Page 4 of Channeling the Flannel with the Mountain Man

three

John

Yoga leaves me sore in places firefighting has apparently neglected, which is no small feat. Two days later, I get out of Engine Four, and my inner thighs ache. Haugh notices. “You hurt, Cap?” he says, giving me a sideways look.

“No.”

“Walking kind of careful.” Haugh rocks back on his heels, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Equipment check.” I purse my lips, trying to keep my cool.

“Yes, Captain Downward Dog.” He salutes, and I know Chief Donaldson has told my crew about my punishment in yoga class.

I follow him into the apparatus bay, but I don’t yell—that should count as progress, right? Instead, I let him tease me about the yoga poses—it’s the first time he’s looked relaxed around me since the accident. Maybe yoga isn’t so bad.

***

The second class is called Restore and Release. I arrive wearing athletic pants under my flannel because I’m not ready to give it up, and Paisley notices immediately.

“Look at you,” she says. “Dressed for success.” She tilts her head, scanning me from head to toe.

“These were at the bottom of a drawer,” I mutter, walking past her to grab a mat.

“And yet destiny found them.” Her soft, teasing voice does something to me I’m not ready to think about yet.

“Do you talk like this to all your students?” I change the subject.

“Only the naughty ones.” Her laugh warms me, and I hate how much I want to hear it again.

“I’ll behave.” I nod, a rush of awareness surging at the word naughty.

Only six students show up tonight—the rain keeps most of them at home. Paisley sets out bolsters and blankets, and I can’t help but notice her curls are braided over one shoulder. When she bends, her loose lavender sweater slips, revealing a thin strap and smooth skin. I look away so quickly I nearly step on Mrs. Tanner.

“Sorry,” I mumble to the older lady.

“Something interesting catch your eye?” She raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to deny it. But Paisley saves me by starting class.

We have to hold poses for several minutes. Being still is harder than working hard. When my body is quiet, my mind drifts back to the shale bank—Haugh’s boot slipping, the patient thrashing, the rope cutting into my gloves. Then it drifts further, to my father’s truck crushed against a pine when I was fifteen, and to my mother shrinking into grief until I learned that anger felt stronger than fear.

“John.” Paisley steps closer and kneels beside my mat. I’m on my knees, my breath trapped high in my chest, the past taking over the present. “Look at me,” she whispers, and I lift my gaze to her face. “Name five things you see.”

“I’m fine.” I let out a breath.

“I know. Humor me.” She rests a hand on my shoulder.

I swallow hard. “Purple mat. Window. Plant. Your braid. Yellow socks.” I flex my hands once without looking away.

“Four things you feel,” Paisley says, tilting her head.

“Floor. My shirt. Air.” I look at her hand on my shoulder. “You.” I swallow and try to steady myself.

She rests two fingers lightly against my wrist, right over my pulse, and her expression softens. “Good. Slow inhale.”

Relying on her should have embarrassed me. Instead, her calm feels steady in the dark. That scares me in a new way. People can take away what you lean on. They can leave. I’ve spent my life trying not to need much, and now this bright young woman has become necessary, if only for a few breaths.

I breathe with her until the room becomes a room again. After class, I try to leave before she can ask anything, but I’m not quick enough—she catches me outside, her hands wrapped around the handle of a purple umbrella.

“You don’t have to explain,” she says.