Page 91 of Huge Pucking Play

Cyn stretches beside me on her yoga mat, completely unaware that my heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. Class has yet to start and she's talking about how her mom is probably spoiling Carter rotten right now, and I'm nodding like I'm listening.

"Earth to Garrett." Cyn waves her hand in front of my face. "Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Your mom is turning our son into a tiny tyrant," I parrot back, catching her hand and kissing her palm. "Sorry. Just thinking about a new play we’re working on."

She narrows her eyes, not entirely convinced. "You sure you're okay? You've been weird all morning."

"Just tired." I unroll my mat beside hers. "Carter had me up at four."

"He had us both up at four," she corrects, but she's smiling.

The studio fills with many of the regulars we see at most classes. We've been coming to this Saturday morning flow class for months now. It’s one of the very enjoyable regular routines we’ve slipped into as a couple.

"Five minutes till we start," she says, sitting cross-legged on her mat. "I'm going to close my eyes for a bit."

Perfect. I need a moment.

My hand drifts to my coat pocket, fingering the velvet box. I'd nearly proposed a dozen times over the past six months—after Carter was born, on Cyn’s birthday, on a random Tuesday when I found her dancing in the kitchen with our son. But something always held me back. Not doubt, never that. Just wanting the moment to be absolutely perfect.

The jeweler created exactly what I asked for—a simple platinum band adorned with delicate, shimmering diamonds with a single large emerald. I chose the emerald to match Cyn's eyes, yes, but also because she'd mentioned once how diamonds seemed like a waste when there were so many more interesting stones.

Last week, I was watching her in this very room, eyes closed in meditation, and it hit me. I decided this was where I wanted to ask her to be my wife.

I quickly take my coat off and place it near my mat just as the instructor calls us to attention. I force myself to focus. Breathe in, breathe out. Mountain pose, forward fold, plank, downward dog. My body goes through the motions while my mind races ahead to the end of class. All I can think is: this is it. This is the day I ask Cynthia Lockhart to be my wife.

Beside me, Cyn flows from one pose to the next, her movements fluid and strong. Four months post-baby, and she's reclaimed her body in a way that leaves me in awe. Not just physically—though watching her rock yoga pants will never get old—but in how she carries herself with newfound confidence.

"Warrior two," the instructor calls. I extend my arms, feeling the familiar stretch across my chest. Cyn catches my eye and winks, a small private gesture that still makes my heart skip a beat.

The class progresses, my anxiety building with each pose. I want it to be perfect. What if she wants something grander than a proposal in a yoga studio? What if I totally screwed this up?

"Lie on your back for savasana," the instructor finally says at the end of class.

This is it. We settle onto our backs, arms at our sides, eyes closed. The instructor dims the lights and starts her usual end-of-class spiel about releasing tension and being present in the moment. I wait, counting my breaths.

I turn my head slightly. Cyn's face is relaxed, her chest rising and falling steadily.

Carefully, I reach into my jacket pocket. The box makes the faintest sound as I extract it, and I freeze, but Cyn doesn't stir. With movements that would make a cat burglar proud, I roll slightly toward her and place the small velvet cube on her stomach, just above her navel.

Then I wait.

It feels like hours but is probably only a minute before the instructor's voice breaks the silence. "Slowly bring awareness back to your body. Wiggle your fingers and toes. When you're ready, open your eyes."

Cyn's fingers twitch. Her hand moves to stretch and brushes against the box. She frowns, eyes still closed, fingers exploring the foreign object. Her eyes snap open.

She turns her head toward me, confusion giving way to realization as she looks at the ring box.

"What—" she starts, her voice loud in the quiet room.

I roll onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow. "Open it," I whisper.

With trembling fingers, she lifts the box and flips the lid open.

I slide off my mat and onto one knee beside her. I'd planned what I was going to say, but my carefully rehearsed speech disappears at the sight of tears in her eyes.

"Cyn," I start, my voice rough with emotion.

She sits up, the ring box cradled in her palm like it might break.

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