Page 137 of Wells

“I kept thinking I was private,” he says. “But most of the time I was just hiding.”

I don't rescue him from that.

He looks down at his coffee. “The Sol House was already in motion by then. I started it after our walk that day, but I was waiting until I knew it could actually happen before I told you.”

His thumb stops on the cup. “And after that, telling you would’ve felt like using it. So I didn’t. I just kept going.”

I keep waiting for the catch. The angle, the small lie I can hold up between us, the thing that would let me call him dangerous and go home safe. It doesn't come. He hands me the truth and asks nothing back for it, and somewhere in the second hour I notice my body has quit bracing.

The rain's quit too by the time we run out of coffee, and the light through the window has turned gold. I realize I don't want to get up. Not the old want, the starved reach to be picked by somebody, anybody. I have a whole life now, and it's mine, and I'm choosing to stay in this chair, anyway.

So when we finally stand, I don't hand him the careful line I walked in with. "Want to do a yoga class together?" I ask, and it's that simple, and I mean it down to the floor.

His face opens. "I'd love that."

"Tomorrow there is a class at New Orleans Museum of Art in the Besthoff Sculpture Garden at sunrise. You think you can hang?"

"Probably not. But it sounds like a challenge I'm up for."

We step out onto Magazine Street, and I wheel the bike off the rack and walk it between us toward the corner.

At the corner, I swing a leg over the seat. "See you bright and early tomorrow morning."

"I'll be there."

I push off, and the pedals catch under me. The street runs clear ahead, the sun poking through the clouds, already doing its job of drying the city.

Now, going home alone isn't being left. It's choosing my own way there.

And tomorrow morning, if he shows up, I'll choose that too.

THIRTY-TWO

Wells

The Resurrection: Easter is the turn from the sealed tomb to the open one, proof that what looked finished could come back into the light. He hands her the last buried thing himself, unasked, and lets her hold all of him at once.

I get to the sculpture garden twenty minutes early because apparently growth has not cured me of being ridiculous. For some reason, I'm especially nervous about this one. I've been doing yoga, now, for four months. I'm comfortable in my own skin on a mat and have learned most of the basic poses.

But this isn't a beginner’s class. I'll stick out like a sore thumb.

And more than that, Cera will be here.

The sky is still soft when I park, the kind of gray-blue morning that makes the city look like it has not decided what it wants to be yet. The air is cool for New Orleans, almost gentle, with the last of yesterday’s rain still clinging to the grass and the leaves.

I get out of the car and stand for a second with my mat tucked under one arm, trying not to look like a man who has spent the last twelve hours thinking about this. It's a yoga class, for Christ's sake, not an engagement party.

But she initiated, and I'm sure as shit not taking it lightly.

I walk through the entrance and follow the inaudible murmur of voices. A small group has gathered on the lawn between the sculptures, people unrolling mats, tying back hair, sipping from water bottles. The trees spread above us, dark against the brightening sky, and the whole place has the reverence of a church before the preacher starts talking.

I used to hate mornings like this.

I find a spot near the back and roll out my mat. It lands with a soft thud on the damp grass. I crouch to smooth the corners.

Cera walks in with her mat under one arm and her hair pulled back from her face. She wears black leggings, a faded green sweatshirt, and a softness around her eyes that knocks the air out of me more efficiently than a punch ever has. She sees me, and her smile comes slowly, not careful and not polite.

Real.