Page 44 of River & Rue

I lick my lips. “My eyeballs are sweating. I don’t think they’re supposed to do that.”

There’s a soft snort from my right, where Matteo sprawls. He, at least, appears to be as destroyed as I am. From the state of the floor around his mat, there’s no moisture left in his body.

“It’s called crying,” answers a different voice, the tone drier than my parched throat. “You’ll live.”

Maya laughs and loses her balance.

I tip my head back, glaring feebly at Jae. He sits cross-legged on a mat near the back wall, his features serene. It’s hard to tell with the lights so low, but I think his lips are curved.

“Finally,” groans Matteo.

A moment later, I shudder in relief as cool air showers down from the overhead vents.

The studio door cracks open, announcing the return of Moonbeam and the end of our unconventional shavasana. As she fiddles with the dimmer on the wall and turns the lights up to half power, Jae slips stealthily from the room. If my bones weren’t impersonating gelatin, I’d be right behind him.

The bells on Moonbeam’s anklets tinkle as she dances around us with a giant spray bottle in her hand. I close my eyes when she lands near me, prepared for the squitch-squitch and mist of cucumber water. The bottle is half clogged, and a thick stream pelts me on my forehead. At least it doesn’t land in my ear like it did yesterday.

“My fellow children of the sun, our work has awakened the day! Rise and shine, you beautiful beings of fire and possibility! Namaste.”

After a few more squitches, her bells jingle back across the room. The door opens and slams closed.

“Californians are so weird.” Matteo’s mumble comes from beneath the arm draped over his face.

“I take offense to that,” Maya says lightly.

Recalling our conversation at lunch yesterday, I frown at Matteo.

“Aren’t you from Pasadena?”

He chuckles. “Yeah.”

Maya pauses while rolling her mat, then nods. “In that case, I’ll allow it.”

Laughing feebly, I push myself to a sitting position. Maya’s already waiting with a hand outstretched, and she pulls me to my feet.

Unlike the prior three days I’ve subjected myself to this abuse, I retrieve my mat and empty water bottle without throwing up in my mouth. I do almost pass out, though, my vision tunneling as I straighten. Maya grabs the back of my tank top to keep me upright, only releasing me when I nod.

We drop our mats in the bin designated for cleaning, then say goodbye to Matteo, who hasn’t moved. He grunts and lifts a hand, mumbling something about breakfast.

The main gym is empty and quiet, most of the lights still off. It’s also at least thirty degrees cooler than the hellhole behind us. As we pass a row of ellipticals and treadmills stationed before a western-facing window wall, I glance at the view. The dawn sky is a marbled canvas of orange, yellow, and deep violet, the ocean a silvery line in the distance.

I’d love to pause and appreciate the beauty, but if I stop walking, I’m not sure I’ll be able to start again.

We finally reach the women’s locker room, and I collapse onto the nearest bench. Maya snags my water bottle, refills it at a nearby station, and shoves it into my hands.

I grunt my thanks and guzzle until my stomach protests.

She fills her own bottle before sitting beside me. “You know, not everyone is physiologically compatible with hot yoga. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I have a friend who’s taught advanced yoga for years, and she can’t handle it either.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve had enough. I’ll move to weights and machines tomorrow.”

“Or… imagine this—you sleep later and go for a run when the sun comes up.”

“The gym has treadmills.”

“You hate treadmills. I think your precise words were ‘Running nowhere kills my soul.’”

I yield with a sigh. I do hate treadmills. I do miss running outdoors. Gym workouts have never been my thing. I wouldn’t know what to do with a set of weights, much less all the complicated machines.