The instructor starts another pose, downward dog.
Sitting on my mat, I can’t finish without showing my goodies to everyone. The man behind me tosses a shirt that I can use to cover myself. I give him a grateful smile and wrap it around my waist. I finish the class, waiting until everyone else has gathered up their mats to leave my resting pose.
A tap on my shoulder causes me to hold my head up. It’s Rose, the leader of the class.
“You’re doing great.” She smiles at me, adjusting her ponytail.
“Sure,” I roll my eyes, “falling over myself in class.”
“The first time I did yoga…” she grins, “I lost my balance and crashed into a mirror.”
“You’re just saying that.” I chuckle at the image of her in an eagle pose, suddenly taking flight into the mirror.
“No.” She grabs a wipe for her mat. “I’m not. Stick with it. It’s a great energy booster and stress reliever.”
I nod, taking a sip from my water bottle. I gather my mat and towel and head out to the lobby. I’m drenched, and even with the added excitement of taking a spill, I feel an adrenaline rush. The man trying to catch my eye in the mirror is standing outside, talking to a woman from class.
He’s different than what I would expect from your typical yogi. He’s got broad muscles covered in tattoos and is pushing six feet. He looks more like a gym rat that lifts weights than a fan of yoga. He’s talking to a petite blonde. She’s smitten by him, the way she flips her hair and leans in, her Lululemon yoga pants and sports bra showing off a taut stomach.
One I had before the twins.
He sees me at the cubby, grabbing my purse and shoes. “Excuse me,” he says to the blonde. She shoots me a dirty look as she turns to another girl to chat.
“Hi. I’m the welcome greeter for the studio.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Jarrett.”
“And I’m flustered.” I laugh, shaking his hand. “But thanks for sharing your shirt.” I unwrap it from my waist and hand it to him.
“First time?” he asks.
“How could you tell?”
“Not by that graceful move.” He balls up the shirt and puts it in his duffel.
“I’d already forgotten about it.” I give him a small smile. “But yes, third time.”
“I figured it was planned.” He taps his forehead. “You just wanted to draw attention to yourself in a tasteful way. You women…it’s always a competition.”
I shrug. “You got me. So how long have you been coming here?”
“Almost a year. I moved here from out of state, and it’s a good place to socialize and get a yoga fix.”
“You look like you spend a lot of time lifting weights.” I point at his bulging muscles.
He laughs. “I do spend a lot of time in the gym. I like to switch it up - do this a couple times a week.”
“Which one?”
“Ample Fitness. On Sixth Street. You ever been?”
“Never. I used to work out at home, but I’m trying to get more consistent.”
“You should try it. It’s got all the amenities - steam room, showers, Pilates studio, tons of classes.”
“I’ll have to check it out.”
“I have a week-free pass if you ever need it.”
The blonde girl comes up to us. “J, are we still grabbing coffee?”
He turns to her. “Yep. Liz, this is…”
“Oh, I never told you my name.” I reach a hand to my forehead. “Meghan.” I smile at the girl with resting bitch face. “Hi.” I hold a hand out to her. She shakes mine, but her hand’s limp.
“I teach here a couple days as well. Nice to meet you,” she says with false bravado. She grabs his arm as he waves goodbye and I don’t know why, but I feel a stab of jealousy.
The next couple days, I attend yoga like it’s my religion. I’m disappointed when I don’t see him at any of the classes. Does he always stick with the 11:05 class, I wonder?
I’m able to show up on a Saturday morning, and my heart skips a beat when I walk into the studio and see him.
“Meghan, hi.” He greets me warmly. “How are you?”
I’m wearing a new, matching set of workout clothes, not my frumpy black yoga pants that are stretched out. Today, I brushed my hair and put it in a loose bun instead of just throwing it up. I smile. “Hi, how’s your week been?”
“Good, but busy. My bar has been undergoing renovations.”
“Really?” I’m intrigued. I can see him using his hands, he has calluses that show he knows how to get his hands dirty, unlike most of the men I encounter these days who need a handyman to change a lightbulb. “I went to school for interior design.”
“Seriously? I’d love to bounce some ideas off you.” He turns as another classmate calls his name. He holds up a finger at them to signal, ‘just a minute.’ “You’re probably not interested in me picking your brain, but I’m looking to hire someone. I just don’t have the bandwidth or eye for decoration.”
Liz isn’t in this class, but another dark-haired girl is eyeing him. He must be a real ladies man, I think. Before I lose my courage, I say, “I’d love to see your space and help. It’s been a long time since I did a project but would love to be considered. The last one I did was my house.”
“Great. Let’s chat after class.” He leaves my side to head over to the dark-haired girl who looks like Olivia Munn.
The class is starting and we both take our places. I try and focus on my breathing, the poses, and not falling. My face drips with sweat, and concentration seems to be a lost cause today.
All I can think about is him.
I steal a couple glances in the mirror at him, imagining his sweaty body doing something else…
Meaning I need to get laid.
You’re married, I remind myself. Go get some from your husband.
After class, we chat some more about the vision he has for his bar. It’s an old bar in an up-and-coming area, not far from my house, I find out. He invites me to stop by and see it.
I do.
He’s planning on opening it in the next two months.
We talk about his business. Our hobbies. Sometimes after class, I sit at the bar while he works. I watch his hands as he helps with the smaller scale projects. I keep him company, loving his rugged face, his eyes a bright blue that contrasts with his dark hair.
One day he invites me to have lunch.
We talk about our hobbies. I find out he’s only thirty-four, and I almost spit out the glass of Rosé I’m drinking.
“How old are you?” he teases.
“Forty.”
“I would’ve guessed thirty.” His smile makes me tingle all over.
“Ever been married?” I ask.
“No. I was engaged once. For four years.” He takes a long sip of water. “She wanted to move back home. I couldn’t do it.”
“Where was home?”
“Minnesota. I’m a Texas boy, born and bred. I couldn’t do it.” He purposely talks with a twang to prove his point.
“I understand, my family is the same way. I could never leave the state.”
“You?”
“Me what?”
“You ever been married?”
My heart sinks. Doesn’t he know I’m married? I scan my memory. I don’t wear my wedding ring to class. The sweat and heat aren’t good for my diamond, plus I don’t want it to get caught on the mat.
The fact is, I’ve been ‘forgetting’ to wear it lately.
Subconsciously? Probably. Testing the waters without it. At first, I felt naked without it. Now I’m scared to admit, I’m starting to like how it feels.
I shouldn’t stutter, but I do. “I’m married.” I blush down to my toes.
He looks crestfallen but recovers fast, his eyebrows raise. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t know…” His eyes take a quick peek at my ring finger. It’s naked. Reed’s never even noticed I don’t wear it, yet a stranger does.
“Been married for fifteen, together almost twe
nty,” I offer.
“Wow, congratulations. Over a decade.” I nod in agreement.
There’s a lull. I’m trying to decide what to say.
“He a local Texan?” He takes a long sip of water.
“Not like us, but close enough.” I don’t want to talk about my husband. I change the subject, feeling dirty speaking of him in another man’s company.
Over the next month, I start spending my free time with him. There’s not much, but when the boys are at kindergarten, I hang out with him. Yoga, his bar, coffee.
We talk about my twins. I show him pictures. He adores kids, he says. Hopes to have a few.
He tells me about his life growing up on a ranch. We compare stories - his dad’s a red-neck, drinks beer, and uses his fist, lots of bar fights. My dad might not be quick with his hands, but he’s sharp with his tongue.
It’s not on purpose, but we grow closer. He’s my sounding board and I’m his.
One day, I’m at home after yoga class, picking up the morning disaster from the twins. Cereal bowls, spilled milk, and Legos are scattered across the kitchen table. I don’t want Frasier to choke on one. As soon as I think I have them all contained, I find another one stuck in the carpet and one plopped in the dirt of our house plant.
My cell rings.
It’s him.
I haven’t bothered to save his number in my phone.
We talk at yoga, and I’m comfortable enough where I’ll just stop in the bar.
Saving him in my phone seems permanent…I don’t want to raise questions with Reed. Not that he would notice. He’s preoccupied, shutting himself in his office or traveling for work. And I’m allowed to have friends, I think defiantly.
“Hello,” I answer, trying for a throaty, sexy voice.
“Meg?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat. “It’s me.”
“Oh, you sounded different for a sec.” I can hear background noise. “You left your bag at class. Liz didn’t have your number, so I said I’d let you know.”
“Oh, crap.” I put a palm to my forehead. “I’m all over the place today. Are they open now? I’ll run and grab it.”
“No, they close until their afternoon class.” He pauses. “I’ve got it with me. Want me to drop it off?” He knows I live close to the bar, but I’ve always guarded my home life to an extent. Compartmentalized, I guess you could call it.
I hesitate. “Sure. That’s really nice of you. I appreciate it.”
“I’m running an errand. Had to stop at the hardware store. You need anything?”
I’m tempted to say that he can fix whatever he wants at the house. I’ll just sit and watch, drooling over his expressive face and chiseled abs. Those biceps can screw in a lightbulb or two. I’m considering removing the hallway bulbs so he’ll have a task to do when he interrupts my thoughts. “Meg, did I lose you?”
Blushing, I say. “No. Sorry, thought I had another call coming in. I’ll text you the address.”
“See you in a half hour or so.” I glance in the mirror. My hair’s in a lopsided bun on the top of my head, mascara’s smudged under my eyes, and I haven’t showered yet from the morning class.
Crap.
Running upstairs and dumping the rest of the twin’s stuff in their bedroom, I slam the door and run into the master. I take a quick shower, apply minimal makeup - I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard - and throw on a printed wrap dress. We don’t wear shoes in the house, so I keep my feet barefoot.
The doorbell rings just as I’m getting ready to turn on the blow dryer.
Spraying some detangler through my long hair, I rush downstairs to answer the door, brush in hand as I try and make myself presentable.
Taking a last glance in the mirror on the wall in the foyer, I smooth my hair down, taming the flyaways. I try not to swing the door open, my nerves frazzled. Why does the thought of him in my house seem nerve-wracking?
The person on the other side isn’t him.
It’s a man in a brown outfit, a UPS driver.
“Bishop residence?”
“Yes.”
He hands me a stylus. “Package for Mr. Reed Bishop. Please sign.”
I scrawl my signature on the screen.
“Have a nice day.” He nods and strolls back to his van.
Staring at the package, I notice there is no return address. Reed’s name is written in flowing handwriting, too elegant to belong to a man.
My curiosity is piqued.
Who would be sending him packages at home and not the office?
I set it on the counter and take a seat at the island, my chin in hand. I’m tempted to rip open the cardboard box and see what’s inside. I’ve never opened a box addressed to him before. But no one’s ever sent him a package that I didn’t know who the return sender was. His family sends him gifts for his birthday and Christmas, this doesn’t look like that. No holidays are coming up. Christmas is in the rear view along with the new year.
It stares back at me.
Grabbing the scissors out of the junk drawer, I carefully cut the cardboard, my hands shaking, jagged edges as I hurriedly try to open it.
My eyes dart around, guilty, as if Reed’s going to walk in the door and see the package. Which is impossible, he left for a business trip this morning.
I see a piece of fabric, a checkered pattern.
My body relaxes. He ordered a long-sleeved shirt. It’s a Bugatachi. I yank it out of the box, and a slip of light blue paper falls out with it, drenched in perfume. I sniff, coughing on the potency.
It’s a shirt he already owns. I recognize the print. What in the…
Reaching down, I sweep the piece of folded paper off the floor. Holding it at a distance, like it’s a germ-laden tissue, I unfold it. The sweet smell seduces my nostrils. Chanel?
My eyes give it a cursory glance, not comprehending.
It’s not good.
I read it again, out loud.
Reed,
You left this at my place. I wore it to bed a few times and thought of you.
Missing you.
-T
I grasp the counter, almost sinking to my knees.
All the proof I want is right here, literally in my hands.
The doorbell chimes and I jump, forgetting for a minute about Jarrett.
My eyes fill with tears and I dab at them angrily. Perfect timing, I think.
Heading for the door, I tentatively open it. Jarrett stands in front of me. His soft t-shirt has the band Nirvana on it, and he’s wearing jeans slung low on his hips.
He’s wearing sunglasses, the one thing designer about him.
In his hand, he holds my gym bag. His smile melts my heart and I don’t know why, but I lose it. I start bawling, the unattractive kind, complete with hiccups and loud guffaws.
“Oh my God, what’s wrong, Meg?”
I grip the door. “Nothing, it’s nothing. Just bad timing.”
“It’s definitely not nothing.” He reaches out a hand to gently touch mine. “Do you want to talk?”
“I didn’t put a chicken on,” I say through my tears.
He laughs, but it’s not genuine. Concern shows on his wrinkled-up forehead. “Please let me be your shoulder. You’ve done so much for me.”
I nod, wiping a tear away. Sagging against the wall, I nod again. “My life is falling apart,” I whisper.
“In that case, let me come in.” He pushes past me into the foyer. “Are your boys okay?”
“Oh God, yes.” I turn on my bare heel and head towards the kitchen. “They’re in school.” He follows me to our restaurant-style kitchen. Wolf appliances, top-of-the-line cutlery, and a set-up that would make Williams-Sonoma envious.
He whistles. “Gorgeous kitchen.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”
“Yes, please. How about tea?” He glances around appreciatively. “You do have an eye for design. This is unbelievable.”
I busy myself with fill
ing the kettle with water and setting it on the stove.
He sees the shirt on the floor and the letter on the counter.
“Is that your perfume?”
“No.” I turn my back to the stove.
“Do you mind?” I half-turn as he points to a stool.
“Of course not. Have a seat. I thought we could move to the couch when the tea is done.”
“What’s this?” I hear his voice harden behind me.
Spinning around, tears running down my cheeks, I whisper. “That’s my life crashing down.” He picks up the slip of paper, opening it to read. His eyes widen as he looks up at me. “Meghan…”
His pitiful stare makes me feel ten times worse. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me.
“Don’t.” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Feel bad for me.”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“All I’m thinking is what an idiot husband you have.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s not a mistake I’d make if you were my wife.” His voice is gruff. I swallow hard, our eyes locking.
“Do you want sugar for your tea?” I bite my lip to keep from crying harder.
“No.”
“Let’s go sit in the living room.” I pour the tea and grab our cups. They wobble as I struggle to control the tremor in my hands.
He grabs them from me, carrying them as we head into the formal living room. “Not here,” I murmur. “Let’s go where it’s comfy.”
We have two living rooms - one is more for show, the stiff furniture chosen by Reed, a style that is too cold for my taste. The other living room is lived in. Big picture windows face out, the couches are overstuffed, and there’s no television. It’s more of a sitting room. Books lie on the coffee table and my grandmother’s old vase sits in the corner, a reminder of the strong woman that raised me.
I settle in and he sits the tray on the coffee table. I glance at the sky. We’re in comparable moods today, cloudy with a chance of rain. “Where’s your bathroom?” he asks. I point to the powder room on the first floor.
“Be right back,” he says.
Pulling my feet up underneath me, I hug my knees. A second later, he comes back with a box of tissues. “Here you go.” He hands me the box.
All the Pretty Lies Page 8