MARLEY
It’safter five am when I wake up the next morning, and I find two bottles of water on the nightstand. Leaning against them is the resort's stationery, with the words “drink me” written on it in Othello’s handwriting. I groan, pressing my hand to my forehead, but a smile still finds its way to my lips.
Cute. But I’m still mad at him.
My head is pounding. Not as bad as I expected, but pounding nonetheless. I grab one of the bottles of water and take a long drink. The curtains are pulled back, and outside the sky is still dark. Just below, along the shoreline, is where sunrise yoga will take place in the next thirty minutes. I debate whether I should stay in bed and nurse this hangover. Or if I should do at least one thing I had planned on this vacation. I felt the need for a reset. Some sense of calm after the day I had yesterday.
Othello telling Carina I was his girlfriend threw me for a loop. And the look on Carina’s face when she realized we were “a couple” was all too baffling.
What the hell was that about?
I couldn’t help but notice that flicker of disappointment in her eyes when Othello grabbed my hand. Does she still have feelings for him? Does he still have feelings for her?
He sounded sincere that he wasn't trying to use me, but why the panicked decision? Why did I have to be the center of it? Every moment we’d shared up until that point has felt so genuine. I don’t know if I trust what he says is true.
My mother’s voice echoes in my mind.A smooth road doesn’t mean there aren’t potholes waiting ahead.And if this isn’t the biggest pothole I’ve ever landed in, then I don’t know what is.
I finish the bottle before deciding that yes, I will go to sunrise yoga. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and pull my hair into a low ponytail. I get dressed in my mint green yoga pants and matching sports bra.
By the time I'm ready to put on my shoes, the throbbing in my head has subsided.
A little.
I take more pain meds and then put on the only pair of tennis shoes I packed. I grab the second water bottle from the nightstand. I toss it in my canvas bag along with a clean towel from the resort.
I open the bedroom door and step out soundlessly so I don’t wake Othello. I hear him before I see him, the moon casting a glow into the darkness of the living room. He is snoring softly and stretched across the couch in a way that looks anything but comfortable. His arms are flailed above his head, his feet dangling off the end, with a blanket twisted around his waist.
I don’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him.
Poor thing.
For a second I consider waking him and telling him he can take the bed. After yoga, I’ll be checking into my new roomanyway. But he looks too peaceful, in that kind of sleep that says, 'do not disturb’. So, I don’t.
The soundof the waves grows louder the closer I get to the beach. The sun is still hiding behind the horizon.
Seems like I’m not the only vacationer bold enough to do the downward dog before sunrise. As I get closer to the designated area, I spot another early bird already unrolling her yoga mat.
The instructor is nowhere to be found, but her mat waits front and center, positioned closest to the waves. With a view like this, I might actually survive this sunrise yoga session, hangover and all.
The early bird, dressed in a chic pink workout fit, is already moving through her stretches, every motion sharp and graceful. She is older, with hair that gleams a striking silver that is either her natural color or the works of a master colorist.
I unroll my mat next to hers and shove my water bottle halfway into the sand to keep it from tipping over. We glance at each other, trading a smile and nod that says hello without words. But her face makes me do a double-take.
Wait. No way!
“I thought I’d be the only one crazy enough to do yoga at sunrise,” the early bird says, not even sparing me a second glance as she folds into another flawless stretch.
I bend over, forehead to knees, hands to toes, my curiosity working overtime.
Don’t stare, Marley. Don’t stare. Just be cool.
The instructor, Alicia, finally appears, all chipper and glowing, with her kinky puffball at the nape of her neck and her pink, pedicured toes. She apologizes for her tardiness, blaming iton an important phone call. She gets right to it after introducing herself and cues us into our breathing, but all I can think about is the woman on the mat beside me.
Ithasto be her.
Collette Randolph.
Former editor-in-chief ofVogue. She is one of fashion’s most influential editorial voices, helping shape trends and launch the careers of emerging designers. Sheis a fashion icon. Someone I've admired for years. She reminds me so much of the late André Leon Talley. Poised, commanding, and effortlessly elegant.
