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“I think I’ll just keep jogging.”Because I’m not so strong as to ignore that.
“Suit yourself.” Lauren seems completely unaware of the effect her current position has on me as she keeps alternating between her legs. The delicate curves of her lithe body have my fingers itching to reach out, hold her by the hips, and grind into her from behind.Fuck… This is a disaster.
I turn to run and realize I’m not the only one with these salacious ideas. Lauren’s attracted quite a few admirers, other joggers and some skaters, a few dog walkers. No one that seems ominous, but I can’t stop the slight panic I feel at the thought of what could happen if I leave her alone.
“You know what?” I turn back, the fear settling in my gut enough to crush any heat I was feeling. “I’ve never tried yoga before. Maybe I should.”
“That’s the spirit, Cupcake!”
We bend and flex, and if I crushed the running part, upward dog facing the sun is going to be the death of me, while Lauren looks completely at ease as her body twists in ways that, frankly, don’t seem entirely natural.
“You’re so limber, honey.” I wiggle my eyebrows, and Lauren shakes her head with a laugh.
“Like what you see, Cupcake?” She winks at me. “All these yoga poses giving you ideas?”
“You already know I like what I see, and I’m pleading the fifth on that second question.” I stretch my arms over my head in the way I know she likes, lingering to give her a few more seconds worth of ogling as punishment for making me watch twenty minutes of her showcasing impressive flexibility.
“Fair enough.” Lauren sighs when I drop my arms to my sides. “You have time for a quick breakfast?”
“Don’t you have to be at work sometime today?” I look at the time. “It’s almost 8 AM, and you still need to get home to shower.”
“I’ve got extra clothes at my desk, and we have office showers since so many employees squeeze a workout on the way to work, plus all the models with the hairspray,” Lauren explains as she makes a cloud motion around her head. She proceeds to lead the way to a small Cuban café on the boardwalk, not far from her yoga spot, waving at the middle-aged man who just came out of the shop carrying a tray with café con Leche and Pan Tostado. “Buenos Dias, Mendo.”
“Good morning, Lauren.” Mendo’s smile is broad and warm. “How are you andPirrothis fine morning?”
“Oh, I like that.” I chuckle. “Flaming hair. I should adopt that as my middle name. What do you think? Michael Pirro Edwards.”
“I think that might fall under cultural appropriation,” Lauren answers through her laughter. “Points for the knowledge, though.”
Mendo comes to our table, a knowing smile on his face as he watches Lauren laugh. “The usual, twice?” he asks.
Lauren nods with a broad smile and pulls the cap off her water bottle, taking a long drink, and I follow suit.
“So, are you originally from LA?” I ask, realizing I barely know anything about Lauren’s life aside from what she wears to bed, her job, her ex, her dreams, the way her eyes light up when she talks about something that excites her and dim when she’s feeling vulnerable and exposed.
“Not far.” She puts down her water bottle. “Oakland, San Francisco. I’m a Cali girl, born and raised.”
“Do you miss San Fran?”
“Not a lot of great memories there.” She shrugs, and I assume it’s supposed to be indifferent, but I don’t miss the sadness invading her eyes.
I place my palm over hers, giving it a squeeze. “Because of your parents?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know.” She shrugs again, her eyes softening as she looks at her hand covered by mine. “My parents… They weren’t like yours. They didn’t have a great love story.”
“How do you mean?”
“My mom was on vacation, got pregnant. They got married because they felt they had to,” Lauren explains, eyes still locked on our joined hands. Her rounded fingernails start grazing the skin of my palm with what I’m sure is an unconscious gesture, but still sends small currents up my arm. “I was seven when they died, and even then, I remember thinking they didn’t really like each other.” Her brow furrows, and she looks up at me. “They loved me, as much as they could considering neither really wanted me, but they were too hung up on being unwillingly stuck together.”
“Why didn’t they break up?”
“I asked my mom once. She said that her parents cut all ties with her when she got pregnant, so she did what she had to do to make sure we had a roof over our heads and food on our table.” Lauren silences as wary recognition darkens her features, and I squeeze her hand again, encouraging her to continue. “She told me we were lucky my dad agreed to marry her and take us in. That he had a good job and he was willing to provide for us, so I was forbidden from ever doubting it again, especially to him.”
I don’t know what to say to make the dullness in her eyes spark back to life, so I pull her chair closer to mine and cup her nape, hoping my thumb grazing her hairline is providing some semblance of comfort.
“I always promised myself I wouldn’t be like her, but after the crash, when I went to live with my grandparents, I realized they weren’t in love either.” Lauren looks up at the sky and lets out a long breath as if trying to hold back her emotions. “They were older, both lost partners and children during the Holocaust. They met in New York after World War II ended, even lived there for a while before my dad was born.”
“Really?” I ask, and she smiles ruefully, a sentiment I can’t help but mirror. I think how, in a different lifetime, Lauren and I could have met before all the bad happened to us. How I could have bumped intoherwhile attending Julliard, and maybe everything would have turned out differently. Better. “Why’d they move to California?”
