In a goddamn child’s pose.
Since it’s practically the only yoga pose I can do right now with my broken, pathetic, flimsy-ass ribs.
Fine, they’re not broken. But…feels like they are.
I stretch out my arms in front of me on the yellow mat in the living room while Zamboni circles me, nudges my hair, then slides next to me, slinking into a proper downward dog with utter ease. “Are you trying to make me jealous? Because it’s working.”
She wags her tail, still happy to see me, even though I’m not sure I deserve nice things.
I am sure of this—my vaunted discipline is long gone. I don’t even fight the impulse to look for Skylar. I turn to peer out the sliding glass doors. Not that I can see herfrom inside. I just wish I could, even though I don’t want her to see me as I move into cat-cow.
Four days after injuring my ribs, and I’m feeling better. The pain’s no longer persistent. The ice is doing its job. Time is working its magic.
But kale smoothies don’t taste as good as they used to.
After I finish the weakest of weak yoga sessions, I plod past the kitchen, glancing at the remains of my smoothie, only half-drunk, in a to-go cup that had nowhere to go.
Even with fresh-picked kale from the farmers’ market that I had delivered, my morning pick-me-up still tasted like disappointment—my disappointment in myself.
The pile of dishes in the sink is teeteringly high. Huh. I wonder how many more plates till it crumbles? Maybe it’ll topple onto the unwashed blender.
Later. I’ll deal with it later.
I pop in my earbuds and hunt for my newest audiobook—the one on focus that Hannah sent me. I’ve been trying to get through it for more than a week now. I should be able to get through it. I have nothing but time as I recuperate from a stupid, self-inflicted injury.
This is all my dumbass fault, but as I find myself wandering aimlessly up the stairs and through my bedroom, I have no clue what the narrator just said about ways to improve your attention in the present moment.
“Fuck me,” I mutter as I stare at the second-floor deck.
And the hot tub.
And the temptation.
I’ve never been good at resisting my neighbor. Not sure I can stop now with my self-control having vacated the premises. Like some master puppeteer is controlling me, I turn on the tub, and minutes later I don’t evenbother stripping off my yoga shorts. I step into the hot tub with them on.
I won’t watch her. Seeing her will only make me want what I can’t have.
The woman I fell in love with.
The woman I need to stop thinking about.
I try again to focus on the moment—the warm water, the bubbles surrounding me, the soothing sound of the jets. But the hot tub doesn’t ease the lingering sting in my ribs, or the ache in my heart.
And, evidently, I possess zero focus. Because before I know it, thirty minutes have passed and I’ve spent the whole time staring forlornly at my neighbor’s kitchen windows, desperate for a glimpse of her.
But there hasn’t been one. I don’t deserve it anyway. I close my eyes, and somehow, I fall asleep in the hot tub.
I wake up groggy, in tepid water, to the sound of laughter.
I peek over the edge and freeze up. Skylar’s on the porch, her red hair pulled into a messy bun, dancing with the dog and her podcast friends. Pretty sure I saw them arrive yesterday, too, in Trevyn’s car. Not that I’ve been staring out the windows like a pathetic creeper. Watching everything going on. Hoping for a glimpse.
I grit my teeth, jealousy thrashing inside me that I’m not the reason she’s having a dance party. Then guilt strides in next. I shouldn’t be butt-hurt that she’s having fun.Two days in a row. I should be happy for her.
But as the song ends and she heads inside, my heart plummets like the stock market on a bad news day.
Here I am, sitting in a lukewarm vat in my shorts, stealing a glimpse of my neighbor—who I broke up with.
I might have pulled the trigger, but she’s the onemoving on. I need to move on too. I made my choice—to focus on my career. Now I need to do just that.
