The Anomaly (7 page)

And my parents pay the rent for my apartment. We did some “cost calculating” when I started looking at colleges and the decision was mutual. Because I graduated with an “A” average, yes, I deserved to live on my own. Going out of town, though, was not cost effective. My parents would pay the rent for an apartment here in town, and I would work a part-time job so I could save some money. But none of us had factored Todd into the picture.

“So it’s not like you really have this big bill every month. You work to pay for the
extras
in life,” Todd says.

It’s not even true.

In no way am I simply saving for life’s extras. I don’t need to get a mani-pedi every week, or even every month, for that matter. I can make do with getting my nails and my toes done for special occasions.

I’m actually saving half of my money for after graduation, so I’ll have a nice cushion to sit on once I’m finished with university. I’m not too sure if I want to go full-time at my current job, and taking a month off after school is an appealing option. I also know that my parents won’t be paying my housing costs forever. Anyway, my patience with Todd is evaporating. Going kaput.

I’ve told him repeatedly, “Let’s take a break.” But he never wants to, telling me we’ve been in our relationship too long and we just need to pass whatever hurdle we’re facing. But for me, the money aspect isn’t the only thing that bugs me. Seriously, I don’t even get half the costs of our monthly grocery bill from him. It’s also the fact that Todd doesn’t make me feel special anymore. He spends more time with his friends than with me. I’m not sure what they do, but I do know that he often reeks of cheap wine when he gets back. Why don’t I care enough lately to ask where he’s been and what he’s been doing? And I can’t even remember the last time he’s told me that he loves me.

The longest Todd and I have ever been apart is one week. Then he comes moping back to my apartment after sleeping at his parents’ house. His childhood bedroom is exactly how he left it before moving out for college. Shouldn’t that be telling me something, reveal something to me about both Todd, and his parents? They might be happy with the status quo, but I’m starting to realize I’m not.

Whenever we go out to eat, I’m stuck picking up the tab. I even believed in Todd’s dream of becoming a personal chef, lending him $1500 to attend a training seminar for those in the food industry who want to open their own restaurant. But he’s now working an office job, so that was a waste of my savings. And though he often cooked me fancy dinners when he first moved in to my apartment, he now rarely cooks.

I’m beyond fed up with the way things are going between us, so when he calls for me to meet him for lunch, I agree. I munch on a chicken pita wrap and a Caesar salad while Todd wolfs down two beef gyros. We both sip smoothies but don’t talk much to each other. In my mind, we are the couple that knows enough about each other not to really have to ask any questions. Or maybe it’s just that we’re no longer very interested in what the other person has to say.

“I’ll be late coming home tonight,” Todd mumbles. He chews at a piece of beef. “I’m going bowling with some co-workers after work.” He slurps up the last drain of his drink.

I nod and bite into my pita.

The check comes and I ask Todd to pay. He says he can’t, he doesn’t have any cash on him and would rather not use his credit card. “I’ll pay for lunch next time, Leigh.” I don’t answer him because I can feel the frustration underneath the surface of my skin trying to work its way out. I refrain from any sort of tantrum, knowing that they no longer work on Todd. Neither does asking or begging. He is who he is.

I go home and call a locksmith to change the lock on my apartment door. My friend, Amanda, helps me pack Todd’s clothes. She is the only one I have confided in lately, venting about Todd and his lack of motivation, his nonchalance and lack of desire, my reasons for trying to save money. Amanda and I go back almost as far Todd and I, so she’s been there for all our ups-and-downs. But Amanda is not the type of person that will say, “I told you so.” Instead, she drives with me to his parents’ house twelve miles away.

I do love the guy’s mother, and we’ve always gotten along well. But this doesn’t mean I owe her an explanation as to why I am dropping off Todd’s clothes and belongings. He is her “baby” and she would most likely disagree with my viewpoint anyway. So I leave her standing in the front hallway, tongue-tied, when I turn to walk out. “It’s over. That’s all I can say.”

Todd calls me repeatedly during the night when he comes to the apartment and can’t get in.

“You’ve changed the lock? I can’t believe you did that, Leigh. I thought I was at the wrong front door,” Todd says sarcastically in one of his messages. I hear the anger in his voice. He rambles on then abruptly hangs up midsentence. I mull over calling him back after listening, but instead, I refuse his calls and delete him from my Facebook and Twitter accounts. It’s time to move on and I’m ready for a clean slate.

E
motions are funny things. As much I don’t want to be with Todd, I miss having someone around when I get home. My apartment’s so noiseless that I’m sure I could hear a pin if it dropped on my bathroom tile. I walk around the rooms and realize how quiet it is without Todd, who always had the TV or radio on.

“Don’t waste time on that bum,” Amanda tells me over the phone. “You should sign up for a class or something...anything to get you out of the house and take your mind off this guy. I mean...it is summer, and all you have going on is your part-time gig.”

Amanda’s right. I need something else to do. I’m almost positive I don’t want to get back with Todd, but still―I need something to take my mind off the whole unpleasant ordeal.

The sign reads
Yoga for Beginners
.

It’s taped to the window of the small café in the building where I work. I’m an assistant to the administrative coordinator at a small printing company. I started as a part-time receptionist the summer before college, and even though my duties and responsibilities have increased lately, I’m not sure if I’m interested enough to continue working here after graduation.

I sign up for yoga.

The class takes place in the studio of a private gym. The gym’s owner greets me at the main entrance. I know he’s the owner because he’s telling another man that it’s taken him three years to get the place up and running. I hear him say that he wasn’t willing to “franchise his dreams,” and the other man nods his head eagerly.

The number of mirrors hanging on the walls makes the room sparkle. I tell the girl behind the desk my name, having paid the fee earlier during one of my lunch breaks. It’s kind of pricey—$150 for a three-week class held three times a week—but it’ll be worth it if my stress level’s down at the end of the session.

This should be interesting
. I’ve never tried yoga before. Amanda once described it as “the good feeling you get after drinking really strong peppermint tea, versus the lethargic feeling you sometimes get after a cup of coffee,” and I’m excited to see if she’s right.

I’ve pulled my hair up, off my face, in a loose bun. I’m holding my pink yoga mat tucked under my left arm, and my car keys and a bottle of water in my right hand.

Soft, instrumental mood music plays in the studio, and I automatically feel relaxed. My shoulders even feel a little less tense.

I set up my space in the middle of the studio by rolling the yoga mat out on the floor. Being a beginner, I don’t want to be up front, or lost in the back. Nervousness takes over because I hope the class isn’t a mistake. I can feel the tension snaking up through my neck, so I bend my head to rub the achiest spot.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Carter, the instructor.”

I look up and I’m in awe. My eyes open widely as I try to take in every bit of the man. I sigh from a burst of desire before involuntarily shaking my head.
Put yourself in check, Leigh,
I tell myself. I look down, and my eyelids droop downward until my eyes are closed―again an involuntarily thing. But I’ve never seen a guy who has struck me so intensely nor immediately, like a thunderbolt. I want to capture the image of him.

His eyes are an intense green, like those lush trees you find deep in the Amazon. His dark hair’s slightly longer than it should be. And there’s something about the way he pronounces his words—clear and with authority—when introducing himself to the class. I instantly know this man’s different from anyone I’ve ever met, and on top of that, he’s young enough for me.

I open up my eyes for another look. He’s in his late twenties, maybe four or five years older than I am.
But how old?
I’m not too sure. I peek at his hands for a wedding ring, my heart beating wildly against any possibilities that my chances might be dashed to the ground. There’s no ring.
Yippee
.

I sit up taller and a small smile escapes my lips just as he spots me. We lock eyes, and I’m not sure if I’m imaging that he smiles back at me before he looks over the entire room.

“Let’s begin,” he says.

This is a beginning that I don’t want to end
. I slap my forehead and tell myself not to be so cheesy. The instructor is looking at me. I can sense his eyes. I shake my head as if it’s nothing ―I don’t want him to ask why I just slapped my forehead.

“I’d like everyone to sit on their mats with their legs stretched out in front of them,” Carter says. He flips down the light switch on the wall and the music cuts off.

“The next three weeks will be fun. My hope is that everyone will get in a good workout yet still feel energized.” He swings his arms and balls his hands into fists as he says this. “And hopefully, everyone will look forward to coming to each session.” He smiles again―his teeth are white and perfectly straight―and I believe every word he says.

After the class ends, I wait until most of the other students leave. It’s a mixed class of twenty students, a decent percentage of them men. I watch as a student chats with the instructor before she leaves, then I go up to him. I’m not a pushy girl, but the least I can do is properly introduce myself. A smile sweeps over my lips and I stretch out my right arm.

“I’m Leigh.”

The instructor stretches out his arm and we shake hands.

“It’s Carter, though you already know that.”

“Yeah.” There’s a slight amount of sweat on Carter’s skin and the temptation’s there to run my palm across his forehead to wipe it off. I quickly peek at myself in the mirror behind him. And I brush back the front of my hair with the palm of my hands, though a dark blue bandana holds every possible stray strand in place.

“Did you enjoy the class?” Carter asks.

I nod. “Yes, I did.”

“Is this your first time?”

“At yoga?”

“Yeah.”

I nod and try not to blush. That was a stupid reply.

“How did you find it?”

“The class?”

Carter nods. “Yes, the class.”

I suddenly just want to run out of the studio.
What’s wrong with me all of a sudden
? So far, I sound silly. I laugh it off.
Relax, Leigh
, I tell myself.

“The class is great. It doesn’t even feel like I’m exercising, though I can feel the stretch in my muscles.” I rub at my right shoulder.

“Well, I can see that you’re already toned, so the class should be a piece of cake for you. Do you exercise regularly?”

I fold my arms across my chest and feel the slight dampness under my armpits. I’m not sure if it’s yoga or my tendency to sweat when I get nervous. “I do, I run two times a week. There’s a trail behind my apartment.”

Carter nods. “Oh, okay.”

A cell phone goes off. I glance at the black duffle bag on the ground. The ringing is coming from inside it. Carter goes to the bag and bends down. I get a good look at his thighs; they look strong. In a matter of seconds, the cell phone is in his hand.

“Hello.” He listens to the caller and nods then raises his index finger. “One second,” he tells the caller. He looks up at me. “Pardon me.”

That’s when I realize that his accent’s faintly British. Except maybe he grew up here in Connecticut or some other state.

“Oh, no problem.” I fan my hand dismissively. “Have a good evening,” I say, taking a few awkward steps backward.

“Alright,” Carter says. He smiles and I bump into a mirror. I take a step forward before turning around and moving to the right to get my things. Because I’m now truly embarrassed, I don’t turn back to look at him but head to my car instead.

I drive home, slowly, thinking that I don’t want to drive further away from this guy I’ve just met.

I
have a couple of weeks before the semester begins, but since I’m taking an extra class, for a total of fifteen credits, I want to get a head start reading a history book for the European History class I’m registered to take. One of my friends, who took the class before, tells me that the professor always assigns it as required reading. And it’ll be nice to read and highlight the important passages ahead of time. Having four other classes in the upcoming semester and a part-time job, any leap ahead of the race is good for me.

But instead of reading, I’m lying on the couch. The first of two loads of laundry is spinning, and I’m contemplating going to Bar Code. A few of my friends are meeting there around seven o’ clock. It’s a small bar wedged at the corner of a group of businesses, but it’s a popular hangout spot for the younger working crowd. I’ve only managed to see a few students from university there, maybe because it’s a good half hour away from the main campus.

I decide to go to meet them; I need a little break.

It’s a Sunday night, and I don’t really feel like dressing to impress. I’m not a believer in the whole notion that a girl can meet a nice guy in the bar anyway. I take off the gray sweat pants and matching gray tank top that I’ve been lounging around in all weekend and head to the shower. After toweling off, I get dressed, putting on a pair of faded blue jeans, a white tank top, and black heels, then some black mascara and light-colored lip gloss.