When Girlfriends Break Hearts (10 page)

But more tears escaped and my eyes began to redden; it was a losing battle. It was probably best to do away with trying to mask over any problems and just come clean with Katie before she inquired. Besides, I couldn’t run back and forth to the bathroom all day to hide my tears.
 

I tried my best to compose myself and I stole a few minutes of Katie’s time to privately tell her that I had been through a horrible breakup and an even more horrible weekend. She was already aware that Brandon had broken it off with me a few weeks prior, and was a godsend of a boss when that news obviously crushed me and hindered my working capabilities for a short while. She genuinely comforted me and expressed her sympathy with this new round of news, saying that she would understand if I wasn’t all-hands-on-deck for awhile. Like Claire, she reassured me that in time I would heal from this and even become a better and wiser person from it.
 

I thanked her for her kindness and optimism, but couldn’t help but regard her words as another dose of the Kool-Aid that everyone usually offers in rough times. Sure, picking up my feet, dusting myself off, and pushing through the rough times to find myself at the end of the rainbow with a proverbial pot of gold was a hopeful scenario. And maybe realistic.
 

But when you feel as low as dirt and the hope of change and improvement isn’t within a twenty-four hours’ reach, you can’t help but chalk up all of the optimistic and encouraging words and advice to a pile of crap. They’re just words to numb the pain—and if that’s the case, I’d prefer a bottle of wine, a big blanket, and a dartboard with Brandon’s and Robin’s faces pinned to it.

I thanked Katie profusely for her kindness and understanding, and actually managed to get through the orders of petit fours and cannolis without providing a personal touch of salt.
 

“Some men can be pigs, Sophie,” Oliver said. “Pigs and bastards. I should know. Had my fair share of them until I met my prince.” He gave me a little wink and I managed to crack a small, albeit apparent, smile. “You don’t stay with any bastards, okay? Here.” He held out a petit four with a dainty yellow rose on top. “Take it. You deserve it. He’s not worth your time. Okay?”

I took a small bite of the perfect dessert. Oliver didn’t know the half of it. But I didn’t need to rehash the ugly truth to him. All I needed, or wanted, was a sinfully delicious bite of French petite four goodness.

Chapter Eleven

The last couple days of work had been sort of a hit-and-miss. Some hours were good, some were better, but each day was tremendously difficult. I wasn’t any closer to arriving at a solution or a get-better answer to my problems. Sometimes I felt like the blowouts with Brandon and Robin and the exchange of hurtful words had happened just a few short hours ago, though in reality I was approaching the one-week mark. I wished that the bright light at the end of the tunnel would appear soon, but I couldn’t see any such relief anywhere in sight. Claire’s company helped make the overall situation a bit lighter—like I wasn’t an Eeyore with the black cloud following me overhead twenty-four-seven. There was a fraction of shining light, I guess.

The big glimmer of hope I found, which was really just a denial mechanism, was in yoga. I love yoga. It’s so soothing and spiritual, while at the same time physical and a great form of exercise. I can relax and exert energy and stretch the body, the mind, and the soul, all at the same time. I picked it up in college and found it to be the ideal answer to relieving stress, to escaping difficulties, and to keeping trim and limber. I now relished in it for all those reasons, and then some. Anything to escape reality at this point.

After that first day at work post-drama, I decided to refocus my attention on yoga classes. I was part of a community of great women who met routinely at a yoga and Pilates studio not far from
Katie’s Kitchen
.
 

I had been calling
Studio Tulaa
my yoga home for years, and the owner, Pamela Simons, was a wonderful teacher and an extremely kind and benevolent woman. She was
just
the affection and inspiration I wanted to surround myself with. When Pamela set her mind to something, she did it, and with gusto and confidence. And a positive attitude. At fifty she decided to retire from her interpretive dancing career that had let her travel up and down the west coast with a fine company for many years. She had lost her husband at that time to a woman thirty years her (and his) junior and decided that a clean sweep was the answer to what her life’s path had become.

She packed up, spent a season in Bali, and better honed her meditation, yoga, and Pilates skills. When she returned she had a mission, along with a much more limber body and relaxed spirit. Pamela opened
Studio Tulaa
in a retro loft in the lively and diverse Seattle neighborhood of Capitol Hill, a favorite area of mine. Capitol Hill, with its vintage clothing and record shops, and its hoards of trendy bars and boutiques and comfortable bookstores and cafés, was one of the key spots I had envisioned opening up my café and bakery. And how convenient to be located in such close proximity to my yoga haven.

Pamela’s studio offered classes in yoga, Pilates, and meditation for women. I was one of Pamela’s regulars and we had developed a friendship with one another.
 

It wasn’t the kind of friendship where you make random coffee dates or go to the movies or a show together. Our friendship remained limited to under the roof of the studio. I regarded Pamela almost as a mother figure. She’d been able to teach me how to relax and take time out of each day to meditate on the beautiful and the calming elements in life. She knew my controlling tendencies and my reluctance to change. She was the integral part in helping me relax those pesky characteristics.
 

Though we didn’t share everything with each other about our lives, Pamela was on many occasions a lending ear and gave wise advice. When I felt that I lacked the confidence to open my own business, Pamela was my lady. And occasionally she expressed to me her moments of discontentment with her ex-husband and his new infantile girlfriend.
 

Studio Tulaa
, the group of ladies who participated in the wide range of classes (of which I attended once almost each week day, and occasionally on Saturday mornings when I had the time off from work), the exercise and the serenity, and Pamela’s teaching and friendship, had all played big parts in my life’s daily events. And even more so once Brandon and Robin had wrecked their havoc.

“Where are you going, girl?” Claire asked, sitting on the sofa while pulling on her Nikes. Schnickerdoodle was sitting at her feet, his leash in his mouth. She was obviously headed out for one of her routine jogs in a park or around the neighborhood.

I was heading toward the front door, my keys in hand and my gym bag slung over one shoulder.
 

“Yoga.”

“Have fun. I’m making a stir fry for dinner tonight if you like.”
 

“Sounds great,” I said.

***

Yoga hit the spot. It felt good not only physically to stretch, balance, and tone, but I left the studio feeling like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It wasn’t the weight of deception that was lifted—that weight would probably be residing on my weak shoulders for ages to come. It was a general weight that often comes when I stress myself out by trying to control every little detail around me. My twice-a-month private meditation sessions with Pamela helped relieve the tension that she said always built up and exploded in my shoulders and neck regions.

“You must relax more, Sophie,” she would always caution. “You are going to give yourself an ulcer if you don’t calm down and let the universe work on its own. Stop trying to control everything.”

I knew she was right, but putting into practice her advice was truly easier said than done.

I decided before I walked into class that evening that I would steal a small moment of time afterwards to talk with Pamela about the recent life events I had experienced. Not in detail; I didn’t want to spend too much time on it. Especially in a place of such peace and tranquility. People who came to yoga to sort out their problems did so through methodical stretching and breathing, not through gossip and ranting. Then again, we were a community of women. Gathered together. In a yoga studio. Verbal therapy and chit-chat just kind of came with the territory, at least in incremental doses.

I felt relief after I briefly went over with Pamela the disaster that had befallen me. Like everyone I had spoken with, Pamela embraced me and promised that in time everything would turn out for the better. Again, a sip of the Kool-Aid, but these words coming from Pamela seemed to help most of all. I don’t know if it’s because I held her in such high esteem and factored in her mature years. She had been around the block a few times, had created and embraced a fresh start for herself,
and
at the ripe age of fifty. So any words of advice or soft condolences that Pamela sent my way were relieving and very much welcome.

“Take this time to sink more into your meditation and relaxation techniques,” Pamela advised. “Practice your breathing techniques and remember,
remember
, Sophie, to take time out of the day to just calm down, reflect, find something beautiful in the world…and be grateful for it. There’s always something beautiful to see.”
 

“I know,” I said in a schoolgirl tone. “It’s just so much easier to be relaxed when I don’t have all of this going on.”
 

‘
This’ being my entire life,
I thought.

“Keep coming to class or doing yoga at home. Whatever you find time for. Try to stick to your routine,” she offered. “Don’t ignore the problem, but don’t change everything in your life suddenly. You’ve had enough Earth-shattering change so far. The last thing you need to do is make your own life a foreign world to yourself and quit everything. Don’t forget your yoga, your job, your
friends
.”
 

“But your reaction to your husband leaving you for that preschooler was to pack up, quit your job, and move to Bali!”
 

“Only after some time of grieving and sorting things out,” she said in a soothing voice. “I didn’t change everything overnight. Sure, my ex-husband made me feel like my life had taken a one-eighty in a matter of seconds, but in reality that’s not what happened. Events in life are progressive, Sophie. Things don’t suddenly happen out of nowhere, with no progression, and for no reason.
 

“I took my time to grieve and sort through the mess and eventually I found that the next step in my life’s path was to make a career change. Move somewhere
exotic
and new for awhile. Make my next move in life. That takes time, Sophie. And you’ll get there.” She placed her warm and wrinkling hand on mine. “In time you will get there, my dear. Have faith and don’t give up.”

I thanked her and gave her another hug. I knew I could count on her to share her wisdom and kindness. Of course, I knew her advice wouldn’t be heeded easily and quickly, and I’m sure she figured that much as well.

“Don’t get lost in all this, Sophie. You’re stronger than it so don’t let it get you down.”

Chapter Twelve

The very next afternoon I took Pamela’s advice and decided that a forty-five minute
Basic Yoga Stretch I
class was a better way to spend my lunch break than crying into the tuna sandwich I had packed that morning. I had to pick myself up and push on, no matter how painful. Pamela was right. I needed to focus on my yoga, on my career, and on getting better.

I headed for
Studio Tulaa
at lunch. This particular course wasn’t taught by Pamela, but I nonetheless finished feeling rejuvenated and enlightened, and I was enthusiastic to follow it up just a few hours later with my regular evening course after work. Rarely would I have to work past the five or five-thirty mark at
Katie’s
, and this evening was no different. So back to yoga I went, ready for an hour and fifteen minutes of deep stretches, not to mention a hug and warming smile from Pamela. She exuded confidence, kindness, and general feel-goodness. She and her yoga instruction were turning out to be great antidotes to the pain I would feel build up throughout each day. And surprisingly, in just a couple of short days, I was starting to feel like maybe,
just maybe
, I could pull out of this. Not unscathed, but I could pull out. Slowly, but ever so surely.

***

“I’m home!” I called out to Claire as I walked through the front door, still dressed in my yoga clothes. I rarely ever switched out of my workout clothes after class; only if I had some hot date planned or some after-workout plans, but who was I kidding? These days I was lucky I even got out of bed.

I heard raised voices and then mumbling coming from what sounded like Claire and Conner’s bedroom. I closed the front door behind me and quietly made my way across the living room. The raised voices stopped, but the mumbling continued.

“No, I don’t want to talk about it,” I heard Claire say. Her bedroom door was open a few inches. Were Claire and Conner having an argument? It’s normal for all couples to have squabbles, but it was out of character for Claire and Conner to have shouting matches, which sounded like what was going on before I entered the scene.

“No,” Claire said again. “No. We’re not talking about it anymore…I don’t want to…I said no…”
 

Suddenly Claire swung her bedroom door open and I jumped, caught in the act of shameful eavesdropping.
 

“Girl, it’s about time!” Claire said. She became all smiles and walked up to me.

I chuckled, not sure what to think of the rather uncomfortable situation. “It’s about time for what?” I asked, casually peering over Claire’s shoulder. Conner was still in there; I wondered what was going on. Then the door closed harshly and I jumped again.