Page 124 of Wells

"Bring your hands to your heart. Thank yourself for showing up today."

My hands press together. My heart pounds against my palms.

"Namaste."

The class echoes it back, and I bow my head.

Students roll mats behind me and murmur quiet thanks as they move toward the door. I stay at the front of the room and stack blocks on the wooden shelves against the wall. My hands grip each foam cube a little too hard, but the task gives me something to do while the space empties.

Wells doesn't leave.

He rolls his mat and tucks it under his arm, then steps to the side near the window. He waits without approaching, just standing there while the room clears around him.

I coil a purple yoga strap and hang it on its hook. My heart still hasn't settled. The grief that rose during class still sits in my chest. I figured the chances of running into Wells in New Orleans were slim, but I would have said nil to running into him in my studio. I never braced for seeing him here, of all places, and now I'm paying for it.

But I've got this.

Two students linger near the door, talking about dinner plans. I adjust the blocks on the shelf one more time, then turn and walk toward the cart of bolsters in the corner.

Wells moves then. He crosses the room in four strides and stops a few feet away.

"Cera."

The sound of my name in his voice hits harder than I want it to. I lift a bolster and set it on the cart without looking at him.

"Wells. I wasn't sure if I was seeing things when I saw you here."

"I didn't know this was your class."

I glance up. His face is the same, the sharp angles, the dark eyes that watch too much, but something in him looks different now, settled, calmer than I remember.

"Well, that makes two of us surprised. I hope you enjoyed it. You've improved since the last time we did yoga."

Summoning that day instantly makes the back of my neck ache.

He nods. His hands stay loose at his sides, and he waits while I finish stacking the bolsters.

The last two students leave. The studio goes quiet except for the soft hum of the diffuser in the corner.

"What are you doing here, Wells?"

"Taking a class."

"You don't do yoga."

"I have been for the last several months."

That stops me. I search his face for the angle, the lie, the thing he's not saying. He looks back at me without flinching.

"That's wonderful, Wells."

The words sound rehearsed. I want to say something else, but I don't know what to say.

"You might find this interesting, but yoga helped me quit smoking."

"Shut the front door. You quit smoking? I thought you said that would never happen."

The air goes out of my lungs. I blink at him, my arms loosening enough that my hands drop to my sides.