“Yeah? That’s great. Tell her to call her little brother when she gets a minute. I miss her.”
Two quick beeps of a car horn sound somewhere outside the building. I pad to the only window in my loft and spot a delivery truck parked below.
The equipment I ordered.
“Hey, Mum, I need to get off here. I’ll talk to you soon though, yeah?”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you.”
I disconnect the call and slide my phone back into my pocket.
The mats, towels, and wedges I ordered all arrive within a few hours of each other. I sign the slips the drivers provide and set about organizing everything, then re-organizing.
Having seven sisters has made me meticulous with arrangement.
The studio itself is gorgeous, with bamboo flooring I had installed before the move. The hardwood that was originally in here never would’ve worked for the humid conditions I’m anticipating. The wood would’ve swelled and cracked. I probably would be out a couple thousand replacing it.
Not an option for me at the moment. Between my lease and the rent I’m paying for the loft above the studio, the flooring, the equipment for class, the sign . . .
It’s fucking ridiculous how expensive an aluminum sign costs. Highway robbery at its best.
I take to the footpath after grabbing a quick bite to eat.
Apple slices and some almond butter. The last of my stash of what I brought from Alabama. I jot down a note to pick up another jar, along with a few other items.
The sky is warm and clear. The street noisy, a steady line of traffic obstructing my view of the bakery. Of the window I want to peer inside, once, just one glance to see Brooke in her element.
Joggers move past me on the path, ignoring the hand I hold up to stop them, my other clutching the stack of fliers. Everyone seems tuned into their own world, the music pumping through their headphones, and ignoring everyone around them. I’m not sure how many fliers I ended up handing out over the weekend, but I drew up two hundred.
My stack feels light.
Good sign. Possible bad sign if they all ended up in the rubbish.
I step inside a small bookstore a few businesses down from mine. Old editions are propped up on display in the window. Wuthering Heights. To Kill A Mockingbird. Moby Dick. The woman behind the counter lifts her head at the sound of the bell.
“Good afternoon.”
“G’day, Miss. How are you?”
She slides her glasses back on her nose, grinning. Her silver hair is cut shorter than mine and spiked on the top. “I’m terrific. What can I help you with today?”
I pass a flier across the counter. “I just opened up a studio just down the way there. First class is free, if you’re interested. It’s tomorrow night. Have you ever tried yoga?”
She shakes her head, laughing as she sets the flier down in front of her. “Oh, Lord no. I don’t think I can make my body move like that anymore. I’m nearing sixty.”
“It’s really easy. God’s honest truth. It’s more about the breathing than anything.”
I hear her pick up the flier again as my eyes fall to a photo aside the computer.
“Is this your daughter?” I ask, picking up the frame.
“Yes, that’s my Amber. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
My mouth twitches as I study the picture. I look up at the woman. “She is. Would she be interested in attending a class?”
“Oh, um, maybe. I could ask her. She’s busy tomorrow night though.”
“That’s all right.” I set the frame down and grab a pen, turning the flier over. The ink saturates the paper. “Here’s my number, and email. I check that daily. Stop in and see me or give me a call. We’ll work something out, yeah? I’d love to have her.”
The woman takes the flier and the pen, then shakes my hand. “Okay. That sounds great. I’m Trish. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
“Mason, and thanks. Everyone seems . . .” I pause, my mind racing to Brooke.
Those eyes, hungry and calculating as she circled me, sizing me up.
After a hard swallow, I continue. “Friendly. Very friendly.”
Trish chuckles softly, dropping her hand. “That we are.”
I wave on my way out, tucking the remaining fliers against my body.
BROOKE
“I’m going to run out for lunch today,” I announce as I secure the lid on a container of icing and slide it on the shelf in the fridge. I close the door. “Is it okay if I take forty-five minutes instead of thirty?”
Dylan glances up from the worktop. “You’re buying lunch? What happened to packing every day to save money?”
“I did pack.” I grab my bag off one of the stools and pull out a can of soup. Progresso, Italian Style Wedding. “See? I’ll heat this up when I get back. I need to get something to wear to yoga tonight.” I set the soup on the wood.
Me, buying workout clothes. Seems ridiculous. My idea of cardio has never involved clothes.
“You can borrow something of mine if you want.”