Deciding the rest of this can wait until Monday, I close out of the tabs before logging off the computer. Shoving my phone into my pocket, I slip out of the office.
Opening the glass door, I freeze in place, scanning the studio. I'm almost convinced I've been transported back to California. Studio Align looks like it belongs in Los Angeles.
The exposed brick wall softened with greenery. The pale wood floors polished to a soft shine. Reformer machines lined in neat rows, gleaming under track lights. Even the eucalyptus scent lingering in the air is familiar. It reminds me so much of my old studio. The one I would get lost in as my escape.
“Wren!”
Saylor waves me over, perched confidently on her reformer. She’s dressed in hot pink leggings and a cropped royal blue tank, with her vibrant pink ponytail slicked back out of her face. Her style is adorably unique.
“Hey, ladies!” I greet the group as I place my bag against the wall. Smiling warmly, Saylor taps the reformer next to her, while Abby Pierce jumps to her feet. She’s married to the football coach and runs a boutique in town. We’ve stayed in touch—somewhat—over the years since I ordered a lot of clothes from her boutique.
Abby throws her arms around me. “It’s so good to see you, Wren.”
I hug her back. “It’s good to be back.”
Her hands grip my forearm as she squeezes gently before stepping back. “We have some new items inthe store. You’ll have to stop in and check them out. Some summer dresses you’re going to love.”
My lips curl. “I’ll stop by this week.”
“Wait,” Saylor says. “Have you two stayed in touch?”
I nod, but it’s Abby who speaks first. “Wren’s my top customer.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure eighty percent of my closet is Ember & Ivory.”
“Only eighty?” Abby jokes.
The sound of the door opening has our attention turning, watching as Greer breezes in. Her hair is in ten different directions, cheeks flushed, as she glances at her watch.
“Made it with a minute to spare.”
“Look, the hot mess express is here,” Saylor jokes as we all giggle.
Greer places her water bottle down near an empty reformer. “I overslept. Baker had a show last night, and we got home late.”
I wiggle my eyebrows, but she shakes her head. “Girl, don’t even start that bullshit.”
“Yeah, they’refriends,” Abby chides.
“We are,” Greer states matter-of-factly.
The instructor claps, startling me, as her voice comes from the speakers. “Morning, ladies. Let’s get started.”
I find an empty reformer and take my position as the instructor tells us to put our feet on the footbar with our heels together and toes apart.
“Inhale to press back. Exhale to return.”
“Flowers” by Miley Cyrus pulses overhead, the mirrors reflecting our movements back to us. My body remembers the rhythm, and I focus on the movements, shutting out the world.Press. Pull. Breathe. Repeat.My muscles engage in a delicious burn I haven’t felt in a few weeks. For a second, I’m not Wren Drummond, the girl who came home scarred and haunted, but a woman sweating as her body pushes its limits.
“God, Wren,” Abby whispers between reps. “You’re a pro at this.”
“I took classes weekly to help my sanity,” I admit, breath catching up.
Saylor scoffs. “I didn’t think LA had any sanity.”
The girls and I laugh. “It’s an illusion.”
We move into planks, the instructor urging us to tighten our cores.Engage your core, Wren. Suck in your belly button and breathe.
