Page 86 of Wild Card
“For being ornery. For the way I’ve spoken to you since you moved in. My call this morning made me realize this has been a long time coming. That I haven’t been myself. And that I have taken out a fair bit of my anxiety on the people around me.”
I blink, not wanting to interrupt him. Even though I want to tell him how hot it is to hear him apologize. Too many people walk around never reflecting on their actions, never owning them, never admitting when they’re wrong.
“I hate the way I’ve spoken to you in certain moments, and I wanted to tell you I plan to be better. To work on all these…” His hand goes into a clawlike shape as he rotates it near his chest and his lips draw back as though he’s disgusted by the words he’s about to say. “To work on all these feelings.”
I blink again. Then, I nod. But I say nothing. Honestly, I’m concerned that if I speak, I will laugh over how appalled he looks over having to deal withfeelings.
“I was a dick. I wasn’t myself. Especially that night with the raccoon.”
My head bobs. He was a dick about the raccoon. But then he also kissed me stupid, and that part had been a make-out session for the record books.
It hadn’t been a healthy interaction, but parts of it had been pretty damn unforgettable. “Yeah, but maybe you don’t need to be sorry abouteverythingthat happened that night.”
One of his brows quirks and his head tilts almost suggestively. “There are certainly parts of that night I am not sorry about.”
A thrill races down my spine as my eyes shift to take in the lobby around us, wondering if anyone is watching or listening in as they stroll past.
Bash has no such hesitation; he carries on like he didn’t just make me all hot and bothered with one simple sentence.
“I lashed out, and you didn’t deserve it. So I’m sorry. If you want to be Gwen Dawson, mother of raccoons, then I won’t stand in your way. I support you in that venture. You can be seenandheard in my house. And you are welcome to befriend overgrown rodents who may or may not carry diseases. I won’t judge you.”
I tilt my head to show that I don’t quite believe him.
With a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, holding a hand up in defeat. “Much.”
I smile broadly. “Yeah, that’s more believable.”
“Yeah. Okay. I won’t judge youmuch.”
“Thank you. I appreciate this. And your honesty. And even your mild judgment. If you were too chipper about this exploration of feelings,it would be a red flag.”
He gives me an eye roll for that dig and then forges ahead, letting a little cynicism back in. And I’m glad for it. That signature bitchiness is just part of his charm now. “Okay, let’s go stretch and shit.”
I snort and take him by the hand, long enough to give him a reassuring squeeze as I lead him down the hall. “Let’s go get you set up for stretching and shit.”
Once in the classroom, I guide him to a spot in the corner near my mat so I can help him as much as possible. I unroll one of the studio’s purple mats for him—part of my ongoing effort to make him look at more purple things—and help him settle into a simple pose while the rest of the class finds their places.
As I lead everyone through the lesson, I make a conscious effort not to only focus on Bash. I start on the far side of the classroom, adjusting positions, whispering reminders to soften or stop holding their breath, to relax their spine.
When I work my way around to Bash, something about seeing him here—trying, being open to giving this a whirl—hits me square in the chest.
I know he’s showing up for himself, but it feels like he’s showing up for me too.
Either way, it endears him to me even more. This is what makes him different. This is proof that he believes in me and in what I do to make my living. I shouldn’t want his approval, but damn, it feels good to have it.
As he moves into Downward Dog, I let my palm glide over his spine. His shoulders are tight, so I apply gentle pressure between them. “Make space here, between your shoulder blades, and drop your chin,” I whisper before moving my hand in a gentle circle on his back.
He shivers.
It’s way too easy to touch him freely here.
Under the guise of checking his alignment, I let my hands wander. They end up on his hips, straightening him. “Release through your lower back. If it’s too strong of a stretch, you can bend your knees, take a deep breath, and then push back into it. Eventually, you’ll be able to relax your heels to the floor.”
He snorts at that, but he says nothing. In fact, all he does is try. Every time I make my way around the classroom and back to him, his breathing is more even. His muscles, just a little softer. His entire aura, more relaxed.
“You’re doing amazing,” I whisper.
He chuckles and shakes his head, as though he doesn’t believe my compliments.
