by Stacy Wise
The lobby area of the yoga studio is packed with spandex-clad women. After a cursory glance, I find Lauren, who’s seated front and center. She motions to me from her mat, and I sink next to her. “How was the boxing gym?”
“Honestly? It was amazing. I’m doing a trial next Friday.”
She reaches forward, stretching her hands to her toes. “Cool. And don’t forget we have Tracey’s birthday celebration that night.”
“Right.”
“Is your trial with that big guy who was teaching the class?”
“No. It’s with someone named Ryan.” Even I can hear the excitement in my voice.
She twists to face me. “Why is your face getting red?”
“It’s not.” I touch a hand to it, feeling the heat.
“It is!” Before she can say more, students flood in, followed by the instructor. A hush falls over the room as he stands facing us, hands clasped in front of his slim chest, wearing a sage-like smile. I stifle a nervous giggle. His pants reveal everything. Like the entire package. I laugh out loud at my choice of words and cover it with a cough. Really mature, Katie. I straighten the end of my mat as he welcomes us.
“Establish your breath. Take long, slow, powerful breaths,” he croons. “Step to the top of the mat and root down through your feet.” Instructions continue to flow from his lips, but I’m stuck trying to get my feet to root. I sneak a look at Lauren and copy her as he implores us to extend our arms up to the sky. “Inhale up. Exhale down.”
Did he say inhale first, or exhale? Everyone around me moves in sync, as though they’re part of a sacred dance, and I’m like the Hollywood movie version of a woman going into labor. Lauren mouths, “You okay?”
I wave a hand, telling her I’m fine, and decide to skip the fancy breathing business. Breathing normally will have to do.
The instructor shifts from Chaturanga to Upward Facing Dog with snakelike grace while speaking lovingly about releasing energy and reconnecting with our souls. “Unite your mind and body. Facilitate the space to transform.” How am I supposed to unite my mind and body when I can’t get my brain to tell my body what to do? I’m one step above a toddler in ballet class. At least they’re cute, but I’m like a bobbing, bug-eyed iguana. The need to run taunts me as I struggle to remain in some semblance of the triangle blah, blah, blah pose. The quiet in the studio should allow me to radiate positivity or some such, but negative thoughts march in like ants at a picnic, stealing bits of my soul, reminding me I’m not as good as everyone else here. Failure bites at me, and I feel the sting of Brad’s words, “You? You? You!”
An image of Ryan drifts into my head, saying, “Hell yeah. I like your attitude.” I fantasize slamming the ropes like I own them, while a stunned Brad watches. He’s uptight and miserable while I’m positive and happy. The class eases into the Tree pose. Everyone seems devoted to the moves, to their peace of mind. Next to me, Lauren looks supple, like she could bend and flow in the breeze, while I’m like a stiff branch about to snap.
I relax my arms and try again. I’ve got this.
Hell yeah, I do.
The sun dips lower in the sky, its light casting brilliant gold strokes in our front window. “I wish we could’ve walked down to the beach to enjoy the sunset,” Lauren says as she unlocks our front door. “It’s going to be a good one. I have to shower before meeting up with Paul, though.”
“And I should dive back into researching law firms. I’m feeling newly invigorated. The yoga was fun.”
“I was hoping you’d enjoy it.” She sets her water bottle on the kitchen counter. “And just so you know, I’m not worried about you.”
“Huh?”
“Let me restate that. I’m not worried about you finding a job. I have a feeling everything happened for a reason. Something even better than Bradshaw, Burke and Doyle is on the horizon.”
“God, I hope so.”
“A firm will snatch you up. You just have to find the right one. And you should start that gratitude list now, while you’re feeling centered.”
Maybe she’s right. For the first time, it doesn’t sound like a chore. “Good idea.”
“It’s astounding how things literally start flowing into your life once you start practicing gratitude.”
“I’m on it,” I say, heading to my room.
Paper doll Brad greets me with all the appeal of a rat carcass. To think I’d forgotten about destroying him while I was away bending and breathing.
I lug the shredder from the hall closet to my bedroom and plug it in. Here goes. Holding his feet above the blades, I slowly lower the picture. The blades grab it and begin slicing him to fine strips. If he could see me now, taking charge and destroying the last slivers of our shared memories, would he beg me to come back? He was always so competitive. He wouldn’t like that I’m doing this. It shouldn’t make me feel victorious, but it does.
His words left wounds that wouldn’t heal. It’s like he took a stick and poked at my confidence until my skin was covered in tiny scratches. No one could see them, but I could feel them—the burning itch that wouldn’t go away. Until now.
Snapping off the shredder, I lug it back to the closet. No more time wasted on Brad. I resume my spot at my desk in front of my laptop and open a shiny new Excel spreadsheet. At the top, I type “Gratitude List.” The cursor ticks like a second hand, taunting me, testing me, waiting for my response, but I won’t let it intimidate me. I can pass any test. That’s what I do.
Starting simple is the key. In the first box I type, I am thankful for my paper shredder. Nope. Too trite. I highlight the sentence and hit the delete button.
With hands poised over the keyboard, I start again. I am grateful for my health. Better. And I truly am thankful I didn’t fall ill after my post-breakup diet of frozen yogurt and jelly beans. Because why not poison myself with sugar when I’m down? Thank God I’ve moved past that. It was really only a few days. Three max. Even I couldn’t stand myself then. Now that I think about it, I’ve made tremendous progress being that Brad dumped me two days after the firm pulled my offer. Bam, bam. Hit twice, and I went down. The girl in the pink gloves wouldn’t have fallen. She would’ve hit back. I might’ve been struck hard, but I’m coming back swinging. It’s who I am. I just forgot for a while there. I click to the next space, my heart surging. I’m thankful I rediscovered—
Before I can finish, my phone blares with the ring signaling my mother. It makes me sit up straighter, and I reduce the page on my laptop, even though I know she can’t see it. Old habits die hard. I clear my throat before answering. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Katie. I have only a second—we just finished a lengthy settlement conference—but I wanted to touch base.” The familiar efficiency resides in her tone. It’s comforting, but it also has the power to topple me back to childhood, making me feel like my seven-year-old self being forced to wear the scratchy tights under my dress because they looked nice. I start to ask if they reached a settlement, but she talks over me.
“Steven Janks called yesterday. He’s looking for a clerk to begin working at his firm. Naturally, I thought of you.”
Looking for a clerk? I mentally start packing my briefcase with résumés, but my brain pushes the pause button. Did she say Steven Janks? Why is she chatting with him? Imagining the two of them talking is like trying to envision the queen of England hanging out with variety show players in Vegas.
She ignores my silence and continues. “You have an interview with Steven and his partner, Thomas Lowe, tomorrow at four thirty.”
“What?” I wait for her to tell me she’s joking, but she isn’t one to joke. It didn’t occur to me that she might be equally desperate for me to get a job.
“I presume you can make it?”
“Yeah, yes.” The correction is automatic. “I mean, it’s a smart move, right? At this point I can’t be picky…”
She waits for me to finish, but I can’t. Silence hangs heavy in the air. I picture her looking at her slim Cartier Baigno
ire, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. When she finally speaks, her voice is crisp. “They take difficult cases and have won multimillions of dollars in verdicts. They can afford to hire whomever they choose, but if you’d rather not take the interview, don’t. Perhaps I was hasty in presuming you need my help. Have you received an offer that I’m not aware of?”
My spine softens into gelatin. “No.”
“Don’t go on my behalf. You need to want this. If not, it’s a waste of everyone’s time.”
Gah! I hate when she does that. It’s hard to believe I can manage to remain in an upright position due to all the guilt she’s piled on my shoulders year after year. I tighten my grip on the phone. “Let them know I’ll be there.” Even though they advertise on the sides of city buses.
“Wonderful. We’ll discuss it over dinner this weekend. And wear a navy suit for the interview. The color brings out the blue of your eyes.”
“I don’t think they’ll care what my eyes look like.” I sigh when I realize she’s already ended the call. But of course she wouldn’t wait for my response. Why would she when she has all the answers?
Turning back to my laptop, I print three copies of my résumé. Instead of the usual whoosh of the printer firing out pages, it beeps three times in defiance. Ugh. I rush to where it sits on the bookshelf to find it’s out of paper. Might as well go pick some up. I can order takeout in town while I’m at it. Grabbing my purse from my room, I head out the door.
Chapter Two
Flipping a hard right, I turn in to the drugstore parking lot. It’s closer to the vegetarian restaurant I’m suddenly craving. All that yoga and gratitude has left me wanting healthful food. I never would’ve guessed I’d like vegetarian fare as much as I do, but Lauren introduced me to it a year or so ago, and I’ve been hooked ever since. As I walk through the automatic doors of the drugstore, I contemplate whether I should order the veggie bowl with rice or the “chicken” bowl.
But first things first. Paper, then food. I glance up, trying to recall if the office supplies are to the left or right.
My jaw drops.
Brad.
He’s right there in aisle nine.
My body feels like it’s the center of a taffy pull—one side yanking me toward him, the other side tugging me back. But here’s my chance. This is what I wanted.
I take a breath.
Freaking out isn’t an option.
Because I’m staying. I’m doing this.
The makeup section is by the far right wall. He won’t go there. I slink to the blush and powder display, my eyes fixed on the checkout line, but there’s no sign of him. Good. It’ll take a minute to come up with the right words to tell him exactly what I think.
Red lights flash in my head. But what if he laughs? What if…
Ugh. This is ridiculous. Either I walk up to him, or I don’t. It’s really that simple.
The sensation of someone staring at me causes gooseflesh to spring across my arms, and I turn, my heart pumping furiously.
A man crosses his arms over his belly, and the buttons of his kelly-green vest strain against the girth of his stomach, causing it to ride up too high.
“Can I help you find something, miss?”
“No thanks. I’m just browsing,” I say breezily. On second thought, maybe I should’ve asked if he could hunt down my ex in aisle nine and demand he explain why he felt compelled to say I love you three days before dumping me.
A sample of pressed powder in light ivory sits on the shelf, and I pick it up. The pad in the compact looks like it’s been swiped across every makeup sample in the store. Do people really care so little about the spread of germs? It’s astounding. Shaking my head, I reach into my purse for a Kleenex. I dab at the powder and tissue some onto my skin. As I work on blotting the red away, I can’t help but wonder why Brad’s here. Perhaps he needs deodorant. Or maybe he’s out of toothpaste. I suppose he could be sick with strep throat. Maybe his throat will swell up so much he won’t be able to talk or eat. Or breathe.
I peer through the display. There he is! His back is to me, but I know it’s him.
“’Scuse me!” a woman’s voice trills. She reaches a hand past me to take a pressed powder, and I move. “You’re fine. I’ve got it,” she says, holding up the compact. “I get the same one every time.” She smiles and bounds down the aisle in her baby-blue sports bra and spandex pants. A tiny dog on a retractable leash scampers after her. Dear God. I thought it was illegal to bring anything but a service dog into a store.
Brad hasn’t moved. He has a box in hand and appears to be reading it. Should I go up to him? It’d be so easy to act surprised to see him here. I shove the dirty tissue into my bag, thinking.
Out of nowhere, the little dog darts down the center of the store. Stepping back, I watch as his retractable leash allows him to pull right up to Brad’s leg. Ha! Poor Brad. He hates yappy little dogs. I resume my position behind the display and watch, counting the seconds until I hear his voice demanding she get that hairy beast away.
But no.
He shoves the box onto the shelf and greets the girl with a broad grin. And then the man who hates small furry creatures kneels in his fancy work trousers and offers the dog his hand. What the hell?
Ms. Baby-Blue-Bra giggles, and now Brad’s laughing, too. How charming. Even though I can’t hear what he says, that deep baritone sound fills my mind like an annoying song that’s had too much radio play. He places both hands on the dog’s face and appears to be talking to it. When I invited him to a charity pet adoption event a friend of my mother’s was sponsoring, he said he was allergic to animals. He wouldn’t go. And now he’s practically french-kissing a strange girl’s Yorkie. I hope it bites him.
“He hates animals!” I whisper to myself. But it’s not like they’d hear me. They’re too busy fondling the Yorkie. It’s like some sick kind of foreplay. Brad stands, and they shake hands. She flips her hair, and he takes out his phone. Ugh. I can’t watch.
Stealing a glance in the mirror, I realize light ivory isn’t a good match for my skin tone. Now I look like a mime.
The man in the green vest suddenly appears at my side, puffed up and glaring. “You need to come with me.”
“Why?” My arms drop to my sides, and I steal a sideways look for Brad and the girl. She and her dog have vanished, and he’s halfway down the aisle, nearly out of sight.
“You can try on the samples, but you can’t take them. I saw you drop something into your bag. The old switcheroo.” He shakes his head, causing his jowls to jiggle like a bulldog’s. “We don’t allow shoplifters.”
I inch back, wanting to get as far away from his ridiculous allegations as possible. “Are you really accusing me of shoplifting? Because if you are, I’m going to slap a lawsuit on you so fast you won’t know what hit you.”
“For what?” His round eyes fill with alarm.
“Defamation of character. Harassment. Discrimination.” I say each word deliberately, tossing them at him so he can’t escape their punch.
“Okay, okay. I’m not accusing you of shoplifting. But what did you put in your purse?”
“My own tissue.” I hold up the crumpled Kleenex. “No one in their right mind would use the disgusting, germ-covered pad in the sample.”
“Well, you came in and started scanning the place. I’ve been trained to spot a potential shoplifter.”
“Great. But I’m not a shoplifter. I’m kind of in the middle of a serious situation at the moment.”
The clerk stares at me, almost daring me to explain.
“Oh, fine. My ex-boyfriend is here, and I was buying time before talking to him. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”
“Well now, I’m not sure—”
“Look, there’s a woman with a dog in here. Why don’t you interrogate her? She’s hard to miss.” He squints at me as if to say, I’ve got my eye on you, but at least he stalks off—a vested superhero on a mission. I turn to the checkout. Brad’s there! Al
one. And thanks to the annoying clerk, I have an unusually white face and no real plan. Nonetheless, I skulk over to the magazine display to the side of the checkout.
As I wipe my face with my free hand, I study the back of Brad’s head. What the hell am I going to say? I contemplate a second too long. The cashier hands him his bag, and he starts for the exit.
There’s nowhere for me to go. I’m smack in the center of his line of sight.
His eyes land on me, and I start to blotch again. Damn him.
I step forward, head held high. “Hi, Brad.”
“Hi. Wow, are you okay? You look really pale.” He inspects my face as though he finds it funny, not worrisome. He’s wearing the tie he wore on the night I met him, the one that’s covered with tiny foxes. I used to think it was cute, but now it only looks useful—like something I could choke him with.
“I’m fine. Perfect.”
He recoils as though he’s shocked I didn’t burst into tears and launch into a pathetic tale of the post-breakup downfall he surely assumes I had. Like I should be licking my wounds.
“That’s cool,” he says in a cocky voice. He shifts the white plastic bag to his other hand. I try not to stare, but the way he moved it suggests he wants to hide its contents, which of course makes me curious. I can just make out the small rectangular box through the bag. Cortaid? Crest? Oh. Control Gel. Big surprise. Hair gel. God forbid his hair falls out of place. And then I see the word climax in front of the word control. Oh my God. Climax Control Gel. My mime face clearly isn’t the most embarrassing thing in the store anymore.
But if he’s buying that gel, it means he’s already sleeping with someone. Or he had someone on the side all along. My stomach churns, and I press a hand to my mouth, forcing myself to swallow the sick thought. Unable to look him in the eye, I turn and see the stupid clerk watching me. He gives me a thumbs-up and a big grin. Great.
Brad follows my glance. “You know that guy?”
I shrug. “You know me. I make friends everywhere I go. Especially in summer. It’s such a great time to meet people.” I smile, showing all my teeth.