Page 138 of Wells

I grip the edge of my mat with one hand and remind myself not to be a fool about it.

She crosses the grass toward me. “You made it.”

“I was promised humiliation at sunrise.”

“That was implied, not promised.”

“I know how to read between the lines.”

Her smile deepens, and I want to keep putting words in front of her just to make it stay. Instead, I step back and give her room to unroll her mat beside mine.

She sets her mat down and presses the corners flat with her palms. “Have you done outdoor yoga since that day in the park?”

“No.”

“You're going to love this. They do these once a month. I try not to ever miss.”

No pressure.

The instructor calls everyone to settle in, and Cera drops onto her mat with an easy grace I have no business noticing this closely. I lower myself beside her and cross my legs, trying to look like a man who belongs in a sunrise yoga class. At least this time my knees sit a little lower, and I'm not in actual pain in this position.

The instructor begins with breathing. I can do breathing, in theory.

The first inhale catches in my chest because Cera is beside me, because yesterday she sat across from me for two hours and told me pieces of where she went, because I told her pieces of where I have been, and because the space between us no longer looks like a locked gate.

I close my eyes and take another breath. The air moves in cleaner this time. Damp grass, rain-soaked earth, and a trace of the soap Cera uses, familiar enough to reach down into me.

The class moves slowly at first. We start the same with a downward dog, then a low lunge. I follow as best I can, which is not the same thing as following well.

Cera moves beside me like her body and breath have been speaking the same language for years.

During warrior two, she glances over.

My front knee has apparently gone rogue.

She leans slightly toward me without breaking her pose. “Bend that knee more.”

“I thought I was.” I correct it, and my thigh immediately starts to shake.

“There it is,” she says.

By the time we reach tree pose, I am sweating in places I don't care to name. Cera plants one foot into her mat and lifts the other to her inner calf, hands pressed together at her chest. She is as still as the trees around us.

I get my foot up, wobble once, and put it back down.

She looks over. “Try again.”

“I did try. That was the entire performance.”

“Again.”

The instructor says something about balance coming from the gaze, not the grip. I fix my eyes on a sculpture ahead of me, lift my foot again, and manage to stay upright for three whole seconds before tipping sideways.

The old me would have made a joke and ducked behind it. The old me had a thousand dark corners and called them personality. I have fewer places to hide now. I built some of them shut with my own hands.

“I’m trying,” I say.

Her expression changes, just a little.