I’ve learned that fall in the desert is hit and miss, but tonight the air is the perfect cool temperature for a calming yoga sequence. The sun is beginning to sink behind the rocky, red cliffs in the distance. Crickets are chirping. Perfection.
“Okay, ladies, move intoadho mukha svanasana,” I say as gently as I can on an exhale.
“Dude, what?” Mercer snorts from her mat.
One of the other Nizhóní guests in my class—a finance analyst named Candace who is vacationing from Manhattan—answers before I have a chance. “Downward dog!” she shouts, only with her accent it sounds like “downwahd do-ahg!” and I have to smother my laugh.
“That was not verynamasteof you, Candace,” Mercer says peacefully, moving into downward dog. She’s getting good at this physically. Mentally, we still have some work to do.
Four months ago I started a program through Nizhóní where I help women recognize their inner beauty and find their voice. As part of it, we take evening hikes that end with a yoga sequence designed to promote mindfulness and inner peace. So far Candacehas no problem using her voice, but she hasn’t found her peace. Her plane leaves tomorrow, but Mercer will be my life’s work. Luckily, our wealthy guests pay me well enough to cover all the pro bono work I'm doing with my crazy blonde friend.
I speak quietly, hoping Mercer and Candace will follow my lead. “Move intonavasana, or boat pose,” I hint for my friend’s sake. The women around me shift into the pose, which is a fairly torturous core exercise. After months of consistency I can do this sequence without grunting, but a few women groan. “Inhale deeply. Sigh out of your mouth. Let the quiet surround you.”Hint, hint.I catch peaceful smiles on a few of the women.“Thank the sun for—”
“I hate this so much,” Candace’s strained voice cuts me off.
I sigh. “Okay.Savasana. Lower yourself to the earth. Inhale through your—”
“Ugh, hallelujah!” Mercer’s words and heavy groan echo off the canyon wall. She flops into her version of corpse pose: face down, with her arms and legs in starfish mode.
When her labored breathing transitions to loud conversation, some of the other women start to roll up their yoga mats around us. I sit up and face Mercer, crossing my legs in front of me on my pink mat. “Are you going to dinner at the Pratt’s after this?”
“Yeah. Joe said he wants everyone there. He was kind of weird about it.” Her words are muffled against her green thrift store yoga mat. She’s getting her money’s worth out of this savasana. “I hope you got your nails done.”
My gaze drifts to my bare fingers. I’m letting my nails heal and grow out after years of French tip manicures. I wiggle them at her. “Nope. Au naturel, baby.”
Because I know Joe isn’t going to propose… right? Obviously, we’ve talked about getting married sometime down the road—Joe started hinting at it around day two—but we agreed that I need time to settle in and find my groove in this new life. For now, we’re having fun getting to know each other, and we’ve been working hard on that. Joe is a very attentive boyfriend, and Mercer loves nothing more than to complain about how “sickening” we are together. That’s her favorite word to use around us.
“Can I hitch a ride with you? My car is making a noise like—” she imitates a sputtering, groaning noise. The rest of the women around her jump off their mats with more than one eye roll.
“Sure thing." It makes sense to carpool anyway, since I’ve been staying at Mercer and Sunny’s condo for the last—how many months have I been here? It's been a while. I camped in The Hulk at first, but when summer brought one hundred-plus degree days it became impossible. I need to find my own place. I’m not sure why I’ve been dragging my feet. Joe has come apartment shopping with me, but nothing has felt right. I’m not in a hurry to live alone again, I guess. Thoughts of apartment hunting fill my mind as I roll up my mat. At least I get to see Joe in an hour.
“If my brother isn't proposing to you, what do you think this is about?" Sunny asks as she leads the way into her family home. Mercer and I ended up riding with her, which is a scenario that happens a lot. Her little white Toyota is the most reliable of our three cars.
"He didn't say. He's been cryptic all day." I walk up the front steps behind the other two women, luxuriating in the feeling of home. The now-familiar scents of cinnamon and clove greet us as we walk through the Pratt’s front door. I hang my big purse in its usual place on the coat rack just as Joe rounds the corner.
"There's my girl." His arms immediately loop around my waist as he stoops to kiss the spot under my jaw. "Long day," he murmurs into my skin, "I needed this." He wraps me in one of his warm, all-encompassing bear hugs.
I hear Mercer mutter something about us being sickening before she makes her way into the kitchen.
Sunny isn't far behind her. "You guys make it really hard to be single. Just saying."
She is sweet about it, but she's right. I know we should tone it down, but I've never felt like this with anyone before. All of my attention is on my boyfriend and his cute bobbing Adam's apple and those chocolate eyes that are roaming over me. They linger longer than usual, which is saying something. I've gotten used to Joe's wandering gaze on me.
"What?" I twist around to inspect my backside. "Did I sit in something again? Darn it. And we drove here in Sunny’s car!" It's not outside the realm of possibilities to sit on a melted gummy bear in Mercer’s car, but Sunny’s is usually safe.
"You didn’t. You really don't know how cute you are?" He shakes his head. This is a conversation we've had many times. He's working to undo years of my mother teaching me that my value lies in my appearance, and that my appearance is lacking. Joe has made it no secret that I am beautiful to him, but that my beauty is the least interesting thing about me. His brown eyes find mine as he pulls my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss inside my palm. "I still can't believe you're mine. That's all."
I'm not sure my heart will ever get used to Joe. Sure, his outside is incredible—his broad shoulders, square jaw, and have I mentioned his forearms? I could write poetry about those. But the best part of Joe is what's inside—his pure, loving heart. I've never known a better man. He does what he says he's going to do, loves harder than anyone I know, and he's sweet to his mom. I need a pen. I have poetry to write.
"You ready for this?" he asks in that husky voice that kills me.
"I don't know. What's going on? You're being so mysterious." I wiggle my fingers at him like a big nerd. And I love that he smiles at my nerdiness.
"Let’s get everyone. You’re going to love this."
A few minutes later we’re all seated around the Pratt’s long table with paper plates loaded with pizza. Each of the sisters and Mercer have taken a turn teasing Joe for being so secretive. He takes their teasing in stride, and dishes it back like a professional older brother.
Sunny gets in a quiet jab. “You’re kind of being a drama queen with all of this suspense, Joe. I’ve never seen this side of you.” Her smile is innocent. She knows exactly which of her brother’s buttons to push. Joe is anything but a drama queen. Or king.
