Page 16 of Love Her

Chapter 8

Felicity

Saturday morning yoga did not offer the results I needed after a day of indulging my love affair with carbs. Just the opposite. I think I may have more tension in my shoulders today. Knowing my little girl needed more mom time, I invited her along. Clementine hated every minute of it while we were at the studio, not bothering to hide her disdain during the entire class. I was so worried about her being disruptive or distracting the other classmates, I didn’t leave the class feeling as relaxed as usual. It’s why I’m up early on a Sunday and headed to the studio instead of church with my family.

Church on Sunday morning followed by lunch around my parents’ dining table is a tradition for the Remington family. It’s something we made sure to do every week when I was growing up. After I moved away for college and started my life away from Lexington, I got away from it. Michael was never interested in the traditions of my childhood. He wanted to spend weekends on the golf course or at the country club.

After it all went away, after he left and I was sitting alone wondering how I would support our children, my mom took me to church. She sat with me and talked quietly, her hand in mine as she reminded me of the sermons I grew up listening to. I tried hard to hear what she was saying but I was so thickheaded then. Set in my ways and a person built on superficiality and status, not faith and love.

When I’m at home, or even now at work, I’m more of the person I used to be. The person my parents raised me to be instead of the woman I became. That is until I step foot out of their house. Until I walk through this town. I instantly fall back into the trap of the bitch. The homecoming queen who wanted the boys she couldn’t have. The girl who spewed hateful words because I was lonely and jealous. My envy of the same girls I once called my friends was primal and led me down a path of solitude. Surface relationships and friendships that went nowhere.

I had to work hard to be pretty. Even then, I wasn’t traditionally pretty; I was passable. Never would I be caught dead walking the halls of our high school without makeup and in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. No way. But, other girls could. They were able to show up at school without their face painted and their hair curled. I bet they all got an extra hour of sleep more than I did. It was worth it to me. I thought it was what made me special.

I wasn’t special. I was ugly. Sometimes I think of apologizing. Taking out an ad in the paper letting the town know I’m not that person anymore. Deep down I never was. It was a part I played. Then, I encounter someone at the market or in line at the bank. Always standing a little taller, their face a mask of indifference and contempt. So I don’t bother. I let it go and dig deep into the person they expect me to be. The label I wore like a badge of honor, the reputation I relished as a teenager. The one I’m ashamed of.

I arrived at yoga early today, needing a few minutes to myself as I centered my heart, embraced the quiet, and checked in with my spirituality since I skipped church. Mom didn’t give me grief like she normally would. She knows this time alone is important for my mind.

As I lie here, my eyes closed with my hands resting lightly on my abdomen, I hear the faint sounds of people arriving and mats being placed around the room. The conversation is a low hum, one I’m able to ignore as I breathe. In keeping with the calmness yoga is to bring to each participant, the room is darkened, only the natural light of the small windows lighting the space.

The instructor switches on the music, the soft melodies wafting from the speakers placed around the room. Her voice is soothing as she begins to speak, welcoming everyone to class. I let her guide me through the motions. Allowing my body to stretch and strengthen. Willing the tension to leave my body, my thoughts to process and release. I harbor so much anger and hurt at my ex-husband. The thought of him as my ex still manages to draw a small smile to my lips.

Having Michael Thorne out from my life is a blessing, but the fact that he’s chosen to stay away from our children’s lives is sinful. I should have known when he moved us here and didn’t come with us what his plans were. Traveling. It was always his excuse. He enticed me with a move closer to my parents because I was miserable in our marriage. That should have been my first clue he had one foot out the door.

Fifty minutes goes by fast when you’re busy trying to push thoughts of your deadbeat ex from your heart and mind. Concentrating on the flow of my body and how much stronger I’ve become, I’m relieved when the instructor calls for Savasana. Back in the position I was an hour ago, I accept the offered lavender eye pack.

Soft snores can be heard as well as the occasional yawn throughout the entire ten minutes. This part of the yoga experience can be the hardest for some. Many fall asleep while others’ minds race with the down time. It is my favorite part of the class. A blank slate in my mind. An opportunity to set goals for myself.

As the instructor reminds us of what our bodies have accomplished over the past hour, the room begins to stir. We are reminded to set a goal for the next week, to focus on the positivity we’ve accepted into our life. After a deep inhale, I exhale and wiggle my fingers and toes, bringing the blood flow back to my limbs.

Opening my eyes, it takes a moment for them to adjust to the dim light but as they do, I hear a voice in the distance and all the work I just did is gone. Tension grips my muscles as I stand and roll up my mat. Waving goodbye to the instructor, I grab my things and slip on my shoes quickly.

“You have got to be kidding me. Seriously, can’t you go to a different studio?”

Closing my eyes and trying to find my center again, I turn to face the woman who at one point was my friend but quickly became my nemesis and a thorn in my side. Petite with dark brown hair, Ashton Strauss, formerly Sullivan, stands with her arms crossed and foot tapping on the floor. She can be such a bitch. I should know as I eye the group of women behind her. Most have their attention elsewhere, likely trying to avoid any sort of conflict. Because when Ashton and I are in the same place, conflict is a given.

“Ashton. Always a displeasure.”

Like I said, I should know. It takes one to know one.

Piper Sullivan, Ashton’s best friend and sister-in-law, offers me a small smile of an apology as she tugs her scowling friend away. Of course she smiles. That’s just like her. Perfect Piper. Always the sweet one. The girl everyone loves. I renamed her Pathetic Piper in high school. Jokes on me now. Karma has come back and bitten me in the ass. Now I am the one who is pathetic and, in the end, Piper got the guy. Not just any guy but the guy. Bentley Sullivan. The one every girl was in love with and the one boy that was immune to my efforts.

I stall a little in the studio, letting Ashton and her clique make their way out of the building. I’m sure they’re headed for the diner to have their girl talk and bonding session. It isn’t as though I’m jealous. Not at all. I have friends. Or at least a friend. I bet Gigi would love to grab breakfast with me. With determination to build an actual friendship with my boss’s wife, I realize I don’t have her number. I should probably start with that first step before I begin planning girl’s night out.

Monday mornings are supposed to make people grumpy. They shouldn’t be my favorite day of the week. Yet, here we are. Just an hour into the day and a new workweek, and I couldn’t be in a better mood. When Brian and I met this morning to go over the week’s calendar, I managed to muster the courage to ask for Gigi’s number. Brian didn’t hesitate and I’m like a little kid with their first friend at the prospect of texting her later to make plans.

On top of that excitement, our appointments have all been on time and we’re actually ahead of schedule for the morning. I would never say that aloud because it’s a sure-fire way to jinx it all, but I think it’s a good sign of an excellent workweek.

“Lis, would you mind calling Mrs. Hartley and reminding her to bring the bands she’s using at home to her appointment. I still think she’s lying and not actually doing her at-home exercises.”

Nodding, I scribble myself a note. The door chimes alerting us to the next patient’s arrival.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. I thought you were going to flake out on me again,” Brian shouts.

Turning my attention to the computer I cross-reference the name on the calendar with the patient file before turning to face Brian. Instead of his usual greeting of a handshake or sympathetic hand to the shoulder, my new boss is in a full-fledged man-hug with the patient.

Connor Hall. Age thirty-one. Hip and lower back injury. Concussions. Multiple shoulder surgeries.

Wow. This poor guy is around my age and his body is a broken mess. Then I glance at his billing information to make sure everything is up to date and note he lives in Lexington.

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