Tori
Winnie’s yoga classes should come with a warning label.
Something like:May cause excessive sweating, public embarrassment, and the uncomfortable realization that you have zero core strength despite telling yourself you’re “pretty fit.”
I’m rolling up my mat in the back of the studio, still catching my breath from what she cheerfully called a “gentle flow” but was actually forty-five minutes of controlled torture. My thighs are shaking, my arms feel like noodles, and Winnie is up front looking like she just took a leisurely stroll through a meadow, not a single hair out of place in her perfect ponytail.
“You coming?” She bounces over, yoga mat tucked under one toned arm. “I’m dying for a smoothie.”
“I’m dying, period.”
“Drama queen.” She rolls her eyes. “You did great.”
“I fell out of tree pose. Twice.”
“Everyone falls out of tree pose.”
“You didn’t.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve been doing this for years. You’ve been doing it for—”
“Three classes.”
“Exactly. Baby steps.” She links her arm through mine and steers me toward the door. “Smoothies. My treat. You can tell me about the latest with your hockey player.”
My face heats immediately. “He’s notmyhockey player.”
“Mm-hmm. Sure he’s not.”
The smoothie shop is two blocks from the studio, one of those places with too many options and a line out the door because everyone in Brooklyn apparently needs acai and spirulina at eleven on a Saturday morning.
We grab a spot in line, and I watch the familiar phenomenon unfold.
Three guys at the counter turn to look when we walk in. The one making smoothies nearly drops a blender cup. A dad with a stroller does an actual double-take, then immediately looks guilty about it.
Winnie doesn’t notice any of it. She’s studying the menu board with genuine concentration, like choosing between mango and passion fruit is a life-altering decision.
This is what it’s like being friends with Winnie Garrett.
She’s five-foot-six with the kind of effortless beauty that makes people walk into doors. Long, shiny hair, big blue eyes, a body that somehow manages to be both athletic and soft in all the right places.
And the thing is, she genuinely has no idea. I’ve known her for years, and I’ve never once seen her use her looks to get anything.She just... exists, being absurdly gorgeous while remaining completely oblivious to the trail of slack-jawed men she leaves in her wake.
“I think I want the green goddess,” she says, turning to me. “What about you?”
“Whatever has the most sugar and the least vegetables.”
“So the tropical sunrise.” She nods approvingly. “Good choice.”
“My reward for surviving yoga.” I grin.
The guy at the register gives us a thirty percent discount for no apparent reason. Winnie thanks him sweetly and doesn’t seem to register that he’s blushing so hard he might actually combust.
We grab a table by the window, and she settles across from me, tucking one leg underneath her in that effortlessly flexible way that makes me feel like a wooden board in comparison.
“Okay.” She props her chin on her hand. “Spill. What’s happening with Grumpy Hockey Dad?”
“Don’t call him that.”
