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“I am,” she said.
“I take your Monday onlineYin with Affirmationsclass. It’s fantastic.”
“Oh,” she said, closing her notebook. “That’s wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“It completely fixed my lower back pain—which I think was half physical, half psychological, you know.” He offered a self-deprecating chuckle, rubbed at something over his right eyebrow.
She did know, gave him an affirming nod. “It usually is some combination of those things.”
“Where did you study?”
They started talking then, about how she thought she wanted to be a doctor, but realized that she was also interested in world religions, how she discovered yoga and meditation at college. Studied at a famous school in Upstate New York, went to India to finish her teacher training. How he played football in college, never good enough to go further, but was now wracked with various injuries from his efforts. He didn’t look like a football player, or someone struggling with injuries. She could usually tell where people hurt from the way they carried themselves—hiked shoulders, or a slight limp, overpronated foot. But there was something about him—his voice, the way he listened to her when she spoke, his gaze. It was hypnotic. Mako was always on his phone. If he wasn’t, he was distracted by his own thoughts. Not that he didn’t love her, that they didn’t connect often enough. But it was new to feel like someone was hanging on her every word.
By the time their entrees came—he’d ordered the same kale salad—she’d invited him to sit with her.
That’s how easy it was, how unexpected. Life happens.
“Do you teach any in-person classes?” he asked as he was paying the check. He insisted—since I talked your ear off all through your lunch when you’d clearly intended to journal. But hadn’t she done most of the talking? He’d told her very little about himself, hadn’t he?
She hesitated. Was it weird? But no, her schedule was posted on her website, public for everyone to see. She told him as much.
“I’ll see you there,” he said. And she felt her heart flutter a little. Silly.
It was only after she’d gone that she realized he’d never offered his name, and she’d never asked. But that was fine. Likely he wouldn’t show up at class; she’d never see him again. That was best.
And even if he did. No big deal. He’d take her yoga class. And she was married. And that was the end of the story. Right? Right.
But no. It was just the beginning.
Now the pain in her stomach twisted cruelly. The one good thing that might have come of it was probably already lost.
At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and listened, her breath ragged. It was quiet now.
Where were they all?
She heard Cricket’s laughter ringing outside. The rumble of Mako’s voice.
But the table was empty, napkins on dishes, silverware askew, wineglasses half-empty. They’d gone outside.
Another wave of pain; Liza leaned against the wall. Her vision was blurred, faded at the periphery.
Should she ask them for help? Should she call the police? Get Mako?
She could tell him that she was being stalked. It was true. But she couldn’t face them. Mako’s anger. Hannah’s disapproval. Cricket’s superior glee. Bruce’s blank distance. And when the police came or Mako confronted her stalker? Brandon would tell Mako everything. About the affair, that Liza was pregnant, probablyby that affair. Mako wouldn’t be able to abide it, would he? If she was carrying the baby of another man? He’d never forgive her. No one could forgive that.
And as flawed and broken as Mako was, she couldn’t stand to lose him.
No. She’d handle this herself. She’d give Brandon whatever he wanted—probably money—and he would go away. She’d sneak back inside and it would be like this had never happened.
She slipped down the rest of the stairs, through the foyer, then out the front door. He wanted something, obviously. Probably it was money. It wasn’t her; she knew that much. After she’d ended it, he’d never reached out again. It was like he’d never existed at all. He faded away and she could barely remember what she’d liked about him.
Then, suddenly, after Liza had discovered she was pregnant, he seemed toknow. Started texting again, turning up in her socials—liking her posts, and making cryptic comments in her feed.
You have something that belongs to me, he kept texting.
How could he know? She’d told no one. There wasno waythat he could have found out. Was he following her? Had he seen her buy the test? Or was he sifting through their garbage?
Her phone pinged:I’m waiting.
