Page 47 of Racing Hearts

I knew, from the way Mom has talked about the studio, that it’s been positive for her. Still, I wasn’t expecting it to be quite like this. Wood-paneled walls frame floor-to-ceiling windows, which look out on a courtyard garden brimming with green plants. Himalayan salt lamps droop from the vaulted ceiling. The faintest scent of lavender hangs in the room.

As I sit cross-legged on my cool rubber mat, waiting for the class to start, I watch my mom. She flits from student to student, inquiring about health issues and asking for requests. She seems to remember everyone’s name and their lingering aches and pains. When she passes, the students tip toward her like flowers searching for the sun.

I can’t help but smile with them. Mom is radiant. In her element. Completely in control, but brimming with energy and love. She struggled for so many years that I always hoped—but never believed—she’d find passion in life again. And now, look what she has.

The soft chords of a flute float around us. Mom takes up a spot in the center of the room, ready to start the class. I’m grinning at her like a maniac, probably just as I did as a very young child, watching her begin a dance performance.

It’s wonderful—the distraction I needed to stave off the memories of last night.

Just then, the door creaks open.

“Room for one more?” a familiar voice asks.

I spin.

Adrian’s broad shoulders hover into the entrance.

“Of course!” Mom exclaims. “You can put your mat right here. In front of my daughter.”

Fifteen

The worst part of this class isn’t the breathwork (strangely uncomfortable), my singing voice (laughable), or the various stretches (unexpectedly difficult, but oddly relaxing). It’s Adrian’s shirt. At least he’s wearing one, I guess. The problem is it’s made of some kind of stretchy material that clings to the muscles lining his back. Pulls tight across his shoulder blades. Tucks into the underside of his arm because it can’t seem to fully contain the bulk of his biceps.

I swear he did this to me on purpose. Every time he swivels around on the mat, I try to glare at him questioningly. Like Why must you make my life physically and irredeemably painful? but said with my eyeballs and general aura of anger. Adrian just smiles innocently like this is all a big coincidence.

Fifty minutes and four peace mantras later, Mom instructs us to lie on our backs. I close my eyes and try to focus on the faint lavender smell and the soft chimes in the music. All I can smell is Adrian’s cologne. All I can hear is that groan he made when I bit his—

Breathe, Kath. Focus on your breath.

As soon as Mom ends the class with a bow and a namaste, I shoot up from the mat. This isn’t going to be a graceful or polite exit. Still, I cannot be in the same room as Adrian and that blasted shirt for a single gong beat longer.

“Kath!” I’m halfway to the door when Mom’s voice halts my steps.

I mutter a curse as I turn. Mom is standing with a small group of people in a semicircle near the front of the room. Adrian is, of course, with them. Because apparently, I haven’t suffered enough.

Mom gives me another enthusiastic wave, gesticulating like she’s marshaling an airplane to a runway. Still, I hesitate, trying to find a way to leave without crushing her. Completely of their own volition, my eyes flit to Adrian’s face.

He’s smiling, but it’s tentative. Like he’s bracing himself for what I’ll do next.

My heart sinks. I’ve been so focused on Adrian’s muscles that I didn’t stop to think about his feelings. I bolted away last night without a word of explanation, and probably left him confused at best or pissed at worst. I can be an adult and have a conversation with him. I can be an even bigger adult and explain why I ran out. First things first, I guess.

Clinging to my yoga mat like it’s something between a comfort blanket and a shield, I slink toward the group.

“Did you have somewhere you need to be?” Mom asks as I approach.

I position myself so that Adrian is standing as far from me as possible and mumble something about a calorie deficit.

Mom rewards me with a patient smile.

“Kath,” she explains to the others, “needs to eat a lot.”

The assembled students nod like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation for Mimi’s daughter sprinting out of her own mother’s yoga class.

“But now that you’re here,” Mom continues, “I’d like to introduce you to some friends.”

She motions first to a muscular woman with a crop of gray hair that rings her headband like a mane. “This is Susan. She’s a retired firefighter.”

Susan flashes a chipped-tooth smile. “It’s great to meet you, Kath. Your mom brags about you constantly.” Her voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But I think she has a right.”