one
Geoff
"Youlooklikeshit."
John doesn't even look up from dealing the cards, just states it like he's commenting on the weather. Bastard.
I down the rest of my whiskey and reach for the bottle, but Marshall's hand intercepts mine. "How much have you had tonight?"
"Not enough." My back is screaming. Has been for three days straight. The pills aren't working anymore, and I'm not about to go crawling back for more.
Rex leans back in his chair, studying me with those cold operator eyes. "When's the last time you actually slept through the night?"
"I sleep fine." The lie sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Bullshit," Geoff mutters. We're at his place, the cabin he shares with Lilah now. There are pink throw pillows on his couch. The guys give him endless shit about it, but he doesn't care. That's what being pussy-whipped looks like, I guess.
"Intervention time," John announces, setting down the cards. "We're worried about you."
I sigh. I try to stand, but my back spasms hard enough to make me grab the table for support. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Marshall says quietly. "You're getting worse. Drinking more, showing up less. When's the last time you did anything besides sit in your cabin and feel sorry for yourself?"
I want to hit something, want to tell them all to go to hell. But they're not wrong. I've been spiraling for months, ever since the pain got bad enough that even the whiskey doesn't help anymore.
"What do you want me to do? Physical therapy didn't work. Pills don't work. Surgery's off the table unless I want to risk paralysis."
"Yoga," John says simply.
I stare at him for a long moment, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn't come, I let out a harsh laugh. "You're joking."
"I'm not. Before I met Bunny, I was doing yoga for my shoulder. Helped more than anything else."
"Yoga is for housewives and hippies."
"Yoga is for anyone smart enough to try it," Marshall corrects. "Charlie does it. Says it's harder than it looks."
"I'm not doing fucking yoga."
Rex pulls out his phone, taps something. "Too late. Already signed you up for a trial class."
"You what?"
"Lilah's Light Yoga Studio. Tomorrow morning, 10 AM. Teacher's name is Lilah Sweet."
"I'm not going."
"You're going," Marshall says in that voice. The one that used to make privates jump during drills. "Because if you don't, we're staging a real intervention. The kind where we drag your ass to the hospital and make them admit you."
"You can't—"
"We can and we will," John interrupts. "You're our brother, Geoff. We're not watching you drink yourself to death in that cabin."
I look around the table. These assholes. These goddamn meddling assholes who won't let me self-destruct in peace.
"One class," I grind out. "One. And when it doesn't work, you all leave me the hell alone."
"Deal," Rex says, smirking like he already knows something I don't.
