Page 157 of 10 Rings I Hate About You
“Agreed.”
She gestured toward her mat, and as I watched her go, I felt that specific anticipation of a friendship that hadn’t started but already felt inevitable.
I turned back to the room.
We had a larger class today: thirteen total. The committee members stood at the side of the room. Marc stood near the rest of the volunteers with his hand resting on Noble’s collar—Noble straining forward with his enthusiasm turned up to full volume, his front end committed to the direction his back end was still negotiating. Theo was at his station. And Cheryl was at the front with her unflappable confidence.
The room was full. The room was ready. The room was everything we’d built it to be.
I looked at Marc. He was watching me too. Not the room, not the committee, me. Like he was checking in to see if I was good.
I gave him the smallest nod.
We’re ready, it said.
We’re in this together, it said.
I love you, it said.
He gave me a single nod back, and I hoped it meant all the things my nod had.
Cheryl called out a greeting.
I took a breath.
And it was time to begin.
Then the door opened, and four more people walked in.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
MARC
The first thing I noticed when Cheryl called the room to order was that my hands stopped shaking.
They’d been doing it all week. Not visibly—I’d managed that much—but a low-frequency tremor underneath everything.
Present at three in the morning when I ran probability calculations that weren’t helping anyone. Present in the clinic between patients when I’d catch myself staring at the wall, working out possible scenarios. And present in the kitchen when I found myself chopping vegetables into unnecessarily small pieces because my hands needed something precise to do.
But now we were here. The committee was positioned. The room was full, especially with the four additional participants who showed up because of a scheduling miscommunication. Delaney had smiled and quickly added additional mats in ninety seconds as I recalibrated everything. Three of the four were returning participants. Doug, Sienna, Patty—in full yoga gear with a monogrammed mat bag—and Kevin, a new participant.
There was simply too much to manage for my nervous system to dedicate resources to falling apart. And being in motion was easier than waiting.
I took my position near the door—sightlines to the full room and eight seconds to intervene anywhere, Noble currently within arm’s reach, threat assessment running—and noted, professionally, that the room looked fantastic. Delaney and Cheryl had created an ethereal and calming space that the participants really responded to.
Cheryl opened up with breathwork, and the room began to settle. Noble sat perfectly still beside me—until the tip of his tail gave a slow sweep against the floor.
I looked at him, but his attention wasn’t on me. It was on Mr Geraldi.
The tail began to move a little faster, and his muscles tensed. I identified the trajectory. Assessed the distance. Put both hands on his collar before he took off running.
Henderson, the orange tabby, had been a shelter resident long enough to have developed strong opinions about every surface in the building. I’d known bringing him into the yoga class was a calculated risk. Henderson had never met a horizontal surface he didn’t consider a sleeping option. What I had failed to factor into my risk assessment was the specific appeal of a committee member’s back during child’s pose.
Ms. Kline was folded forward, arms extended, forehead touching the mat. Her back was objectively, a flat, warm surface.
Henderson had identified his target. Ms. Kline. Of course. He crossed the room, unhurried and certain of his path. The cat wasn’t told no often, and it showed with the confidence he exuded in every step.
I was already too late.
