Breathe In, Cash Out

by Madeleine Henry

  “Can we do four digits, my man?” Tripp asks.

  “I knew you were going to ask that,” the mentalist says.

  “Unreal,” Tripp says, beaming.

  I turn my back to them, effectively turning myself into a human wedge between Tripp’s magic show and my huddle with Skylar and Harry.

  “Skylar?” I ask.

  “You are being quite rude,” Harry says.

  “Skylar and I need a minute,” I say.

  “Apparently, we do!” she agrees. “I’ll be back,” she tells Harry.

  I lead Skylar in a figure-eight weave through the crowd until we find a patch of footless floor. She stands composed on stiletto heels, which bump her up a few inches taller than I am. She smiles and waves at someone behind me.

  “Skylar,” I say, “I’m not your student.”

  “Of course you are!” she says.

  “No, I’m not,” I say definitively. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this, and I’m not going to work for SkylarSmithYoga, either. I really appreciate your offer, and thank you for all of your help, but I am going to do my own thing.”

  “What?” she asks, perplexed.

  “As in, no thank you,” I say. “I sincerely appreciate it, but I’m not going to be able to join your team. I hope we can stay on good terms.”

  “I don’t understand,” she says.

  I’ve realized that whether they’re banking MDs or Instagram gurus, people with power live in yes bubbles. All they hear is “Will do ASAP,” “Revolutionary idea, sir,” “Fantastic to see you,” and, “What a coincidence—your favorite sports team is my favorite sports team.” But I know what I want, and I’m done with that shit.

  “I want to teach,” I say. “The only way to do that right now is to go for it alone. I’ve booked a couple of students already in the city, and I’m gaining momentum. But, as I said, I really want us to stay on good terms.”

  “Allegra,” she says, taking my hand. “This upsets me. I was really looking forward to working together. I care about you.”

  “Okay, well what about the strip profiles?” I ask boldly. I wait for her to admit something. “Did you care about me when you put those together?”

  She hesitates.

  “Oh, right,” she says finally. “The profiles.”

  “Yeah, for my job,” I say.

  “But your job isn’t important,” she says. “What matters is the practice.”

  “Look, I have no problem with money,” I say. “But let’s be real. I mean, look around. You’re at the Anderson Shaw holiday party. You’re not on a Himalayan mountaintop in rags. Okay? Sorry to be blunt, but call it a business already. Be real with the people who work for you. Respect me as a person.”

  “I see,” she says.

  She pauses thoughtfully.

  “But do you remember where you were when we started? You were a mess,” she says. I nod. At Shake Shack, where I was thinking fuck you to a group of lunchers. “I did my best to help you. No matter what you think my intentions are, I think I did some good.”

  She squeezes my upper arm affectionately, and I do consider her point. Did she actually help me or not? On the morning we met, I woke up in Mark’s bed. I had no serious plans for next year, only half-baked dreams that made me feel guilty for disappointing Dad. Now, I am teaching. My colleagues know the real me. I even felt compassion for Vivienne. Yes, I’m in a better place.

  But come on. The strips. I’ve improved in spite of Skylar, not because of her. And there’s no way she’s going to stamp her trademark all over my journey.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want to be on your team.”

  She nods, as if my words are finally dawning on her.

  “So you’re going to teach freelance?” she asks.

  I nod. “Working on it.”

  “In Manhattan?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  She nods again. “Well, then that’s your choice, and I do wish you the best of luck,” she says. “It does hurt me that you think I never cared about you, though. Maybe I didn’t present myself the right way. I’m unconventional, I know. I’ll be sorry to lose you.” The cadence of our conversation is slower now, as if Skylar is weighed down by a sense of defeat. She prayers her hands.

  “Thank you, Skylar.”

  “I do expect we’ll run into each other in the future.” She makes interweaving sinusoidal waves with her hands in front of her. “Teaching in Manhattan is a smaller world than you might think. There are only so many studios and students. So I agree, we should be on good terms!” I can’t tell if this is a threat.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “How about one last practice at Mala this weekend?” she asks. “It will be a high note to end on. Then, when we run into each other again, the last thing we remember won’t be this.” She laughs a bit sadly.

  “That sounds good,” I agree. “A last practice.”

  “Saturday?” she asks.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “I’ll introduce you to the studio owner after,” she says. “Maybe that will help you get started? Namaste.”

  * * *

  Breaking the news to Skylar is a relief. Her support—or at least her show of it—makes me optimistic. She’s let me go and now she can’t control me anymore. I finally feel free to enjoy the party and find the only person I really want to see: Tripp. We stand among the bar crowd as Tripp leans one elbow on the counter.

  “I got this,” he tells me assertively. “Two mai tais, sir.”

  “Coming right up,” the bartender says.

  The bartender hands us two tropical-looking drinks.

  “Do you think the bartender, like, respects you at all?” I ask.

  “Not really,” Tripp says.

  He winks, and I laugh. I’ve never had one before, and it tastes so gross that I can only take one sip. Tripp downs the rest of it himself. Gradually, more associates join us, until I am surrounded by drunk colleagues playing Celebrity Crush. Tripp suggested the game, which only entails naming the celebrity you find most attractive. This third time around the circle, the guys ahead of me cited Charlize Theron, Lindsay pre-coke, and Angelina pre-Brad.

  “Pass,” I say again.

  It gets a rise out of him.

  “Ace, literally just say a name,” Tripp says.

  “Isaac Newton,” I say.

  “Don’t fucking ruin my game,” Tripp says.

  “Albert Einstein,” I say.

  “Out. Of. Bounds,” Tripp complains. “Fucking try.”

  “So necro,” the ex-military associate says.

  Tripp shakes his head, frustrated by the escalating noncooperation. He gestures with a waving hand for the game to continue, as if he is cueing different instruments to play into his Celebrity Crush symphony. I smile. When someone says, “Reese Withor Withoutherspoon,” Tripp erupts into applause, his good humor restored.

  As the circle of associates rattles off more names, I spot Skylar on the other side of the room with Harry, talking to an older couple. She’s doing most of the talking and gesticulating. It looks like she’s trying to sell them something. It hits me that Skylar can take credit for something I learned after all—but it’s more of a business lesson than a yoga one. She showed me that a place to look for students has been under my nose this whole time.

  When big banks visit Princeton to recruit undergrads for jobs, alumni market “optionality” as a selling point. Investment banking gives you “options,” because as an analyst, you can learn marketable skills in two years, pin a fancy firm’s name on your résumé to signal you’re legit, and bank up to $100K in the process, guaranteeing yourself the flexibility to pursue your real dreams. Of course, most analysts end up staying in finance, so the “options” mirage is a bit empty. But, in the most unexpected way, I found “optionality” from Anderson after all. The recruiters had preached, Take your skills and network anywhere, which I could now legitimately bookend with, including a life of yoga.

&nb
sp; Tripp, as the entertainment maestro, guides our group into a couple of other games. He maintains his impressive state of drunk-yet-functional until the senior folk start to leave, and the “functional” part disappears with them. As VPs and MDs exit, eventually, a tipping point is reached that releases the invisible chains constraining juniors, and an exodus begins for the door. Our huddle dissipates. A couple of the associates mention that they have kids to get back to, and a couple of others say something about wanting to get a good night’s sleep.

  “Allergies,” Tripp slurs.

  “Not a name,” I say.

  “Let’s play Truth or Dare,” he says.

  “Nah,” I say.

  “Okay, my turn,” he says. “I choose dare.”

  “I dare you to do a Netflix cleanse,” I say.

  “And die?” he asks.

  Puja, Chloe, and Charles find us on our way out. Charles carries Chloe’s Chanel handbag while she thumbs an email. Tripp points at Chloe’s phone.

  “How are the frenemies, Chlo?” he asks.

  “Someone should take him home,” she says.

  She looks at me.

  * * *

  Tripp fell asleep in the cab to my place. I had to help him up the first five flights to my studio, wounded-soldier style, and listen to him complain about Charles. Tripp got stuck talking to him on our way out, which became the “worst ever ten minutes” of his life. Tripp sobered up the higher we climbed and the deeper he got into his rant. I asked him at one point if he’d read And Then There Were None. He said obviously, but he likes Murder on the Orient Express better because how does everyone do it, that’s genius. Then he turned the conversation back to Charles. Going up the final flight, Tripp takes steps on his own.

  “He kept talking about the markets like they were a fucking porno,” Tripp says. “I was like, Have you had one enjoyable moment in your whole fucking life? Jesus Christ.” I laugh. “He was all about ‘patterns.’ Shit is ‘patterns.’ ”

  “Yeah, he told that to me, too,” I say.

  “Unreal,” Tripp says. “This guy has one fucking line.”

  “He and Chloe have been dating for years,” I say.

  “That’s it, then,” Tripp says. “Dude’s gone insane.”

  I laugh.

  “That’s probably the only thing she allows him to say,” he says.

  We reach my door, where the red paint chips in four ominous grooves down the front. It’s as if Wolverine were here and indicated, This is my fucking place, with a downward swipe. As I take the keys out of my pocket, I fumble for the right one. I’m actually a bit nervous to have Tripp over now. He’s way more sober than I thought he would be. It feels like the end of a date.

  “You don’t actually live here, do you?” he says, squinting around. “Or is this where you murder people?”

  I nervously use the wrong key. It doesn’t turn.

  “At least the security’s good,” he says.

  I open the door this time and switch the ceiling light on, though it takes a few start-and-stop flashes to shine fully. Cockroaches scatter. Tripp hits the bathroom fast and pees for longer than it would take to complete a dial-up internet connection. Meanwhile, I make him a bed on the sofa. We pass each other without saying anything as I enter the bathroom and brush my teeth. When I emerge, he is sitting on the sofa, untying his shoes. I change into a pajama shirt and shorts behind the privacy of my closet door. He was supposed to be really drunk.

  “Well, night,” I say.

  I turn the light off, and it takes a few seconds before I can make out his shape on the sofa. He uses the flashlight app on his phone as he finishes untying his shoes. As I walk by, he takes my hand firmly as a request to stay. It’s surprisingly assertive, and my heart beats faster. He lies down on the sofa, pulling me with him, and finally, we kiss. He runs his hands through my hair and down my body, learning its outline. His hands stop on my waist. I press my hips into him. Five hungry seconds later, I pull back abruptly.

  “But we still work together,” I say, half teasing.

  “Fuck,” he says. “I hate my job.”

  We linger where we are.

  “Hey, Tripp?” I ask.

  He nuzzles my neck with his nose.

  “Mm?”

  “You know my name, right?” I ask.

  “Oh my God,” he says. He lets his hands drop to his sides, maybe genuinely hurt. “Do you know how much concentration and creativity it takes to say every A-name but yours?”

  I laugh.

  “Allegra,” he says, taking my body again. “Of course.”

  “Tripp,” I say.

  We kiss. I rub my hands over his chest.

  “How do you work out this much?” I ask.

  “Hell yeah,” he says to himself. “She notices.”

  We kiss even more softly this time. Instead of speeding up as time passes, we slow down. Eventually, we fall asleep, completely comfortable under the shrug blanket and wrapped in each other.

  chapter 23

  Skylar is ten minutes late to our last practice. I wait on my mat at Mala and email Lucy back that yes, next Saturday works, same time. Send. Things are falling into place. Lucy has re-booked twice now, and I meet two new students next week. Monday is Bonus Day.

  I open Instagram to a new picture from yogi Jessica, @JessicaOlie. She has half a million followers and posts a lot—like, an industrial amount, as if she employs her own pod counting down to its own Bonus Day, responsible for posting thirty new yoga Stories a day or it’s bottom fucking tier. Another avid yogi, Morgan from @Finding MorganTyler, sometimes appears in her posts, like the one in my feed now. It reminds me of dreams I used to have for Skylar and me, working together.

  “Good morning,” Skylar says.

  “Hi.” I stand.

  “So sorry I’m late,” she says.

  She wears gray leggings with a subtle, darker gray stripe down the outside of each leg. Her sports bra matches: gray with shadowlike flourishes. She fetches a mat from the prop shelf and unrolls it next to mine.

  “I just came from a lesson,” she says. “One of the clients I met at your party.”

  “How’d that go?” I ask.

  She smiles. “Really great,” she says.

  “The Swifts?” I ask out of curiosity.

  “Mark and Mary?” she asks. She shakes her head. “No. Not yet. I reached out to Mary, but scheduling with Mark is going to be a nightmare.” She laughs. “He’s so busy. In any case, I’ll guide?”

  I nod, and now we stand on parallel islands. She starts to flow in a hurry, as if she’s making up for lost time. I mirror her. We begin with a sun salutation, and I am a half beat behind. It quickly becomes the fastest yoga flow I have ever done, verging on aerobics. We pause finally in chaturanga, a push-up pose holding bent elbows. I count the seconds in my head to make it easier to endure. My abs tense with heat. I read once that it takes seven to fifteen seconds to die after being shot in the head, which I take to mean that you can endure anything for seven to fifteen seconds. My knees touch the mat for a moment of rest. Skylar flicks my shoulder with her index finger, as if to chide me, No.

  “Adho mukha vrksasana,” she says. “Handstand.”

  I obey her lead. From downward dog, I keep my palms planted on the mat and jump forward into a stick-straight handstand. To stay here, I engage my core and point my feet. Skylar holds a handstand as well, though she pinwheels back down first. I immediately follow, glad for the break. We rest on our mats side by side.

  “How did you learn scorpion in handstand?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  “I sort of just taught myself,” I say.

  She looks so dissatisfied that I laugh.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It’s the truth.”

  “Can you show me how?” she asks. “Your technicals have always been better than mine. I’d really appreciate learning, if you don’t mind.”

  I imagine her taking everything I teach her back to my coworkers, impressing Mark and
Mary with this pose on the back porch of their Greenwich mansion. One of us has to have compassion. End on good terms.

  The handstand muscles in my arms are already tired. It doesn’t take much to fatigue when you recruit every in-between, nameless fiber in whole-body stabilization and you’re barely warmed up. I try handstand again, and she watches. This time, I bring my toes down slowly to touch my crown and hold the full handstand scorpion pose. Five seconds later, I pinwheel down.

  “Again?” she asks.

  Doesn’t she know how hard that was? Skylar would be an unrelenting third-base coach, urging her Little League players to steal home base with every breath. Do it, Johnny, fucking do it, you skinny piece of shit. The side wall is covered with mirrors, like a floor-to-ceiling eye. It reflects my apple-red face.

  “Okay, sure,” I agree. “And then I need to break.”

  “Of course!” she says.

  I find my way back into the pose. She stands beside me, her bare arms crossed tightly as straitjacket sleeves across her chest. She appears to be riveted and memorizing the exact alignment of my limbs. I hold my center of balance in the small of my back. The longest I’ve held this pose is for one minute.

  “I’m going to take a photo so I can remember,” she says.

  She takes a step closer to me. I can feel my body giving out—the weight on my wrists and upper arms will soon be unsustainable. I start to shake and move to dismount. Without me being entirely aware of what is happening, Skylar molds me back into scorpion with this-way pushes. She guides my legs down until my feet touch my head. My hands sting with pins and needles. She keeps me exactly where I am, upside-down, and deepens the arch in my back by pushing my feet farther down.

  “Stop!” I gasp.

  I struggle against her, but she doesn’t release me. She seems intent on bending me until something breaks. I open my mouth to scream, but I can’t make any sound. I can’t breathe. Suddenly, there’s a sickening crack, and I collapse.

  * * *

  Right before the American Yoga Championship, I did my last-minute research. By that I mean, I skimmed all the internet bullshit I could find about the competition. It was more a manifestation of nervous energy than any real attempt to prepare. I came across an article about Arjun Patel, the man behind American Yoga.