“Abby, what a pleasure to meet you,” the yoga instructor says.
I scramble to stand and greet her. “It’s so nice to meet you, too. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Destiny,” she says, and her wide smile and the sparkle in her eyes make me think she is one of those insanely likable people and I want to be her friend.
Except she’s already apparently friends with Miles for some reason, and I don’t need anything connecting me to him. Maybe in another life, she and I are good friends.
“I’m looking forward to your class today, Destiny,” I say.
“So am I,” Miles says, but he does so conspiratorially. As if he and Destiny have some kind of joke about yoga class. Destiny cackles and slaps Miles on the arm good-naturedly.
Destiny starts the class, and I try to focus on my breathing, on the movements. I try to concentrate on the poses and not the fact that Miles is moving right next to me. It’s one thing for him to just be in the class with me; it’s another to see him in my periphery. To see his forearms flexing with each movement. To catch glimpses of his toned legs guiding him through poses. Halfway through class, he removes his shirt, and I scoff loud enough to get a dirty look from the woman on the other side of me.
But Miles should be getting the dirty look, obscene as he’s being. How am I supposed to focus on my breathing and my own movements when I have to actively avoid watching the way Miles’s muscles move? His back in downward-facing dog would tempt a nun into sin. The way he moved through the sun salutation sequence was downright pornographic.
When the class ends, I’m the first one to roll up my mat and walk out of the room. I successfully avoid a conversation with Miles; Destiny starts up a conversation with him, and I’m able to slip away unnoticed by either of them. I don’t know what his endgame is, but if he meant for me to leave class a little more turned on than I came into class, he accomplished it. Not that I would ever admit that out loud.
I have a quick breakfast before I head to the resort spa for a free twenty-minute chair massage. It’s first-come-first-serve and there’s already a small line forming, although I’m close to the front. I don’t see any sign of Miles, so for the time, I feel safe enough to just scroll on my phone.
I shoot off a text to Hazel.
A: Captain tax.
Hazel texts back a picture almost immediately of the gray British shorthair cat they’re fostering. I scratch at my screen, as if I could scratch his chubby little cheeks that he likes to rub against my legs, my hands, anything he can reach.
Captain is an older cat who is as soft as he is handsome. He’s one of the foster pets Hazel and Winnie have in their care. I loved Captain from the second I met him a month ago. I was tired and overstimulated one day after work. I wanted a beer and a home-cooked meal from my best friend’s wife, who is a way better cook than Hazel or me, and to sit on their deep sofa and unwind, surrounded by Hazel and Winnie’s small zoo of animals.
Captain greeted me when I walked in the door that night and never left my side. To Hazel and Winnie’s utter delight, he sat on my lap all night. They’d been told Captain was unsociable and grumpy—his owner had died, and he wasn’t doing well at the shelter, hence why he needed a foster. Hazel and Winnie had barely seen Captain all week, and there he was, curled up on my lap.
I almost took him home that night, but I’ve never had a pet and the idea of being responsible for any living creature other than myself felt like too much with school and my impending travel, so I didn’t.
But now, with almost no one interested in adopting Captain, I find myself thinking more and more that maybe it should be me. I’m usually at Hazel and Winnie’s twice a week, and I thought I’d be fine not being able to see Captain for ten days, but it’s only day three and I’m missing him more than I thought I would.
I get the sense that someone is in my space, and I look up from my phone to see none other than Miles fucking Barker chatting with the girls in line behind me.
“Do you mind if I stand with her?” Miles asks a couple of tall, lean brunettes wearing matching pink pastel bikinis. His wide smile is all straight teeth and pearly whites. The kind of smile other people use as inspiration for veneers, and all he needed was a bit of orthodontia in middle school.
“Oh, no, of course not.” The girls practically fawn over him.
“Thank you so much,” Miles says, and turns to face me.
“The back of the line is back there,” I say, pointing to where at least ten people are standing behind me. “It’s rude to cut.”
“I asked.” He gestures to the girls behind us, who are wrapped up in their own conversation at this point.
“What are you doing here, Miles?” I cross my arms in front of my chest and glare at him through my eyelashes. He’s so tall that the top of my head just reaches his chin.
“I’m getting a chair massage. It’s free—why would I pass that up?”
“So? What if I don’t want you here?”
“Can’t I get a chair massage if I want one?”
“Yes, but go to the back of the line,” I say.
“But those nice girls let me stand with you.”
I release a pointed sigh and roll my eyes. There’s no arguing with Miles.
