A Killer Retreat

by Tracy Weber

  I smiled. “Me too.”

  Jennifer walked away, looking nothing like the grumpy yogini who had skulked in and out of my yoga classes. Her energy seemed lighter, as if her heart were more open. Her feet skipped lightly along the ground. She seemed … happy.

  Emmy and Josh pressed a long-bladed knife through another of Jennifer’s creations: a three-tiered coconut whipped cream cake covered in dusty pink rose petals.

  Michael took my hand. “They look pretty good up there, don’t they?”

  I smiled. “Perfect.”

  He hesitated, seeming uncharacteristically timid. “Kate, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well …” He cleared his throat, then quickly looked down at the ground.

  He only paused for a few seconds. Not nearly enough time to process the thousands of thoughts, images, and emotions that coursed through me. I knew what Michael was about to ask; I’d known it for two weeks. I sat next to him, feeling like I might be sick.

  Was marrying Michael the right choice?

  How could anyone know what was “right” for the rest of her life, really?

  I wanted a crystal ball. I wanted to look into the future and know, with absolute certainty, how my life would unfold. This grasping, this burning fear of uncertainty, tortured me.

  Then I remembered the teachings.

  According to yoga, each of us has infinite choices, countless possible pathways in life. The exact road we wander is largely irrelevant. How we relate to those choices; how we travel those pathways—that’s what matters.

  Sam and Rene held hands and giggled about babies. Emmy smeared petal-infused frosting across Josh’s face. The four of them looked blissfully happy.

  I, on the other hand, had been suffering for days. Suffering—like all forms of emotional decay—flourished only in darkness. In ignorance, ego, aversion, and fear.

  It was time to find the light.

  I still had major control issues, that much was certain. But if Bella could be trained to get over her fears, so could I. We’d call it the Kate Desensitization Project. Michael and I would start out slow and grow together. I’d give him some closet space, maybe his very own drawer. Given enough time, I might even get used to his toothpaste-encrusted toothbrush. We’d take a few more family vacations and figure out how to cohabit in peace. We wouldn’t actually have to combine households until after the wedding.

  The nausea in my belly morphed into bubbles of hope. This could work! People had long engagements all the time. Michael and I could wait years before we tied the knot. Plenty of time for me to overcome my neuroses. Plenty of time, for that matter, for Michael to develop better housekeeping skills.

  I finally had my answer, and with surprising certainty. I wanted a future with Michael. I wanted to marry him. I squeezed his hand and smiled. Butterflies banged at the edges of my stomach.

  Michael cleared his throat.

  “Kate?” He paused again.

  Yes?

  “I think we should move in together.”

  My shocked mouth flew open. Then I closed it again.

  Michael stared at me, his expression an irreconcilable fusion of hope and dread.

  It’s how we travel the pathways that matters, right?

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I exhaled, I felt the butterflies flutter out of my stomach. I opened my mouth and sent my answer with them, before I had time to change my mind.

  “OK, Michael, yes. We’ll move in together. But I grew up in my house. It would break my heart to sell it.”

  Michael’s entire body broke out in a smile. “I wouldn’t want us to live anywhere else.”

  “And if this is going to work, you have to help do the dishes, whether you cook or not.”

  “Deal.”

  I flashed on that disgusting, flattened toothbrush, and shuddered. “And I don’t care if it bankrupts us. We’re adding another bathroom.”

  Michael’s eyes sparkled; the creases surrounding them deepened. “Agreed.” He reached out his hand. “Shake on it?”

  I have a feeling my eyes sparkled, too. I grasped the front of his shirt, pulled him in close, and covered his lips with my own. Michael and I might not be getting married—yet—but no mere handshake would do. A deal this important should be sealed with a kiss.

  the end

  about the author

  Tracy Weber is a certified yoga teacher and the founder of Whole Life Yoga, an award-winning yoga studio in Seattle, where she currently lives with her husband, Marc, and German shepherd, Tasha. She loves sharing her passion for yoga and animals in any form possible. Tracy is a member of the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, Dog Writers Association of America, and Sisters in Crime. When she’s not writing, she spends her time teaching yoga, walking Tasha, and sipping Blackthorn cider at her favorite ale house.

  For more information, visit Tracy online at TracyWeberAuthor

  .com and WholeLifeYoga.com.

  Author photo by Jason Meert.