To make matters worse, when I checked the time on my phone I discovered I’d been tagged in an unflattering group photo on Instagram with the other surviving contestants. The camera had immortalized me glancing at Tristan, my eyes glowing like a trash-can-diving raccoon caught in motion-activated security lights.
My stomach cramped up at the residual embarrassment. Why had I put myself out there like that?
The physical pain drove me upstairs to grab a glass of apple juice and some ibuprofen. I sat at the kitchen table, scrolling the Vibes Taproom Instagram account for other candid shots of me. Relieved to find none, I returned to the group photo and clicked on Tristan’s profile.
I hadn’t thought about him much in the past decade. It had certainly never occurred to me to hunt him down on social media, but there he was, living a life like the rest of us, as if time hadn’t frozen him forever in my memory.
He’d posted a picture of himself last night, flashing a backward peace sign in front the Vibes marquee. He took a ton of selfies, but he looked amazing in every picture, like a model, so who could blame him? His smile was made for advertising. I ran a finger along his photographed jaw and accidentally clicked on the Like heart. Shit. I hadn’t meant to alert him to my stalking. The picture was weeks old. If I unliked it now, would he still get a notification? Would I look like a bigger freak for unliking it?
Since he was going to figure out I’d been spying on his account, I went ahead and hit Follow, hoping it wasn’t sending any kind of message. For good measure and plausible deniability, I followed each of the other contestants, the bar’s account, then also Alfie’s and Miranda’s personal accounts.
Since I was up, I flipped on Mario Kart and discovered my after-hours antagonist already racing. I challenged him until my eyes were closing, and then I dragged a blanket over me and fell asleep on the sofa.
The next morning, only a huge mug of coffee kept me alive as I rolled into the yoga studio.
“Hello, everyone.” I stowed my backpack in the corner and started gathering my mat and blocks.
A variety of greetings met me.
The regulars had already rolled out their mats, and I walked around patting each person on the shoulder before settling in position at the front of the class. Thankfully nobody new had dropped in. Visitors made me nervous. I always wondered if they would know yoga better than me and judge me on my lack of expertise.
I’d been taking yoga classes for years, ever since a nasty ankle injury had forced me to put away my running shoes. Running had centered me, relaxed me, but I couldn’t tolerate the jolt of feet hitting the pavement anymore. I’d rediscovered my Zen with yoga. I still got plenty of low-impact cardio from riding my bike, but yoga helped me with strength, stamina, and balance. It helped me with confidence as well, but not in the ways I needed at the moment.
When I first moved to VaHi, I started riding my bike over to the Y on Saturdays to take the yoga class as a student. One day, the former instructor asked me to temporarily fill in. I only agreed when the other attendees begged me to keep the class going. When her absence became permanent, the Y said they’d have to cancel the class if they couldn’t find a replacement. I made the decision then to get my yoga certification.
It was a slow and natural transition from student to teacher, much like yoga itself.
Still I battled impostor syndrome nerves every time I entered the small room, though the familiar friendly faces encouraged me to give them my best.
I sat back on my heels, hands on my thighs, and began walking everyone through a breathing and stretching exercise.
We moved from position to position. As I demonstrated Marichi’s pose, Mr. Baxter complained, “Sierra, I can’t seem to turn my hips far enough. Would you help me?”
Mr. Baxter always sat front and center. Despite being old enough to be my granddad, he was never shy about checking me out, so I tried to avoid any positions that might give him a view down my shirt. He was harmless, even when he claimed he needed help adjusting his limbs.
I didn’t move. “Mrs. Garrett, could you demonstrate to Mr. Baxter how to do the pose?”
He scowled but managed the pose just like he’d done a hundred times before. The man was surprisingly flexible for his age.
Almost all of my students were older, and I loved helping them. The occasional young person wandered in, but the class wasn’t a regular routine for them. They usually had kids or classes or hangovers.
The sound of my ring tone—Mario yelling Woohoo!—broke the serenity. Again. And again. I apologized and got up to turn the volume down. The phone vibrated once more, and I stole a glance, surprised to find I had texts from Tristan. I blinked my eyes hard, convinced I was seeing things, but the messages continued to exist when I’d cleared my vision. I knew I should drop my phone back in my bag, but I set it down next to my mat, curiosity already beginning to fester.
I let everyone finish out the current pose, then moved them into Downward Dog, skipping over Mountain pose. Nobody questioned the change, and it allowed me to slide the phone under me so I could quickly read the texts.
Hey, it’s Tristan Spencer.
It was cool to see you.
I was wondering if you’re free tonight.
Can you meet me for dinner in Little Five Points around six?
I nearly fell out of my pose. I nudged my phone to the side and glanced up at the class to catch Mr. Baxter watching me. My shirt hung open, and he had a clear view of my cleavage. I told everyone to stand back up for that missed Mountain pose and glimpsed the wee tent pitched in Mr. Baxter’s shorts. Good for him, I guessed?
We made it through Triangle pose and then settled into the final relaxation, the Savasana. As we all lay on our backs, quietly breathing in and out, my brain was running a mile a minute. What should I write back to Tristan? Obviously, I’d tell him yes. But was he asking me out on a date?
With a quiet gentle tone, I said, “Inhale deeply. Raise your legs as you tense your muscles. Clench your fists.”
He’d asked me to meet him. Why wouldn’t he offer to pick me up if it were a date?
“And lower your legs, releasing all your tension. Let go of your anxiety.”
How should I get down to Little Five Points? And what would I wear? What if I dressed for a date and he didn’t?
My stomach cramped, and I took my own advice to breathe in, then out.
Oh, my God.
I was going on a date with Tristan Spencer.
I sat up and calmly said, “Namaste.” The class repeated it back and began to rise.
I stood and gathered my things, anxious to get home and talk to Aida.
Mr. Baxter approached as I was rolling my mat. “Great class, Sierra.”
“Thanks, Mr. Baxter.”
“Call me Leon.”
“That’s nice, but—”
Mrs. Garrett sidled beside him. “Leave the poor girl be.”
“How about we go for a cup of coffee?”
I smiled, attempting a demeanor of serenity that belied my inner tumult. “That’s sweet, Mr. Baxter, but I have to get ready for a date.”
“You have a date?” Mrs. Shih had joined the trio.
I carried my mat to the far wall, aware they all awaited my response. “Seems so.”
“With who?” Mrs. Martinez was always asking me how I was still single. “Do we know him?”
“No. He—”