Class ends with a long savasana, and I let myself melt into the mat. Natalie dims the lights and moves through the room with effortless grace. And even though she’s wearing a lavender crop top and speaks with a soothing, soft voice, she still radiates don't-mess-with-me energy.
When she dismisses us, I roll up my mat and make my way to the front desk to find my bestie.
Natalie Cruz is a fiercely loyal friend who'll hex your ex and then hand you a turmeric latte without breaking a sweat. Her dark hair is braided down her back, streaked with violet, and there's an intricate constellation map tattooed along her left forearm, delicate lines connecting tiny stars that seem to shimmer when she moves.
She's got that post-class glow and the kind of I-don't-care confidence that's completely earned.
Born and raised in LA, she knows every hidden trail, underground supper club, and parking trick in this city. We became inseparable after I wandered into this very class two years ago.
“Time for breakfast?” I ask her.
“Yes, I'm starving.”
We walk to the café across the street, and Natalie orders a green tea and mango açaí bowl. I go for a breakfast sandwich and an extra-large vanilla latte. We claim a table on the sidewalk patio; the metal chairs are still cool from sitting in the morning's shadows.
Natalie settles into her chair with the fluid grace of someone who's spent years perfecting her posture, crossing one impossibly long leg over the other. She wraps her hands around her mug and, as steam curls up from it to catch the morning light, fixes me with those sharp green eyes that have a way of seeing straight through whatever mask you're wearing.
“What?”
“You seem stressed,” she says.
I take a sip of my coffee. “I'm not stressed. Just thinking.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I pause, peeling back the wrapper on my sandwich. “Well, first, I found out I get to manage Ava St. James while Blair is out on maternity leave.”
“Holy shit. That's amazing, Stella. Congrats!”
I can't help the smile that creeps across my lips as I take a bite. I'm still so excited about the assignment. “Thanks. If only my mom felt the same.”
“I'm not following.”
“Oh, I'm just bitching. My mom sent me a text this morning trying to set me up with the son of one of her friends who just moved out here. Apparently, he's very polite, very stable, and—her words, not mine—very ready to settle down.”
Natalie raises one perfectly shaped brow. “How romantic.”
“She included a photo. It's giving insurance brochure.”
“Is he holding a Labrador and standing in front of a kayak?”
“Golden retriever. Canoe.”
“Close enough.”
We both laugh, and I already feel the tension melting. Natalie has a way of making me feel better about what's bothering me.
“I know she means well,” I say. “But one minute, I'm on top of the world, feeling successful and proud of myself, and then I get a message from her, and it's hard not to feel like I'm failing some invisible checklist.”
Natalie leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “What do you mean by 'checklist'?”
I take a breath. “It's like I won't be successful in her eyes until I'm all wifed up.”
Natalie almost spits out her tea. “Do you even want to date?”
“I mean, I'm not gonna say no to a date. It wouldn't be the worst to find a hot guy who wants to pamper me, buy me dinner, and give me good sex.”
She snorts out a laugh. “Well, is there anyone you have your eyes on?”
