Tales from the Yoga Studio (23 page)

By the third or fourth hit, the sky has turned an amazing shade of yellow, and she's feeling so lazy and languid, she can't imagine getting on the bike again without first dozing off for a second with her face turned up to the sun. Nothing much strikes her as all that important, not even the thing with Conor. She takes her phone out of the pocket of her skirt. No calls. Well, she can't really blame him for giving up after she told him she didn't think they should pursue a relationship. “Pursue a relationship” are the exact words she used. Nice and technical and void of all emotion. He'd admitted to her that he'd left Boston because his previous girlfriend had ended things suddenly, for reasons that didn't make a lot of sense to him. After two years of living together, she came to the conclusion that their backgrounds were just too different—a polite way of saying she wanted someone with a college degree and a tidy, well-heeled WASP family. The last thing he needed now, when he was trying to get over her, was to get involved with someone with her own history of instability and problems committing.

Selfishly, she admits it's too bad. She can still taste his mouth—spicy with the good-boy tastes of toothpaste and Juicy Fruit chewing gum—and she can still feel his big hands all over her, warm and tender. As soon as she saw him with Graciela—sweet, pretty Graciela—she understood that that was the kind of relationship that made sense for Conor. Not Graciela herself, of course, but someone like that, instead of a world-class fuckup like her.

She dozes off and has a vivid dream that a tall, red-headed guy is burying his face in her neck, murmuring something about how she's perfect as she is. She wakes with a jolt and realizes that someone
is
sitting beside her on the bench, brushing her neck with his fingers.

Not a tall redhead: Phil Simone.

“Scared you, didn't I?” he asks.

“You know I don't scare easily, Phil.” Phil is one of those guys who seems to materialize and disappear into thin air with equal ease. And half the time, you can't be sure how present he is, even when he's standing in front of you. “I thought you moved to Seattle.”

“Yeah, I was there for a while. I had a job with Boeing, but it didn't really work out. I decided to come back down here. Fucking rain and clouds got to me.”

“That can happen.” In the six months or so Katherine dated Phil, she came to realize that about one-quarter of what he said was true. The rest was an elaborate web of exaggerations and lies that he spun together for no discernible reason. She was long past the point of caring one way or the other. Now it was more amusing than anything else.

“You back in that apartment?”

“Nah. I gave that up. I'm crashing with a buddy of mine.”

“Lucky guy.”

He shakes his head. “Still there with the sarcasm, huh? You better be careful, Kat—nobody likes a bitch.”

“You know what's surprising, Phil? That isn't true—a lot of men love bitches.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not one of them.”

“Better find another bench then. As I recall, you told me I was ‘born a bitch' and would ‘die a bitch' once every couple of weeks.”

This conversation pretty much sums up the tenor of their relationship for the whole time they were seeing each other. A lot of snarky back-and-forth that went around in circles until they got sick of the game and wandered into the bedroom.

Phil Simone is one of those smarmy, skinny guys incapable of honesty, fidelity, and sobriety for more than twelve hours at a stretch. Not fully employable, not handsome, with bad teeth and questionable hygiene. And yet, no one ever asked Katherine what she was doing with him. The answer was written all over his long face and wiry body: amazing fuck. He has one redeeming quality, and even though he's childishly proud of it, he does know how to use it.

Eventually that gets tiresome, too, and when Katherine stopped answering his calls or letting him in when he knocked at her door at midnight, she saw it as the cornerstone of the self-esteem she was trying to build up. It was over a year ago that she broke it off and she's been happily chaste since. It can't be a good sign that she's finding his greasy hair and mocking tone just a tiny bit exciting. She made a vow to herself that she'd never fall for Phil again or any of his brothers of spirit—the boozers, the users, the losers.

“You still giving back rubs?” he asks.

“Only to the paying customers, Phil. And I'm not cheap.”

“Wasn't always the case, as I remember.”

“I wouldn't trust my memory if I were you. It might be a little impaired.”

“Probably not as impaired as yours, though, right?”

Of course he's right. Who's she trying to kid? She figured she was too good for guys like Phil, but it turns out she can't quite bring herself to believe she's good enough for someone like . . . the fireman. That doesn't leave much. She fires up what's left of the joint and takes a hit. “You got a point there,” she says and passes the roach to him. “Interest you in a little more impairment? ”

He takes it from her and finishes it off. “You still living up off Dexter?” he asks.

“I haven't been evicted yet.”

“You should invite me up. I miss that little house.”

“I've got my bike,” she says.

“Yeah. I noticed. Gone all outdoorsy and athletic, huh?”

“Nah. I just use it to pick up guys.”

“Oh, yeah? How's it working out?”

“Better than I planned,” she says. She stands up, feeling more sad and defeated than she's felt in a long time.
Let's get this over with,
she thinks and gives him an inviting nod.

G
raciela feels the incredible high of the audition melt away. What is Conor doing here? And how much trouble is his presence—not her doing, not her desire—going to cost her? He looks completely unruffled by Daryl and keeps grinning in that boyish way of his. He sticks out his hand to Daryl.

“I'm Conor,” he says. “I know your girlfriend from up in Silver Lake.”

“Yeah, okay,” Daryl says, “so what are you doing down here? ”

“I wanted to ask Graciela a couple of questions.”

He looks so relaxed and nonplussed as he says this, Graciela starts to wonder if maybe she has it all wrong, and she should have answered his calls in the first place. But Daryl is beginning to puff his chest out in that way he gets when he feels threatened. Can he really think she'd cheat on him or even flirt behind his back? If this gets ugly, she gives Conor the advantage; he towers over Daryl and has that brick wall kind of stance you see on bouncers.

Lindsay sprints over and says, “You won't believe it, Daryl—Graciela made it through!”

Daryl spins Graciela around. He looks a little stunned, but genuinely happy. Hopefully all this other nonsense will blow over. “You did? They liked you?”

“They loved her.
Beyoncé
loved her!”

“You
met
her?”

Daryl looks so genuinely excited and happy, Graciela decides not to completely contradict Lindsay. “I sort of met her. I mean, they all said she liked what I did, so . . .”

“Graciela, that is fantastic news. Congratulations.”

This is Conor and, happy as Graciela is for the vote of confidence, she wishes he hadn't said anything. Daryl turns around and puts a hand on his chest. Daryl has that temper, size difference or not.
But please,
she thinks,
let me enjoy the moment. Don't let it get ugly
.

“So these questions you want to ask? ” Daryl says. “Why don't you ask me?”

“I'm not sure it concerns you, my friend, but if you'd rather I ask you, I have no problem with that. In fact, if you'd all like, I'd be happy to buy you a drink, help Graciela celebrate her good news.”

“You know, I think I can buy her a drink myself,” Daryl says.

“Fair enough. How about I buy this lady a drink, and we'll all be happy.”

“I'm Lindsay.”

Perfect, Graciela thinks. She can tell from the tone in her friend's voice that she's a little smitten already. Lindsay hasn't been dating anyone since her last boyfriend revealed he was married with two kids.

There's a bar Lindsay knows about a couple of blocks away, and as they're walking, Conor asks a lot of questions: Was she happy with her performance? Did she get nervous before? Does she think when she's dancing or is it mostly muscle memory? He has a way of asking that makes him sound genuinely interested, not only in her, but in the whole topic. It shows a genuine concern for and curiosity about other people that's pretty rare. Daryl, to be honest, rarely asks questions like that. She wants to believe it's because he's polite and a little shy, but it's probably true that there are so many things about other people that make him feel envious or threatened, he prefers to skim along the surface.

“What about you, Daryl?” he asks. “What do you do?” And when Daryl tells him, Conor says, “It's kind of perfect then, isn't it? The two of you? You probably give her a lot of musical inspiration.”

“He does,” Graciela says. And it's true.

It isn't until they're seated in the bar and have toasted Graciela's success that Conor brings up Katherine. He turns a little serious and melancholy when he does.

“It's not that I'm expecting you to have any answers,” he says. “I'm just looking for a few clues or a little insight. I'm not the world's greatest catch, but she and I had a real connection, and then, boom, she slams the door shut in my face. Maybe she said something to you? Or she's got someone else?”

Graciela doesn't really know Katherine all that well. It's not like they share a lot of personal information. But because she's got that pretty, funky style and radiates a lot of sexual energy, people do talk about her. Stephanie has filled Graciela in on a few surprising facts about Katherine's past, although how much of it is true and how much is rumor is not clear. It's probably best to say nothing. But in the dim light of the bar, there's so much genuine disappointment on Conor's face, Graciela says a little more than she probably should.

“What I heard,” she says, “is that she thinks you're too good for her.”

“Me? Funny thing is, my last girlfriend thought I wasn't good enough.”

“I guess she's got kind of a rocky past.”

“And she thinks someone from a housing project in South Boston has been clean and squeaky his whole life?”

“I don't know,” Graciela says. “But she knows you've been hurt and doesn't want to disappoint you. And as far as I know, there isn't anyone else.”

Lindsay has been keeping quiet the whole time. She's one of the more generous people Graciela knows, and, once she got wind of Conor's feelings, she bowed out. Graciela is going to work on finding her someone, but it certainly isn't going to be Conor.

“Have you gone and knocked on her door?” Lindsay asks.

“Not really my style,” Conor says.

“Aw, come on. Maybe you need a new one.”

“Plus I don't have her address.”

Lindsay sighs and pulls out her iPhone. “You technophobes,” she says. “What's the spelling of the last name?”

A
s soon as Katherine saw her little Craftsman cottage on Redcliff Street, tucked away, high in the hills above the reservoir, she fell in love. Head over heels. The first time she crossed the long wooden walkway that leads from the street to the front door, she felt as if she was coming home. Sort of a ridiculous thing, really, since she'd never spent a lot of time thinking about where she lived or where she wanted to live. It was just a reaction deep in her gut to this particular place. The reaction most people have when they see it is:
Oh, my God! You
live
here? How did you find it?
When they say that, what she hears underneath is:
I figured you'd live in some shabby studio above a restaurant.
Sorry to disappoint, but no, she lives here.