Cora attempted Eagle pose, wrapping one leg around the other like a twist tie, but the sweat dripping down the back of her calf made her foot slip off her supporting leg. She landed awkwardly as her sweaty foot hit the ground.
“Sorry! Sorry!” she whispered to the rest of the class. Her spills were so predictable that no one even bothered to look at her when the inevitable crash came. Maggie kept her eyes closed but choked back a giggle.
Even after Cora had started to recover from the blindsiding breakup with Aaron, she kept herself in dating sabbatical mode. His timing had been cinematically awful, at the end of a spur-of-the-moment getaway to Paris, Cora’s third trip and Aaron’s first, a trip that Cora had been calling their “engagi-moon” to anyone who would listen. Though Cora’d worked hard to help the city bewitch him—plying him with buttery croissants, taking him to the Pont Neuf at night, and initiating sex the moment they got back to their room no matter how tired she was—he’d been sullen and withdrawn the entire time. His sudden confession on the flight back that he didn’t want to be married, full stop, no prologue or epilogue, left her questioning everything she thought she knew about love.
She could recall the rest of that flight like a highlight reel. Clawing off her seat belt and running to the bathroom, feeling like she was going to vomit. Trying to pry the ring off her finger so violently that she drew blood. She’d rinsed the trail of red off and dangled the ring from the tip of her finger over the toilet bowl, letting it sway back and forth just centimeters from a sky-high grave. Any turbulence would’ve done the job for her, but fate wasn’t on her side.
When she’d emerged from the bathroom a flight attendant saw her tear-streaked, blotchy face and rushed her back to the galley for a dose of sisterhood and a shot of tequila. With a crew’s worth of pep talks and a blanket from first class draped around her shoulders, she’d walked back to her seat next to Aaron with her chin high and refused to look at him for the remainder of the flight. She knew he could see right through her bravado, but she didn’t care. She refused to show him any weakness.
Aaron never told Cora exactly what had happened to bring him to that conclusion, so she was forced to try to find the facts hidden within his platitudes—it’s not you it’s me, we’re different people, you need things I can’t provide—and map out her own version of their relationship implosion. Every possibility left her feeling like damaged goods.
It took her a long time to feel ready to put herself out there again. Her self-imposed dry spell was good for her brain and her bank account—it allowed her to focus on building her business and kept her too busy to worry about distractions like Tinder and Facebook stalking. Now, though, she was ready to dip her toe in the dating pool again. Her bed was starting to feel too big.
Cora glanced around the yoga room.No comers in Bikram, that’s for sure,she thought. The gray-haired ponytail guy was a creepy close-talker who hugged without invitation. The decent-looking guy two rows ahead of her always wore Lycra bike shorts and a tight racer-back tank top. She didn’t care how normal he seemed during their brief chats before class. She just couldn’t come to terms with a guy who willingly exposed the outline of his package to everyone in the gym each week. Besides, it wasn’t that impressive of an outline. The one gorgeous, yoga-chiseled, suitably attired guy in class? (Shorts of a respectable length every week.) Perfect, but gay.
Corpse pose. Finally. Savasana, Cora’s favorite position. She couldn’t quite master Balancing Stick pose, but she could lie on the ground, palms upturned, with the best yogis in the world.
“Namaste,people. See you next time.” Ravi bowed to the class. Cora didn’t even bother thinking impure thoughts about Ravi, he of romance-novel hair, tan skin, and perfect physique. There was the unwritten yoga instructor’s code about not dating students, and then there was the problem of Ravi’s stunning spin instructor girlfriend. Cora wasn’t a poacher.
Charming Charlie Gill flitted into consciousness.Off-limits,Cora reminded herself.
“Hey, sweaty Betty,” Maggie called to Cora, still resting on the floor. “I’m going out to get a smoothie with Gym Jack from the front desk.”
“You mean Gym ‘Jake’ from the front desk?”
“Jack, Jake—close enough.” Maggie shrugged. “Wanna come?”
“I’d love to be your third wheel but I’ve got to get home and let Fritzie out.” Cora was timepiece precise about walking her dog.
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow? Maggie—you’re all gross from class! Are you serious?”
“I’m sure he has a shower. Besides, getting clean is half the fun!” Maggie gave a little cheerleader kick and headed for the front desk, where Jake watched with a mooney expression on his face. Maggie hoisted herself up on the counter and planted a kiss on his cheek.
Hurricane Maggie strikes again,Cora thought.
She zipped up her hoodie and headed out to the street. Their gym was a bargain basement cement box in a seedy part of town, but the instructors were excellent, and Cora didn’t need bells and whistles like Olympic-size pools and racquetball. She couldn’t bear the thought of putting on makeup and fancy outfits just to work up a sweat.
The spring air was cooler in the darkness. She pulled the hood from her sweatshirt up onto her head.
“Hey, Red Riding Hood! Hey, girl!”
Cora looked around to see local eccentric Joe-Elvis emerge from an alley.
“Hey, Joe! Got a song for me tonight?”
A short, round African American of an indeterminate age, he knew every single Elvis song ever recorded, and could sing like a human jukebox when asked. He didn’t like to maintain eye contact, and he spoke with a slow, stilted delivery. No one knew where he lived—though he always wore a beat-up red windbreaker he didn’t seem homeless, since his jeans were always clean and had a grandma-approved seam ironed down the front.
“What do you wanna hear? It’s Friday night, where’s your man? And where’s my dog Fritz? Are you lonesome tonight?” He swayed back and forth as he talked.
“You must be psychic. I’d love to hear that song.”
Joe paused to slip into character. He adjusted his stance to mirror the King’s famous pose, lifted one arm in the air and sang the first chorus with conviction. He held his pose, and then peered at Cora out of the corner of his eye.
“Ilovedit—that was great!” She burst into applause, ignoring the people staring at the strange tableau as they passed by.
“Thank you, thankyouverymuch,” he replied, still in character. Joe spotted a dark figure walking toward them briskly with two dogs and dropped his pose. “Hey,” he called out to the man. “Hey, I like your dogs. Can I pet them? Yo, can I pet your dogs?”
