Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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Darling. He called me darling.
To anyone outside the South, the word darling was another option on a generic list of pet names. It probably came off as more appropriate for seniors. But here? The endearment was reserved for affection.
Once I registered the word, I bolted off Sam's lap as if his crotch was on fire. Sam's giant frame was warm, strong, and secure. He wrapped around me as if he protected me from my memories. And I was embarrassed as fuck for how I collapsed into him, a tear-stained and snotty mess.
After my garage meltdown, I avoided the stubborn, Yeti-sized giant for two weeks. Kinda. Sorta. Not really. I avoided him within proximity.
Darlin. The word haunted me on a repeat loop, including when he cornered me in the studio hallway. I shivered at how much I wanted to hear it whispered, low and deep, in my ear again. The giant erection he pressed into me was too close. His breath kissing my ear and lips teasing my skin were too hot. The concern enriching the brown in his eyes was too deep. Taken altogether, Sam cracked the foundation of my walls of restraint, so I resorted to my default stubbornness.
Challenging Sam's seriousness was ridiculous. He had already proved himself by surrendering his shoulder to my guidance. His yoga skills improved at an impressive rate. I shouldn't have been surprised; he was a professional athlete. His workmanship and dedication were as admirable as his muscles. I liked igniting the fire that burned in his eyes, hitching his jaw, and pulling his neck and shoulder cords into definition.
But he couldn't care for me. It wasn't possible for reasons that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.
His response? A splinter lodged under my skin. On a scale from unnoticeable to uncomfortable, it was jumping over a bonfire wearing gasoline underwear. It was a fucking dumpster fire simmering outside a fireworks factory. It was Michael and I eating across the Thanksgiving table from Great Aunt Maisie without looking at the hairy mole on her chin.
After I told him he wasn't serious enough, a different man entered my studio. Ideally, Sam would've been quiet and reserved, occupied his space, and engaged in small talk with Delores. But nope. Of course, he couldn't take the humble route.
Instead, he turned into a massive flirt. News of him being single hit the media two hours after we spoke ten days ago. One blurry photo of him walking across the parking lot quadrupled the studio's membership. Hordes of vagina vultures converged on my once peaceful respite from human idiocy.
One charming smile after another, he wooed them over to the dick side with respondent heart eyes, batted lashes, and giggles. So. Many. Giggles.
"He's here!" greeted me in every class. Bleh.
Delores became a minority. Fitted, flexible yoga clothes were the most comfortable option that I recommended. Now? Low-cut, V-neck tops stretched stripper-tight over Texas torpedoes filled every mat around Sam. I didn't notice the mold-growing demographic shift until my studio room resembled a dancer audition call for a rap video.
