember that much. At one point, I actually woke up in a split, and Skylar was smiling with her index finger tip pressed against my upper arm. She must have prodded me awake. Then there’s a memory of Skylar leading me toward the door.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “That was embarrassing.”

  “How do you feel?” she asks.

  “Honestly? Refreshed.”

  She laughs.

  I should check my phone. This reflex is clear even when I barely know where I am. The wall clock indicates it’s been forty-five minutes. Tripp is probably already looking for me. Work. I look back at Skylar, who waits for my answer. Right. Feeling. What am I feeling? She actually wants to know. Without warning, I’m crying. Sitting, heaving, I look down at my toes as my chest wrenches in and out like a fireplace bellows. Skylar stitches her brow together. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I just said I felt refreshed. Is this a joke? Am I a comedian?

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “For what?” she asks.

  “That.” I point to the classroom.

  “It’s okay.”

  “This.” I point to my face.

  Skylar squats on the floor in front of me. She looks left and right to double-check that we are alone. We are, minus the desk attendant absorbed in the matrix of her own phone. In another room, the class I passed out in is continuing.

  “It’s completely okay,” she says. “Did you meditate?”

  I nod. “But, honestly, I just thought about my boss. The one I . . .”

  Slept with.

  “That’s okay,” she says. “This is actually my whole message to you tonight: It’s okay.” She laughs gently. Her skin is flawless. Up close, I see how perfectly clear and moisturized it is. No surprise that she reps a line of skincare products, too. “I can tell you’re being hard on yourself. But it’s okay. You can relax. Sometimes what we think we want is really just a symbol for something else. You just have to let it be.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I say.

  “We’re all messy,” she says. “We all need support.”

  “Thanks,” I say. I mean it.

  She smiles. “Okay! I’m glad we agree,” she says. “So, if we could talk about your journal?” I nod. She speaks more slowly now. “I read it very carefully, and what it showed was a very harsh worldview. Like, pretty scary.” Her tone is tender, and I don’t feel defensive. I feel like we are on the same side trying to put together the same puzzle pieces. “You see scarcity, competition, and individualism. As if you are pitted against others, others are pitted against you, and you are fighting tooth and nail to survive.”

  I nod. “Basically,” I say.

  “I’m being very blunt,” she says. She forces a small laugh. “But what I saw was there isn’t real love or tenderness in your life. This is partly because of your job—but partly because of how you respond to it.” She touches my upper arm affectionately. “You have a lot of anger. Sarcasm. Criticism for yourself, for others. You’re not listening to your body—there were no signs of movement, really—or your soul. We said suffering is wanting to be somewhere else. . . .” She trails off suggestively.

  Yep, that sums it up.

  “Allegra, I will help you,” she says. “I will teach you to see more love and take care of yourself again. You have more power in your life than you realize. I’ve already seen it. Honestly, just look at your physical yoga practice. I was in awe—am in awe—you can make those contortions. They’re supernatural, your alignments. At the same time, you jumped through all the hoops to get to Anderson. And I can tell you want to do good.” She smiles. “I can bring that side of you back out.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “Your grip on the world is tight right now, like a closed fist. Together, we will encourage you to open your hand again. Okay?”

  “Absolutely,” I say earnestly.

  She smiles. “I’m so happy!” she says. We hug. “So, I did have a plan for you that will help.” I’m so full of gratitude, I can’t speak. “This weekend, make time for gentle poses during regular mindfulness breaks. I know breaks are not naturally part of your day, so please be intentional about creating them. Remind yourself to stop working, slip away, and reconnect. And then, if you feel something, let yourself feel it. Don’t label anything as ‘wrong’ or ‘I’m a shithead.’ ”

  I laugh.

  “Sorry, I’m just quoting you,” she says. “That page where you beat yourself up for your sleeping with your boss? And then for being attracted to him? You wrote it at three a.m., I think?” She scratches her head as if she’s trying to remember if that section was before or after the Skittles binge. “It was so full of self-hate. You were at war with yourself, trying to beat down these little feelings with a sledgehammer. So I’m asking you to be kind to yourself. Don’t judge what you feel.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Just, like, feel.”

  I sound like a robot.

  “Yes,” she says. “Frankly, if you flirted with your MD, that would actually be an improvement from where you are now. In your journal, you judged everything. Your mind was in overdrive. But a lot of what you criticize is just part of being a human being. You get lusty in a chicken coop? So what.”

  We laugh.

  “You really think I should flirt with him?” I ask.<
br />
  “Yes,” she says with authority. “Honestly, have some fun. Find something to break up these insanely long days—I’m stressed out just talking to you.” We laugh again. She slips her hoodie back on. “Then we can meet again after the weekend.”

  “Yes,” I say eagerly.

  She pulls her phone from her pocket and opens Instagram—I catch a glimpse of her 4,165 new notifications.

  “I should get changed for work,” I say.

  “Great!” she says. “I’ll wait.”

  * * *

  Skylar is still on her phone when I emerge from the bathroom. She sits with perfect posture on the sofa as if she is posing for Erg Guy. I crick my neck left and right to loosen the tight grip of my muscles from around my own throat. The check-in girl looks shocked, and her hands flinch toward her ears. Sorry, I mouth. Skylar hasn’t budged. As I creak across floorboards toward her, her blond eyebrows stay cinched in a state of focus. She scrolls through comments on Instagram.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  “One second,” she says.

  She likes two comments and replies to one with smiling emojis while her face stays impassive. Finally, she looks up, phone in hand.

  “Hi!” she says. “Sorry, this sucks up so much time.”

  She points to her screen.

  “It shows,” I say. “In a good way. I love your posts.”

  “Thank you! When did you start following me?” Skylar asks.

  On our way out, she waves to the check-in girl, who waves fervently back—OMG bye!! Outside, my nose hairs freeze. Melted snow glazes the dark sidewalk.

  “Years ago, so I’ve seen . . .” I make a diagonal line up with my hand to mean her catapult to fame. “You always had such spectacular posts.”

  “You are so adorable,” she says warmly. She smiles.

  “On another level,” I emphasize, enthused by her reaction. “So much of InstaYoga is trash by comparison. I mean, half of it is straight porn. The people who do yoga in heels and underwear on their beds? ‘Yoga.’ Totally.”

  “Most people mean well,” she says.

  “Right,” I agree, embarrassed at my complete inability to be positive. “Have you had to deal with any weirdos, though?”

  “Hm,” she says thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t call them weirdos.”

  “Me neither,” I interject. “My bad.”

  “My fans aren’t weirdos,” she says.

  “Right,” I say. “Of course not.”

  “They’re all admirers in their own way,” she says. “People follow me because they want to learn or connect. Sure, some people do that by commenting the same twenty heart and fire emojis on every one of my pictures.”

  I laugh.

  She stays earnest. “I did have a few guys DM me pictures of themselves nonstop. One kept calling me his Pose Princess. Then he showed up one day at Central Park where I used to tape videos.”

  “No,” I say, my smile gone. “What happened?”

  “I turned off geotag on my posts,” she says. “Changed up my locations.”

  “And you blocked him,” I say.

  She shook her head.

  “Wait,” I say. “You didn’t block him?”

  “No,” she says.

  That is seriously unsafe. I’m pretty sure most big accounts don’t even check their DMs. They say that explicitly so no one’s feelings are hurt when messages go unread and unanswered. I’m almost worried for Skylar. Seeing the good in people is great, but too much trust can get you hurt. Besides, it’s not like she needs the extra attention. She has thousands upon thousands of non-psychos praising her every day.

  My phone buzzes. Work.

  “What was it about my posts that you liked so much?” Skylar asks. “Why did they speak to you?”

  “Oh,” I say, “mostly, you just seemed to be doing it for the right reasons. You weren’t performing—you were practicing. You had a normal life and did yoga, and that felt relatable to me. And your photos were beautiful—” I catch myself before elaborating. Her photo quality improved dramatically after she started seeing Jordan, but I don’t want to mention him. “And I learned things,” I continue quickly. “Yoga concepts. Mantras. Philosophy. It was educational.”

  She looks touched.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  We stand outside the subway platform.

  My phone buzzes again.

  “Sorry, I—” I start.

  “I assume you’ll have some time this weekend to unwind?”

  “Actually,” I say, my anxiety growing stronger every time my phone buzzes in my hand, “I’m heading back to the office now. I’ll probably be there all weekend.”

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” she says, grabbing my forearm so that I’m forced to linger. “But Allegra, this weekend, even if you struggle with my directions . . . stick with them. Honestly, when we met, in the back of my mind I did hope there would be a future for us.” My eyes widen. “I see an amazing teacher in you. Those photos in Mindfulness were incredible. Now, you just need to recenter. Then when you do come into the yoga world, I hope we can work together and be a counterpoint to this culture weighing on you. Your asana is so inspiring.”

  I am speechless.

  “Some of my students come from finance, and you can probably connect with them better than I can,” she continues.

  “That would be . . . unbelievable,” I say.

  “So stick with it!” she finishes. We hug.

  “See you soon,” I say.

  “Monday!” she confirms.

  You are an angel. We wave goodbye to each other.

  I cross the street, light on my feet, and spend the ride to work hopeful. The dream that comes to me is teaching a class with Skylar. She’s more sugar sweet, and I’m less so, but maybe we could balance each other well. After class, as we put props away, she might tell me, No, but my stalker has good intentions, and I would say, Literally, no! Not everyone has a good heart! Have you seen the people I used to work with? All I have to do is find my yoga footing again, which I should anyway so close to the finish line.

  I exit at my stop. As I forge through icy air, excited about the future for the first time in forever, I feel Dad with me. He was the reason I entered American Yoga in the first place, which led Skylar to me. Dad and I chose my optional poses together. Those were: first, “full wheel,” where I bent over backward until I grabbed my own ankles. And second, “forearm scorpion,” where I balanced on my forearms and touched my toes to my crown. He made my training schedule during spring of my senior year, where my days began at 5 a.m. so that I could hone my routine for two hours before the dining hall served breakfast.

  I want to thank him and realize I haven’t told him yet about the megamerger. He’s going to be thrilled. Company names out of it, “maybe the biggest deal of the year” will still mean a lot. He’ll be proud. I text him an update, just on the potential deal size. It’s my roundabout way of thanking him for the coaching that led me to this moment. He texts back immediately: !!!!!! I smile. Sometimes it’s possible to connect and not to connect at the same time. That’s my Fast Lane! I imagine him shout at home as I step into Anderson’s empty lobby. That’s my A-Plus.

  As I rise in the elevator, though, all sense of connection to my dad, to Skylar, and to broader humanity, really, is stripped away. My happiness dies one floor at a time. When the doors open to thirty-five, I resume living inside the nightmarish world of my journal. Back in work mode. I exhale dejectedly and spot Tripp through the glass doors before I reach the pod. He looks like Erg Guy’s nightmare.

  “Aloe, it’s ten fifteen,” Tripp says. The floor is a quarter full.

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  “What the el fucko?” he asks.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” I say.

  I take a seat. Tripp’s Thai dinner almost crosses the invisible line partitioning our halves of the desk. With the length of my forearm, I push his half-eaten chicken pad Thai, open takeout container of rice, and egg rol
ls until they are entirely on his side.

  “Real fucking mature,” he says. “We have shit to do. We.”

  Tripp slurps the final millimeter of his bubble tea. He is a loud, suctionless vacuum. He exhales once and resumes. I log back into my computer and survey the scene: Chloe didn’t get a pass—RIP—and is probably working from home. Puja’s pass covers the “shit-ton of shit” she has to do for “the shit company,” which apparently she “doesn’t even give a shit” about. The rest of the floor is littered with empty chairs facing every which way, each frozen in the final frame of a negligent push toward the desk. I just need a coffee, and then I should be able to put in a full night. It’s what we call on the floor, the “banking nine-to-five.” Nine p.m. to 5 a.m.

  A new email flashes on my screen:

  From: Mark Swift

  To: Allegra Cobb

  Fri 10 Nov 10:16 p.m.

  The new numbers look right.

  —MS

  Mark Swift, Managing Director, Anderson Shaw, NYC

  (O) x4777 (C) 2125552839 (Fax) 2125559384

  New numbers?

  I jerk toward Tripp on reflex. Maybe he knows what Mark means or could at least make me laugh with a joke at Mark’s expense. I can’t read your mind, asshole, I imagine Tripp stage-whispering. But Tripp’s open Outlook is quiet. On his second monitor, he changes the colors of a stacked bar chart to Anderson gray. Across the pod, Puja’s right eye twitches. That’s been happening to her more often, which our pod googled and learned is a symptom of staring too long at computer screens.

  I check the email again. No one else from Titan is CC’d. New numbers? I definitely have not sent Mark anything new, and Tripp hasn’t either—he would have complained about it and then made me do most of it. I reread the email. Mark’s email signature looks a tad different. It looks clunkier, or more crowded, or something. He has added something. Right between his office and his fax lines are the ten digits of his cell phone number.

  I pause. Did my MD just give me his number? Skylar pops into my mind. Frankly, if you flirted with your MD, that would be an improvement from where you are now. My heart beats a little faster. Her instructions to de-banking myself were pretty direct. Honestly, have some fun with your life. So I decide to allow myself the extremely lavish fucking extravagance of a single sexual outlet while I slave away. I drag the PDF of the annual report I was reading over my Outlook to hide the cipher and walk to the pantry Keurig machine. From my phone, I reply: