“I’ll text her for you so she can bring ear plugs.”
I make a sound of disgust so deep in my throat I think I’ve inherited a hairball from Chuckles.
“Amanda and I are leaving now,” Amy declares.
“But we’ll be back tomorrow!” Amanda shouts.
“Of course you will,” I call back. “You have to deconstruct my failure.”
“With pad Thai! My treat!” she shouts back. I hear the front door close.
Yoga class, huh?
An image of Declan’s tight, muscled ass in workout clothes at the only yoga class he attended makes my heart race, my mouth feel like sandpaper, and parts farther south get moist. Moister than they are from the shower. And then the tears return.
One of the hardest parts about breaking up with someone is that moment when you realize they will never, ever touch you again. Not once. Not one stroke, one love pat, one kiss, one lick, one thrust—nothing. Dry and barren defines your new relationship, and the deep intensity, the push and pull, the dance that was all-consuming in getting to know them and defining and redefining boundaries, it’s all…gone.
Just gone.
All done.
Over and out.
Forever.
I’m never going to have Declan lace his fingers through mine. Never rest his palm on my ass and squeeze. Never thread his fingers through my hair and tug gently as he kisses me with such urgency you’d think we had to make love before the house stopped burning.
Never.
Never is a long time.
Never makes me cry again.
Never is the loneliest word.
Never.
Chapter Four
When I arrive at Mom’s yoga class, the room is at capacity. Packed. Sixty women and one older man are in the room. I do a double take at the man.
“Fire marshal,” Mom explains. I jump and make a little sound of surprise, because she’s like a vampire. So swift I didn’t realize she was there.
“Fire marshal?”
“There might be too many people in the room. Someone called him in.”
“What’s going on? Is Sting here or something? Willem Dafoe? Alec Baldwin’s wife?”
“Ha ha. Hilaria Baldwin. She’s a famous yoga instructor, but nope! None of those people are the reason.” Mom beams at me and looks around behind me. “Where’s Declan?”
Ah. Now I get it. Hoo boy. Mom has a thousand-dollar yoga class and I get to be the bearer of bad news. What a great way to get restoration.
“He’s not here.”
“Running late?”
“No. Not coming. We broke up.” Oh, those last words. They feel, literally, like last words. Someone should shake some holy water on me and I’ll just go into Savasana and everything can slip away.
Not really. No guy is worth that.
“You broke up with a billionaire? Are you insane? They don’t grow on trees!”
The image of Declan hanging from a branch, sweet and ripe and ready to be plucked, isn’t helping.
“I’m…sorry? I’m not sure what to say.” Tears threaten the edges of my eyes. No no no. Can’t cry in front of a group of women drooling to stare at my ex-boyfriend’s butt.
“Oh, honey!” Mom’s trying to be supportive at the same time that she’s freaking out on the inside, because Declan was obviously her Big Draw.
“I’m not leaving!” I hear Agnes shout to the poor fire marshal, who looks a bit panicked.
“No one has to leave, ma’am,” he says. The guy looks just enough like Dad to make me look again. “But I do need to ask that the class be capped at seventy people, and that the two exits remain open at all times.”
“Who called him?” I c**k a suspicious eyebrow at Agnes as I try to change the subject.
“Probably Agnes. I’ll bet she hoped he’d clear the room and she could sneak in to get the prime spot behind Declan. She’s offering an entire unlimited class card for two months if people will back off.”
“Who knew a billionaire’s butt was so valuable,” I crack, and then…I really crack. A tight ball of sorrow fills my throat and my ears burn. The tears come now and Mom’s arms are around me, one hand smoothing my hair, messing up the ponytail.
“Oh, Shannon, it’s going to be okay. It will. I don’t know what to say right now,” she adds, twisting her head and looking helplessly around the room.
“I know. I didn’t want to tell you, but—”
“I want to know the rest. Really. I want to know the entire story, but right now…”
I wipe the tears off my face with a little yoga towel. “Gotcha.” I sniff and compose myself.
And then:
“SHANNON!” Jesus, Agnes has some strong lungs for a woman who looks like a desiccated Hobbit. “Where’s Declan?” The leer on her face as she says his name takes three decades off her.
“He’s not here. Sorry,” I peep.
Silence. All shuffling and whispers and movement halts.
“Not here. Running late?”
Good God.
“No,” I say, extending the word with a tone of contrition. “He’s just not coming. Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Corrine asks. “You’re not him. You have nothing to be sorry about.”
And that makes the waterworks come pouring out.
A sudden rush of women surround me, hands patting my back, wrapped around my shoulders, soothing me. Out of the corner of my eye I see a few women scowl and trickle out of the room.
The fire marshal is noticeably relieved.
Mom is in the middle of the group. Their hands and throaty sounds of comfort are so kind that I can’t hold back. Grief and fear and reproach and regret pour out of me in a string of sobs so disjointed they sound like a new modern music composition.
And then the questions begin. Oh, the questions.
“Did he cheat on you? I read an article in Science News about how men with higher status cheat on their mates more than men with lower social status and income. So maybe you need to aim lower.”
Aim lower?
Corrine jostles Agnes hard enough for the two to look like bone-thin weeble-wobbles, frantically grasping at each other to avoid falling. Two other women in the group help them to stay upright.
“That’s silly,” Corrine grouses. “I’ve known men who were gas station attendants making minimum wage who were cheaters. You don’t need to be a billionaire.”
“He didn’t cheat on me,” I say, sighing. Every attempt to catch Mom’s eye is met with the careful avoidance Mom has honed with the care of a neurosurgeon removing a tumor with tendrils that spread out like the Flying Spaghetti Monster.