Page 83 of The Man I Love

The other couples smiled and clapped again, clearly charmed by Tristan. He sat down behind her, entirely unfazed by their less-than-perfect introduction.

“We’ll be working on breath work this evening,” the instructor began, not waiting for even a moment to pass before getting started. “Birth is one of the most intimate moments a couple can share, and it’s important to focus on being present. Yes, and before anyone asks, itismore intimate than sex.” She winked at a couple in the corner who coughed in disagreement.

Laughs circulated the room, and she reiterated. “You don’t believe me now”— she tsked—“but it’s true.Ifyou let down your walls. Ifyou allow yourself to be truly vulnerable.” She grazed the room with a watchful expression, almost daring anyone to challenge her.

Avery then walked from couple to couple, instructing them to get into the position they’d learned last week. Tristan and Sam followed along even though they had no idea what they were doing. Soon they both lay on the mat on their backs, looking up at the ceiling. The lights were dimmed, and meditation music began playing through the speakers. “Focus on your breathing,” the instructor began. “Become one with your partner. Your breath is her breath. You have one set of lungs. One heartbeat.” Sam closed her eyes and tried to focus, but it was impossible. This wasnotwhat she’d expected. She and Tristan were barely talking, and this woman wanted them to share breath? She felt incredibly silly, and all she could think about was getting out of the situation. Maybe she could excuse herself to the bathroom. Maybe she could say she was sick—but then Tristan’s arm touched hers, and her eyes popped open. He leaned over, his lips close to her ear. “What kind of voodoo bullshit did you get us into?”

She couldn’t help it. A giggle burst out of her stomach. She covered her mouth, but everyone was so focused on themselves that they didn’t seem to hear her anyway.

“Easy now,” Tristan teased. “Your lungs are my lungs, remember?”

A silly grin spread across her face, and her whole body relaxed. “In that case, I’ll take up smoking after this.”

“Ouch,” he whispered, though amusement laced his tone. It was the kind of banter that had been missing for far too long—the playful, flirtatious teasing that had once been the foundation of their relationship.

The instructor then guided them through some movements, which eventually gave them a shift in positions. This time, Sam sat on the front half of the mat while Tristan sat behind her. His legs stretched out on either side of her body.

“Lean back, ladies,” the instructor began. “Relax. Give your partner all your weight. Let them take it. Let them bear your burden for a while. You chose this person for a reason, and it is now that you put your faith in them. If there’s something in your way, let it go. If there is something holding you back, I want you to say it.”

The room was full of nervous laughter, but the instructor reiterated. “I’m serious. It’s vital to communicate. If he left dishes in the sink, tell him how pissed off you are. If he cheated on you in your dream,” she joked, “say it! I’m going to turn the music up so you can speak more freely, but please be honest with one another.”

As promised, the distinct hum of the meditation music filled the room again, and soon, all the couples began to chatter. Discomfort made every muscle in her body tense, and her back became rigid and stiff. Her legs, even her toes, entered a fight-or-flight state—but then Tristan leaned forward, and his freshly shaven face grazed her cheek. He smelled like cedarwood andsunshine—and something unmistakably him. “Talk to me,” he whispered in her ear.

She shook her headbecause there were too many people in the room and too many emotions rolling around in her chest for her to think correctly.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and squeezed. “You’re right. I’ll talk. You listen,” he said.

Every muscle stiffened as he inched closer. His face was then by her cheek and his chin rested on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what was going on,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t confide in you like I should have.”

She hadn’t even told him what was bothering her, but he knew. He could read her body language so easily, and somehow knowing that made her feel even more vulnerable.

His voice deepened. “I think I needed time to process. I think I needed time to accept that I’d spent five years building a business and it could be yanked out from under me in a second.”

As hurt as she was, she understood him. She’d felt the same way after her gallery opening in Los Angeles. The one that caused her to almost give up on her art entirely. It had been Tristan who made her realize that success had nothing to do with money. That gave her the bravery to continue with her sculptures, yet here he sat, years later, facing the same demons he’d helped her overcome.

“Does it make you happy?” he’d asked her then.

“No. It makes me frustrated, and angry, and…”

He turned to face her, setting his boot firmly on the ground at the bar. “Forget about the money. Forget about the gallery opening. Does your art make you happy?”

She asked him the same question now. “Does it still make you happy, Tristan?” But she stayed perfectly still, holding her breath as his cheek rested close to hers.

He paused for a long moment, his arms wrapped gently around her belly, as though he were holding their unborn child. She wondered if he remembered that night at the bar—when she’d had too many vodka and Cokes, and he’d helped her in more ways than he probably realized.

“I’m not sure,” he said quietly. “I’ve lost everything, Sam. The trucks, the building?—”

“Forget about the office. Forget about the trucks. Forget about what society deems successful. Does yourworkmake youhappy?”

He considered the question for a long moment. “I think it does.”

She nodded, and a lump formed in her throat. She could hear his insecurity, and that rocked her a little.

“I keep wondering,” he began again, “that maybe if I’d told you?—”

She shook her head. “You can’t think that way.” But she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that she’d had similar thoughts too. What if she hadn’t moved to New York? What if she’d asked about his father when she visited L.A.?

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