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Mikki is an intense instructor. She powers through the first flow before walking around the room and helping students adjust their warrior poses.
The class moves at a steady, invigorating pace. Once it’s time for Savasana, I’m exhausted.
Lyndsey shakes my shoulder. “Vince, wake up!”
“Fuck, did I fall asleep?”
“Almost,” Lyndsey says as she rolls up her mat.
“There’s a back room if you want to change,” Lyndsey says.
“Yeah, that’d be great.” I follow Lyndsey into a room that must moonlight as a supply closet and pray that my shirt won’t look too wrinkled. I roll the sleeves of my button-down up to my elbows and smooth the fabric. I wish I had a mirror.
“You look great,” Lyndsey says when I emerge. She’s wearing a pair of jean shorts and a crop top. I resist the urge to cup her hip with my hand.
“Lynds, do you want to give Vince directions back to the house, or do you want to follow me?” Mikki asks.
“I can follow you,” I volunteer.
The three of us hike downstairs and out into the parking lot. Mikki gets into a beat-up silver Toyota. Lyndsey and I hop back into my car.
Lyndsey grew up in a one-story elongated ranch with a persimmon tree blooming in the front yard. Mikki planted a variety of flowers, including hydrangeas that dot the driveway. She parks and hops out, waving me forward.
Lyndsey grabs the flowers and exits the passenger side. I follow her up the driveway. Mikki unlocks the door; the interior of the house is cozy. It smells like incense and herbs. The living room and the kitchen are divided by a Formica countertop.
A floral-print couch dominates the living room, and photos of Lyndsey dot the walls. I slip my shoes off and take a closer look: Lyndsey smiling without two front teeth, Lyndsey and I’m assuming Allison, striking a pose at the pool wearing swim caps and goggles, a high school portrait of Lyndsey wearing pounds of eyeliner, with one side of her head shaved.
“Don’t!” Lyndsey leans forward and covers the photo with her hands.
“I’ll do you one better!” Mikki enters the room with a massive, brown leather photo album in her arms.
“Jesus, Mom! Baby pictures? Really?”
“Well, I think it’s a great idea,” I say.
I walk over the counter and flip open the album. A photo of Lyndsey as a toddler wearing a light blue dress falls out. She has the same determined expression. She’s glaring at the camera with her mouth pressed into a determined line.
“She hated being photographed,” Mikki explains with a laugh.
“And I still do! Put that away. I’m begging you!” Lyndsey plops the bouquet next to the album, “These are for you, Mom.”
“Oh, Lyndsey, they’re gorgeous. You shouldn’t have!”
“It was Vince’s idea. Here, I’ll go find a vase.”
“You’re a real gentleman,” Mikki gushes.
“That’s the first time anyone’s ever called me that.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything. I thought I’d be eighty by the time Lyndsey managed to buck up and bring home a boyfriend.”
“Mom! I’m twenty-seven! I’m not a spinster!”
“All I’m saying is the rest of the guys you’ve dated make Vince look like he won the Nobel Peace Prize.”
“They were fine!”
“They were despicable, which is why you wouldn’t let me meet ’em, you knew!”
