"Come here," he says, taking me by the hands and pulling me up to standing.
He hooks his fingers into my belt loops and pulls me close. I step forward reluctantly, closing the gap between us, my arms encircling his wide muscled shoulders.
"You insult my honor." One corner of his mouth lifts.
"You insult my intelligence," I say, trying not to smile. "What did she want?"
His body stiffens. I should have let this go, I know. I should have basked under the warm glow in his eyes, but I don’t want any unanswered questions left to rot.
He rests his chin on the top of my head and sighs. "She wanted to talk," he says, his voice tired and bored. "I’m sure you can imagine how well that went over."
I can’t help but laugh, picturing Erin trying to yammer at Dan. "Sounds painful."
"Pretty much," he says, glimpsing down at me. The light is back in his eyes. His mouth turns down, gauging my mood.
"So what in particular did she want to discuss?" I ask.
"Old times, I guess. I honestly can’t remember."
Dan likes to talk with his actions, not his words. And so when I hear his soft tone of voice and feel his arms around me, supporting me, I let the terrible topic fade because I love Dan, and I believe him.
And I don’t ever want to see Erin again.
Countdown to the day of Dan’s departure turned out to be rough. We had another ‘discussion’ about that night. We tried to establish facts that had too many truths to count. And we made up again, his last day hanging over us like a storm cloud. We sought shelter in bed, soaking each other in, until finally, D-Day arrived.
It’s a drizzly, overcast early March morning with out of season June Gloom, a blanket of low clouds that usually form in the summer months and burn off by mid-day. The weak sun breaks through the marine layer in bright patchy spots, but the air is still chilly and damp. Standing in the driveway, I wrap the flaps of Dan’s cozy beach cardigan tight around me and try not to shiver.
Dan’s pickup truck is loaded, almost ready to go. I watch as he puts his combat boots in the front seat and loads the last of his duffle bags in the bed of his truck, feeling like I’m attending a funeral. Then we hold each other one last time, my face buried in the nape of his neck, memorizing the feel of his body against mine.
"I’ll be home before you know it," he says, but his voice cracks. I look up and catch him rubbing his reddened watery eyes.
"Oh, babe," I say, voice breaking. "You’re not crying, are you?"
"Negative." But his eyes sheen, and he pulls me close. "Promise you’ll be here when I get home?"
"Of course I will. Why would you even say that?"
He shrugs his broad shoulders. "I guess that Erin thing freaked me out."
I still have questions. What do you mean, Dan? Why did it freak you out, specifically?
But I’m tired of arguing. I don’t want to squander our last few seconds together raking over pointless details. Dan said nothing happened. I believe him. And that night will soon fade away, destined for bad jokes.
He kisses me, pressing his full lips against mine. Then he whispers against my ear, "I love you, babe."
"I love you too."
As he gets in his truck, I admire how his jeans hug his narrow waist, how the thin t-shirt fabric clings to his muscled shoulders, how he cares about his honor, our relationship, and me. He drives away, waving, followed by one last thumbs up. I wave back, my heart full with love, but heavy with sorrow.
4
BRYNN
Fitness Fun, a small local gym where I teach yoga fusion, is bright and jarring with pink carpet the color of Pepto-Bismol, clanking weights, and a bank of whirring elliptical machines.
But I push on. Dan has been gone for two weeks now, which feels like an eternity. Only five months and two weeks to go until he’s home, I tell myself, feeling like riding one of those elliptical machines to the moon might take less time.
I wave to Michelle, sitting behind the front desk, and make my way over to the busy exercise room. People are putting away their weights from the 9 a.m. previous class. Others are rolling out their mats for mine.
I put my bag and mat down in the front of the studio, sync my phone to the speaker system, reminding myself to switch on airplane mode so that class won’t be interrupted again by my Darth Vader ringtone in case my dad decides to call, and cue up today’s playlist. The room feels like a meat locker so I walk over and crank up the thermostat. Then I roll out my mat, take off my shoes, say hello to a few of my regulars, and sit down to stretch, while the rest of the class fills in.
I’m bent at the waist, reaching over to touch my toes, when I catch a familiar figure in my peripheral vision. I look up.
Erin.
My stomach lurches. What in the hell is she doing here?
But she’s here all right, purple yoga mat tucked tidily under her arm, a big Louis Vuitton bag hanging from her shoulder. She’s attending my class. She gives me a little half-embarrassed wave, finds an open space over by the far wall, and unrolls her mat.
My mind races back to that night. Did I tell her where I worked? I must have because here she is.
The opening song plays. Class officially starts. After the third cycle of sun salutation, I move from student to student and make small adjustments—tuck your tailbone, square your hips. Today, I'm careful to avoid the left side of the studio, where Erin set up camp.
She seems pretty limber, nailing the advanced version of Bakasana. Maybe she didn’t hunt me down. Maybe she’s just a nice fellow yogi who happened to find a Saturday morning class that worked with her schedule, and that class happened to be mine.
Corpse pose concludes. The music stops. Class ends. While my students pack up and make their way out of the studio, I dilly-dally over by the stereo, fiddling with my phone, trying to busy myself while Erin leaves.
Janelle, one of my regulars, approaches me about modified yoga positions for her first trimester. She apologizes for taking up my time, but I’m grateful for the distraction. Erin will have plenty of time to clear out now because I plan on talking to Janelle for a while.
As we discuss Janelle’s pregnancy, her life, and how she broke the news to the proud father-to-be, I watch Erin from the corner of my eye.
She seems to be taking her own sweet time, rolling up her mat and carefully inserting it into its carry case. She thoroughly dabs the perspiration from her face and neck, folds up the cloth, and packs it away. Then she checks her phone, which could take approximately forever.
Unfortunately my conversation with Janelle is coming to a close. "Thanks so much. I’ll do that next time," she says.
"Okay, great," I reply. "I’m so happy for you. If you ever feel uncomfortable, stop what you’re doing. And definitely don’t roll onto your stomach."
"I won’t be able to much longer," she says, patting her tiny bump. "See you next week!"
"See you then," I say to Janelle as she turns to leave.
"Hey you!" Erin calls out in a singsong voice that sets me on edge. She walks over, face flushed, carrying her bag and mat.
Oh. no.
I try to smile, but I’m not feeling very friendly. Doesn’t she live in Newport Beach or something? I think I remember her talking about managing some nail salon up there and employee dramas. Nightmare! She had shrieked that night, laughing, drink in hand. I definitely remember that. "You’re far from home," I say, unplugging my phone from the stereo system and packing up my mat.