“Correct,” I say, prim as a princess. “And I regret nothing.”
Charlie nudges Zoe with her elbow. “What’s the name? You have to tell us!”
“Obviously.” Zoe leans in, lowering her voice for maximum suspense. “It’s—”
The instructor materializes in front of us, a serene smile plastered on. “Sisters, laughter is welcome. Yonislovejoy. Tell me, what does your yoni crave?”
We all snap ramrod straight, choking back hysterics.
“My yoni—it, uhh—it…” Charlie squeaks, then dissolves into another fit of laughter.
I plaster on a solemn face. “Mine craves macarons. Pistachio and rose.”
Zoe presses her lips together so tight they blanch, her shoulders shaking with the effort of not completely losing it.
The instructor beams, utterly unbothered. “Sweetness for your sweetness. Beautiful.”
As she floats away, Charlie’s still wheezing, and Zoe hisses, “I hate you,” through her grin.
That’s when the chanting begins—low, droningohhhmsthat vibrate the floor.
Zoe leans back on her elbows, shooting me a sideways look. “Nope. I’m notohhmingabout my vagina.”
“Youryoni,” I correct, swaying side to side, already half caught up in it. “Come on, free your goddess, Zo.”
Charlie peeks an eye open. “If you don’t chant, I’ll tell Chase you’ll reenact it for him later instead.”
Zoe glares, but her mouth twitches. “Fine. But I’m chanting in lowercase.”
Begrudgingly, she joins in, muttering anohmso flat, it makes Charlie snicker all over again.
After class, we spill out onto the sidewalk in a wave of incense and muffled laughter. The air feels cleaner after all that candle smoke, cool against my flushed cheeks.
“I’m filing a lawsuit,” Zoe declares as we walk. “False advertising. That was not yoga.”
Charlie snorts. “My abs hurt more from laughing than from core work, so I’d call it a win.”
I stretch my arms overhead, grin wide. “You’re welcome. Goddess energy unlocked.”
“Unlocked and shoved back in the box,” Zoe mutters. “With duct tape.”
We duck into the café across the street, and the girls order their coffees while I go for my usual matcha latte. Zoe eyes it like it’s radioactive.
“You know that tastes like grass, right?”
“Delicious, healing grass,” I chirp, hugging the cup to my chest.
Charlie shakes her head, amused. “Only you, Lulu.”
We snag a corner table, sliding into the seats with that giddy, post-class energy still buzzing between us. Conversation tumbles easily—Charlie griping about campaigns she’s working on from home between diaper changes, Zoe bragging about a recent video that’s gone viral, me venting about Principal Delacourt’s dragon routine and Pamela’s latest PTA ambush.
“Dylan’s mom tried to convince me detention stifles creativity,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Apparently, throwing paper airplanes during a test is an act of artistic expression.”
Zoe’s brow furrows. “Please tell me you laughed in her face.”
“I smiled,” I correct, sipping my matcha. “And gave Dylan extension problems.”
Charlie grins. “You’re savage.”
