“High bar.”
“It’s a Monday morning yoga class in Silver Lake,” Blair says. “The bar is buried beneath a pile of emotional unavailability and oat milk foam.”
The drive is just the two of us, and it’s filled with gossip,laughter, and just enough complaining about men to officially check off the bonding portion of the day. We spent most of the weekend at her and Wyatt’s house in Santa Monica, just the girls, lounging on the patio, sipping cocktails, and soaking in ocean air like it could cure everything. I’d been the one to suggest it, not because I needed a social night, but because I really didn’t want to be alone in Lucas’s apartment. Or my own.
Lucas left on Friday for La Jolla to celebrate Manmorial Weekend. The infamous “attached men only” beach trip Wyatt and Jake started back in their college days. I’ve heard all about it from Blair, but this is the first time that Lucas has been invited, the first time he’s technically counted.
He mentioned it casually and then suggested that I gather the girls together for our own weekend of fun activities. Fake husbands aren’t supposed to be this thoughtful. It messes with the boundaries and makes the pretending feel a little too real.
We pull up to a sleek little studio storefront with a name that sounds like an indie perfume brand, and I spot Sophia waving through the glass, looking unfairly fresh-faced for someone who was drinking negronis with me until midnight.
Inside, Stella’s already set the mats out in perfect rows. The water bottles are labeled and aligned like she’s trying to win an Olympic gold medal in hosting.
She beams when she sees us.
“Ok, so this is Natalie,” she says, gesturing to the stunning brunette at the front of the room. “She’s a literal goddess and my new favorite person.”
Natalie turns toward us with a smile that’s warm,genuine, and somehow both calming and intimidating. She looks like she could talk you into a headstand or a major life change without raising her voice.
“Hi! I’m so excited you’re all here. I’ve heard amazing things,” she says, her voice smooth but not rehearsed.
“You’ve heard amazing things?” I ask, skeptical.
“I have! You must be Jess, the badass podcaster,” she says as she takes my hands in hers. “And you must be Blair, Stella’s boss.” She gives Blair a wink.
“We’ve already been introduced,” Sophia offers cheerfully, “but Jess is the one who just got married and is working with Dylan on theReal Powerdocumentary.”
“Wait,” Natalie says, blinking. “You’re married to Lucas Carmichael?”
I slowly descend to my mat. “Depends. Do you have a strong opinion about PR execs with unnervingly symmetrical faces?”
Natalie laughs. “No, but I do have a strong opinion about your husband being hot.”
Blair hoots, and I groan. “You can keep that opinion,” I say. “I hear it enough on Instagram.”
Natalie shrugs, totally unbothered. “Married men are safe to thirst after. No stakes.”
I shoot her a look, smiling despite myself, but something twists in my stomach quick and subtle, like the snap of a rubber band. It’s stupid. She’s not wrong, and it’s not like I actually want to claim him. Still, the idea of anyone else thirsting after Lucas makes me feel off.
I brush it away, but the ping of possessiveness lingers longer than I want to admit.
Class begins with a flow that feels easy until I realize it’s just the warm-up. Half an hour in, I’m dripping sweat and attempting a twisted triangle pose that should be illegal in polite society.
Beside me, Blair mutters, “If I die here, delete my browser history.”
Sophia’s already in full zen mode, effortlessly following Natalie’s cues like she’s auditioning for a luxury wellness retreat commercial. Stella, of course, looks like she belongs on the cover of the wellness retreat’s magazine. When we hit savasana, she sighs contentedly and whispers, “Told you. Natalie is magic.”
After class, we file out slowly, our limbs loose and our spirits slightly higher. Natalie joins us at the smoothie bar attached to the studio, and we gather around a tiny reclaimed-wood table, sipping things with spirulina and chia seeds like we understand what those are.
Blair’s phone lights up with a FaceTime from Wyatt, and she answers with a grin. “Hey, babe.”
He’s in the passenger seat, his hair wind-tousled from the drive. “Hey, gorgeous. Just left San Diego. We’re headed home.” He flashes her a crooked smile and then flips the camera around quickly. “Jake’s driving, Grant’s still nursing a hangover.”
“Not a hangover!” Grant shouts from somewhere offscreen. “Just deeply reflective.”
Sophia’s movieSurvivorsurpassed the $120 million mark this weekend, so I’m sure he was celebrating, and rightfully so. He bet big on a first-time producer in Sophia, andit paid off.
Wyatt laughs and turns the camera back to himself. “Can’t wait to see you tonight.” He blows her a kiss before the call ends, and all of us groan at the sweetness of it.
