Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72589 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 290(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Drake: Are you still mad about that thing with Willa?
Drake: I told you, baby, it wasn’t my fault. She was being super flirty and acting like she was dying for me to ask her to hook up. I swear, I thought you two had talked and decided to share or something. I mean crazier things have happened.
Drake: Women are wild these days.
Drake: Especially in Portland. You would not believe some of the kinky shit I hear about. It’s like…normal now to have threesome and throuples and shit. I was just being normal!
Drake: Come on, Steph. Buzz me in. The neighbors are staring…
I roll my eyes so hard it makes my brain ache a little. Drake Barrow—real estate sleaze, professional liar, and the human equivalent of a car crash I’ve had a stupidly hard time looking away from.
He is, without question, the worst decision I’ve made in my adult life.
Yet somehow, I can’t quite bring myself to block his number. Knowing him as well as I do—all his bluster is just a cover up for how deeply insecure he truly is—it just feels mean.
And I don’t enjoy being mean.
With that in mind, I type a quick response:
Stephanie: I’m not home. And I’m busy. Please stop texting me. We’re broken up, remember? For real and forever, this time. And Willa was not flirting with you, btw. She doesn’t even like men.
The response is immediate:
Drake: Dude, I know! That’s why I thought you two had worked something out together to like…share. That we would both share YOU, because you’re the sexiest. But honestly, I was high and not thinking straight. But I’m crystal clear now. I promise. I haven’t smoked in a week. I’m locked the fuck in now, baby, and you’re all I can think about. Please, Steph, I’m sorry. I promise I never meant to hurt you or cheat on you. I was just high and confused.
For one ridiculous moment, I feel my resolve waver. Not because I believe his nonsense about “sharing” me or that we’re ever going to work as a couple, but—God help me—I’m frisky. And Drake isn’t bad in bed. Not great, but not even close to bad.
Maybe it would be okay to invite him over one last time…
Just to take the edge off before I commit to a life of celibacy as I get my dating house in order…
But no…
I shake my head.
I’m stronger than that.
And I need peace way more than I need orgasms.
Stephanie: Goodbye, Drake. Take care. Don’t text me again.
There. Done. No more nonsense. I silence my phone, set it face down, and close my eyes again.
Breathe in calm; breathe out Drake.
Mr. Sniffles chooses that moment to wake up, stretching with a dramatic groan before waddling over to my mat and planting himself directly in the middle of it, one paw on my ankle.
I open my eyes to find him staring up at me, his eyes bulging in his wrinkled face with expectation.
“Hey, buddy,” I say with a laugh, scratching behind his ears. “Ready for early old man supper?”
He snorts his agreement, and I’m forced to admit meditation defeat. For now. But my four o’clock beginner flow class is a chill bunch. They’ll be happy to spend a few extra moments in savasana at the end of class, giving us all time to recenter before I dive into my hot yoga class at five-thirty and an inversion intensive with my advanced students at seven.
I scoop Mr. Sniffles into my arms, carrying him to the small kitchenette at the back of the studio, where I set him down next to his bowl. While he chomps happily on his grain-free organic meal (which costs more per pound than anything I feed myself), I grab a protein smoothie from the mini-fridge and head back toward the lobby.
On my way, my phone buzzes in the side pocket of my yoga pants, but I ignore it, having had my fill of Drake drama for the day.
Instead, I focus on sweeping up in the lobby, lighting candles, and confirming private appointments for next week via email, including a few sessions with NHL players—and wannabe players—who have become my special niche.
At first, teaching yoga to a bunch of professional athletes was like trying to herd cats. Big, muscular cats who thought flexibility was for “girls and goalies” and meditation was a waste of time that could be better spent grunting in the weight room. But over the past few years, I’ve won most of them over. They’ve discovered that better balance means fewer falls on the ice, better focus means fewer penalties, and better recovery means fewer injuries.
Plus, I don’t take any of their macho bullshit, which they secretly appreciate.
Finished with email, I give in to the urge to check my phone—5 more ridiculous messages from Drake, which I swipe away without reading—before taking Mr. Sniffles out to the small back garden to do his business.