Maybe.
two
Lilah
Isenttheemailto Kevin after midnight because I couldn't sleep.
Dear Kevin, After careful consideration, I've decided that my studio is no longer a good fit for your practice. I wish you well on your wellness journey. - Lilah
I rewrote it seventeen times. Added and deleted apologies. Almost chickened out completely. But Geoff's voice kept echoing in my head:Next time anyone makes a comment about your ass, you kick him out. Immediately.
So I did it. Hit send before I could overthink it more.
Kevin responded at 6 AM:Are you serious? Over one joke? You're way too sensitive. This is ridiculous.
I stared at the email for ten minutes, fingers hovering over the keyboard, already composing an apology in my head. Then I remembered how uncomfortable Kevin made me feel. How the other students, especially the women, tensed up when hearrived. How many "jokes" I'd laughed off over the past six months.
I deleted his email without responding.
It felt terrifying and liberating at the same time.
Now it's Wednesday and I'm setting up for the evening class. Geoff said he’d come back. Men like him, all gruff and damaged and clearly allergic to anything remotely spiritual, don't usually return after one session.
But, he walks in right on time. Black gym shorts, a faded Marine Corps t-shirt that's tight across his shoulders and chest. His dark hair is slightly damp like he just showered, and he moves carefully, favoring his left side, but better than Monday. Less stiff.
"You came," I say, immediately cringing at how surprised I sound.
"Said I would." He grabs the same mat from Monday and heads to the back corner without further comment. "Kevin responded to your email?"
My heart skips. "How did you know?"
"You have that look. Like you're waiting for punishment."
I bite my lip, remembering Kevin's angry response this morning. "He said I was too sensitive. That it was just a joke."
Geoff's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping there. "You didn't apologize to him, did you?"
"No! I just... I deleted his email without responding."
"Good girl."
The words hit me unexpectedly, making something warm unfurl low in my stomach. I've been called "good girl" before-– by my parents, by teachers, always in that patronizing way that means you're behaving as expected. But the way Geoff says it, low and serious and like I've actually accomplished something difficult, feels entirely different. Earned.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice coming out softer than I intended. "For pushing me to do it."
"You did it. I just pointed out what needed doing." He settles onto his mat with a barely suppressed wince. "Are we doing this or what?"
The class fills up, and Mrs. MacDonald arrives, immediately trying to pay with a check this time. I notice it's dated for next week, and I open my mouth to accept it, to tell her whenever is fine—
"Payment due at time of service." Geoff's voice carries across the studio from his corner, though he's not even looking at us, still focused on his stretching
"I... I could run to the ATM?" Mrs. MacDonald stammers, her face flushing.
"That would be great!" I say quickly, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. "Class starts at six, so if you're quick—"
"Take your time," Geoff interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We'll wait."
"We will?" The question comes out as barely more than a squeak.
