I have to laugh a little, because yoga was her idea at first. I dragged my heels to it, but now I’m the one excited about it every day. It gives me a purpose and something to look forward to every day. Yoga has been good for me.
“Come on, we don’t want to miss the sunrise,” I tell her, bouncing a little.
She eyes me. “Who are you and what have you done with the woman who questioned yoga on day one?”
“That was the hangover,” I say. “And trauma.”
Birdie snorts and grabs her hat, “You’re going alone tomorrow. I’m sleeping in and meeting my Bees for coffee.”
“Okay,” I say cheerfully. “But I bet you’ll regret not doing it. It’s the best start of the day.”
Even though yoga makes me ridiculously happy, these past two weeks haven’t been worry-free. I had to hide my phone in a drawer soI wouldn’t be tempted to look at it. While work isn’t missing me, I know my friends and family are confused, and likely upset or angry. Plus, there’s the tabloids and all their speculating. It’s a lot to obsess over.
And yet, I’m finding ways not to. I’ve been exploring the cute shops in town, taking long, reflective walks on the beach, cooking what I want versus what someone else wants for me, and prioritizing my wants and needs over anything else.
It’s strange, but nice.
“I’ve created a yoga monster,” Birdie says with a huff.
I sigh, feeling happy. “I’m finally sleeping and eating actual food. I might just be a human now.”
The sleep has been orgasmic. And not just because a certain handsome bartender keeps appearing in my dreams. I’ve finally been able to relax for the first time in forever.
Birdie studies me as if she’s trying to take it all in. She’s been doing that ever since I got here. Watching me closely as if I might break. “You’re glowing.”
That part is true. I am glowing. I don’t remember the last time I felt this rested. I feel like someone swapped my batteries.
She eyes my T-shirt and leggings, the same ones I have been washing and re-wearing. “You know I love you, sugar. But you’ve got to go over to Coral Moon and get yourself some clothes. You have been wearing the same thing on repeat.”
It’s so comfortable, though.
“Hmmm, not a bad idea,” I muse. “There were a couple of shops with cute things inside. Maybe I’ll check them out tomorrow.”
In New York, I admittedly had a stylist. She got me tailored suits and all my clothes. I never had to worry about what to wear. They just appeared in my closet. But now that I’ve been hiding out in Coconut Beach with an overnight bag that didn’t hold much, I do need to grab a few things. It might be fun to go shopping for clothes that I actually like and pick out for once. Maybe I’ll even get something daring that would have my mother clutching her pearls.
The thought makes me giddy.
Sunrise yoga on the beach feels less like exercise and more like permission to breathe again. And not to have to think about anything whatsoever for an hour. Just listening to Summer’s relaxing soothing voice and stretching and bending in ways my body isn’t used to. And the best part is that I’m starting to physically feel better.Stronger.
And Summer is the actual best part. She’s pure sunshine in human form, always barefoot, laughing, and comfortable wherever she is. I feel like I’m making a friend, and I love that. I’m going to ask her if she wants to grab a coffee and go shopping later. I can’t remember the last time I did something like that.
I’m embarrassed to admit that my only friend back in New York is Wilby, my assistant. And he was so mad that I left without telling him. He’s over it now, but when I got back to him after those first few days here, he gave me hell.
We’ve been texting whenever I fish my phone out and turn it on. Wilby is relieved I didn’t marry Tyler. I always knew that Wilby wasn’t a huge fan of Tyler’s, but he never said much.
Until now.
Now, every text insults my ex, and frankly, it’s therapeutic.
After class, Birdie wanders off to chat with someone, and I linger, watching the waves. That’s when I see him.
Cal.
And I try not to look. I do. The last thing I need is to crush on the cute, local bartender. He literally saw me at my worst. But he makes it really, really hard not to notice him.
He’s on a surfboard andwow...his body is beautiful. He’s in board shorts, shirtless, and effortlessly riding a wave. Afterward, he shakes out his hair and paddles out again. I watch him do it over and over, entranced by how gorgeous this man is.
Which is exactly why I need to stop looking. My pride is still tender and bruised from the beating it took a couple of weeks ago. Drooling over Cal complicates an already brittle situation.
