6:00 p.m. sharp, and I’m pacing outside the gym, trying to play it cool.
I told Carlie to meet me here so I could bring her to this class. All the while, reminding myself to stay professional.
But she’s late, and I’m starting to think I might be waiting for no one.
Maybe I should have been clearer about what I planned.
Vagueness can be off-putting, right?
Maybe she’s not the adventurous type?
However, just when I consider calling it a day, the doors burst open.
She’s not in anything I’d call workout attire. Instead, she’s sporting a casual turtleneck tank and a skirt that outlines her curves with an accuracy that screams ‘tailor-made.’ And those sandals, flaunting teal-painted toenails, look more suited for a dance floor than a yoga mat.
Holy hell.
It takes a moment to get my brain to snap back to trainer mode.
This isn’t a date.
“Hey,” she says, walking up with a sheepish grin that suggests she’s fully aware of her apparel mishap. “I might have misunderstood the invite? And dress code, come to think of it.”
I laugh, unable to help it because she’s just so damned cute when she’s flustered. “No worries, you look ... nice. Really nice.” I catch myself before I can go too far. “But what I have planned might challenge the integrity of that skirt.”
Her cheeks flush with a warm rose glow and I wish I could read her thoughts.
She clears her throat gently. “With all that chat about classes, I hoped we’d be sitting cross-legged, omming our way to enlightenment—or engaging in a high-stakes staring contest.”
“I’d pay to see that,” I chuckle, enjoying the lightness between us. “But tonight’s agenda is a bit more ... interactive.”
Her eyes widen just a touch, curiosity sparkling there. “Interactive?”
“Yeah, trust me, it’ll be fun,” I say, leading her inside, my brain scrambling for solutions before she decides her outfit won’t work.
The gym is quiet in the current evening lull and her class at the back is a tranquil space that will seem like worlds away from the clanking of weights and the hum of treadmills.
Curiosity dances across her features. “And what is it we’re doing?”
“Yoga,” I say, hoping she’ll be game. “It helps a ton with the muscle soreness and flexibility. There’s also a lot of functional strength training.”
She nods softly, contemplating as we continue towards the studio.
I’d planned this to be simple—she’d be in the yoga class, I’d be on the sidelines, offering tips. However, when I open the door, it’s clear fate has a sense of humor.
Instead of solo participants, partners are intertwined in synchronized poses as they begin their pre-yoga stretches.
My gut twists with an unexpected jolt.
Partner yoga.
“Uh, we might have to improvise a bit,” I say, turning to her and rubbing a hand across the back of my neck.
Carlie peers through the glass, her eyes now wide green orbs. “Are those couples buddying it up together in there?”
“Seems like it.” Caught off guard, I nod—all the while, my brain is a whir of sirens. I should let her go home. Tell her we’ll try again. Instead, I hear myself say, “Since I’m the one who dragged you here, looks like you have me as a partner.”
“It’s okay. I mean, I don’t exactly have yoga clothes with me ...” She sweeps her hands over her body.
“There’s a shop just around the corner. They’ll have everything you need.” I offer, knowing I can charge it to my work tab. “My treat, since I sprung this on you.”
We stand there for a moment, a strange buzz of unexpected excitement hanging between us.
Then, in the absence of a rebuttal, I gesture for her to follow me. “Let’s get you geared up so we’re not too late.”
She nods, allowing me to lead the way.
As we head towards the shop, I can’t shake the feeling that tonight might just stretch both of us in more ways than one.
Twenty minutes later, we’re facing each other on adjacent mats. We were a few minutes late, but welcomed in like we were the long lost Dalai Lama.
Now that we sit here, I realize Carlie’s hastily chosen yoga gear fits her a bit too well for my peace of mind. Keeping it cool pushes itself to paramount in my alarm-sounding brain.
The instructor, a serene woman with a voice as smooth as silk, starts the class with a simple meditation, guiding us to connect with our partners through synchronized breathing.
I have to smile a bit, remembering what Carlie first said before we entered this space. Yet, even despite her teasing, she’s taking the meditation in stride, settling right into it like she’s done it her whole life.
Her eyes are closed, long dark lashes casting shadows over her cheeks, as I watch her chest rise and fall with each breath. Oddly enough, there’s nothing relaxing about watching it. If anything, it makes my insides jumble.
“Now, open your eyes and maintain the connection,” the instructor murmurs in her sing-song voice.
Carlie opens her eyes and our gazes lock. It feels like a silent conversation happens—one I’m all too keen to continue.
“Ready?” I whisper, half teasing, half challenging.
She nods, her lips curving into a smile. “As I’ll ever be.”
“First pose,” the instructor announces, “the Double Tree. Balance on one foot, and press the sole of your other foot to the inside of your thigh. Then, reach out, holding your partner’s hands to find your center.”
Getting up, we move slowly, mirroring each other’s movements. Carlie wobbles a bit, her foot slipping.
“Oops,” she giggles, gripping my forearm for support. “I’d love to lie and say I’m usually more grounded than this, but you already know better.”
I chuckle, steadying her with a gentle touch. “Nothing wrong with a little wobble. It’s all part of finding your balance—in yoga and I guess in ... other things too.”
She laughs, a sound that seems to fit perfectly in the quiet studio, and finally finds her footing. “Okay, Mr. Philosopher, let’s see how well you do when we move on to the next pose.”
“No pressure,” I say, trying to maintain my own pose. Turns out, my hamstrings are tight and staying upright is more of a challenge than anticipated.
As we secure our balance in Double Tree, Carlie’s concentration is palpable. She’s determined not to let her initial wobble define the session.
“Nice recovery,” I compliment her, and her responding grin is nothing short of triumphant.
“Thanks to my human crutch,” she fires back, her dimples digging into her cheeks.
“Not at all. You’ve got this,” I say, releasing my hold just a bit to show her.
She whimpers at the loss of contact, but remains upright, as predicted.
We move on to the next sequence of poses, and I can’t help but notice the seamless ebb and flow of motions between the other pairs in the room. Their ease with one another speaks of shared spaces and intimacies far beyond what Carlie and I have—or should have.
Each touch, no matter how innocuous, carries a ripple of something more between the other participants and it does strange things to my head.
“Next, we’ll be doing the Seated Forward Bend with a twist,” the instructor announces.
Carlie and I sit facing each other, legs extended, our feet barely touching.
“You’ll lean forward and reach for your partner’s hands,” the instructor guides.
As we fold towards each other, our fingers awkwardly lace together, and I can feel the hesitant pressure of her palms against mine. They’re in contrast to the confident clasps around us.
“Now, look into each other’s eyes, and synchronize your breathing again,” the instructor continues.
I look into Carlie’s eyes, and feel a jolt of something I have no right to be feeling, but I can’t seem to help it. We breathe in, and as we exhale, I catch the faint scent of vanilla and something wild—like the night air mixed with adrenaline.
We move on to a Cat-Cow stretch, hands and knees grounded, moving our spines with the breath. I sneak a glance as Carlie arches her back, her hair cascading forward, and for a moment, the room around us fades.
Her hair sweeps past her shoulder and drifts like a red feather across my arm. The brief contact is like a live wire to my senses and my body goes rigid.
“Remember to keep your movements fluid,” the instructor’s says, placing a guiding hand on my shoulder and giving it a pat.
Oh, if she only knew.
I nod, trying to relax into the pose and ignoring the sudden rush of blood down south.
Thankfully, by the time we transition into the Revolved Chair pose, things have settled back to normal. Thank fuck.
However, this whole session is an odd mix of control and vulnerability—a push and pull that somehow feels like the very definition of our blurring relationship.
At one point, our hands are supposed to mirror the other, but instead, my fingers graze Carlie’s as I twist, causing a momentary break in her concentration.
She looks at me, eyes wide, and there’s that current again—stronger now.
“Sorry, looks like I’ve got butterfingers today,” I say, though the touch was more electric than slippery and I’d do it all over again.
“It’s okay,” Carlie responds, her voice just above a whisper, “I don’t mind a little ... butter.”
Her words are laced with innuendo, whether intentional or not. Especially with where my traitorous mind keeps pulling me to.
We continue through the poses, and with each one, I find myself admiring her more—not just for her physical grace, but for her ability to laugh at herself when that grace slips.
As we end the session with Corpse pose, lying flat on our backs, the distance between us is now pronounced. I close my eyes, and the afterimage of red hair fluttering against my skin lingers.
It blurs the lines between past and present.
Between what’s real and what’s simply a ghost.
Is that why I feel so connected to her? Because I want to see in her what I felt with the woman at Nocté?
The chime signaling the end of class pulls me back to reality, but I remain on the mat a moment longer, caught in the throes of a memory that feels both too close and too far away to grasp.
By the time we roll up our mats, I find myself actually disappointed it’s over. Not because of the similarities to another redhead, but because of her.
In fact, I wouldn’t mind coming back for another session—another chance to discover more about the woman who’s crashed into my life. Literally.
“I didn’t make a complete fool of myself, did I?” Carlie asks, breaking into my thoughts.
“Far from it,” I assure her, my words sincere. “You were ... impressive.”
As we walk out of the yoga studio, a shared silence enveloping us, I can’t help but steal glances at Carlie like I’m seeing her for the first time.
She’s unaware, caught up in her own thoughts—perhaps mulling over the evening’s unforeseen closeness, too. But then, she turns to me, a question in her eyes that she hesitates to voice. Instead, she shakes her head and we continue on our way.
Just as we reach the street, my phone vibrates in my pocket.
A flicker of irritation crosses my mind—now isn’t the time I want to be pulled away from this moment. Yet, reflexively, I pull it out and glance at the screen.
It’s a text, but not just any message—it’s from an unknown number— and what it says chills the post-yoga warmth right out of my bones.
I stare at the message, the words a jolt of cold water down my spine. It’s too pointed—too intimate to be a coincidence.
My gaze lifts to scan the parking lot’s dim light as a niggle of paranoia creeps into my mind. However, there’s nothing out of place—just the gentle hum of the city at night.
“Everything okay?” Carlie’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Yeah, all good.” I lock my phone and slip it back into my pocket, offering her a reassuring smile that feels like a lie. “Just an odd message from a wrong number, I guess.”
Her eyes hold mine, a flicker of doubt there, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she offers a tired chuckle, “Well, if it’s someone telling you that you’ve won a million dollars, just remember who sweated through an embarrassing round of yoga with you tonight.”
I laugh, the sound, unfortunately, feeling forced. “You’ll be the first to know, promise.”
We walk together, both lost in our thoughts until we reach her car.
The evening feels like it’s reached its end. But the text’s echo lingers with me. It’s a nagging whisper that tells me sleep will be elusive tonight—chased away by the shadows of unanswered questions and the silhouette of a woman who’s quickly becoming more than just a client.