The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) (25 page)

“
Yes! I understand. I
’
m just worried, you know? I
’
ve never seen you like this.
”
She squeezes my fingers again and I see the light in her eyes dim a little with concern.
“
Anyway, I know you
’
ll need time
—
but Sonny and I thought that this might help.
”
She releases my hands as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a leather-bound journal. It
’
s a beautiful shade of tan with embossed flowers all over the cover. There
’
s a leather string that connects over the top fold and wraps around the binding in order to keep the pages closed.
“
It
’
s a journal.
”

“
I
’
m depressed, not blind,
”
I mutter. I don
’
t mean to bite and I try and make up for it by gently reaching for my gift. She relinquishes it, ignoring my comment.

“
We thought you could write in it and use it to process your way through your separation. You can write out your prayers and your feelings just to get them out of your head.
”

I nod, truly appreciative of this gift and the idea behind it. If she only knew the amount of thoughts I
’
ve had on my mind that I
’
ve been desperate to get out
…
desperate to share with Beckham
—

“
Sonny even thought you could use it to write to Hammy.
”

My head snaps up and my eyes find hers.
How weird is it that she just addressed my thoughts
—
that Grayson addressed my thoughts?

“
We know that it
’
s going to be hard not getting to see him or talk to him as much
—
but that doesn
’
t mean you shouldn
’
t let it all out.
”

The tears I
’
ve been fighting since before she walked into the room rear their ugly head again; this time, I let them fall as I wrap my arms around my sister.
“
Thank you,
”
I manage.

“
I love you. I just want you to know that everything is going to be okay
—
it
’
s all going to turn out the way it
’
s supposed to. I
’
m praying for you and I
’
m here for you, whatever you need.
”

“
I love you, too, AJ.
”

“
Have you told mom and dad?
”

I shake my head as I pull away from her.
“
Not yet. I
’
m not ready yet.
”

She hums her understanding and doesn
’
t press the issue, for which I am grateful. She then points at the diminishing plate of brownies.
“
In the past two days, have you had anything to eat that
’
s
not
chocolate?
”

“
No,
”
I mumble.
“
And don
’
t bother offering me dinner. I just ate it.
”

“
Tomorrow,
”
she says as she stands.
“
Land of the living.
”
When she reaches for a brownie, I scowl at her. She smiles in return
—
and there it is again, that glint in her eyes.
“
This is for your own good. If I eat one, there
’
s one less to consume; and when they
’
re gone, you
’
ll be forced to eat something that resembles an actual meal.
”
She takes a bite as if to emphasize her point.
“
I
’
m going to go play for a bit. Consider it
mood
music to encourage your first journaling session.
”
She winks at me, as if to convey how clever she thinks she is, and pulls my door partway closed
—
whether that
’
s for privacy or so that there is a buffer between me and the sound of her cello playing, I
’
m not sure; but when her music starts to waft into my room, I
do
want to write. So I open my new journal and I do just that.

When I wake up Wednesday morning, I force myself out of bed and into a pair of yoga pants, a tank top, and a hoodie. It
’
s impossible for me
not
to think of Beck
—
so I do; while I
’
m pulling my hair up into a ponytail, while I
’
m checking to make sure I
’
ve got my keys in my purse, while I
’
m slipping into a pair of flip-flops, when I tuck my yoga mat under my arm, and especially when I grab one of two of my remaining brownie squares and head out the door.

It dawns on me as I step outside that I haven
’
t breathed in a single breath of fresh air since we broke up.

Broke up
—
the truth still makes me cringe.

Part of me hopes that I
’
ll run into him on my way to my car. I
’
m dying to see him, to talk to him, to know how he is. Another part of me knows that if I see him, I
’
ll just dissolve into a puddle of tears. I
’
ve already decided that I can
’
t go there right now
—
right now I need to head to the yoga studio and be amongst
the
living
, as AJ refers to the world that still goes on outside our front door. It
’
s just a little past eight thirty. The next class starts in about twenty minutes.

Thankfully,
I suppose
, I don
’
t run into him on my way to my car and fifteen minutes later, I
’
m walking into the yoga studio in Old Town. The class is a popular one, I note
—
and very female heavy. Not that it
’
s unusual, but I
’
ve not ever been to this class before and it
’
s an observation I can
’
t really miss. My school schedule usually had me attending classes in the evening when I could squeeze one in between homework or my occasional shift at Cooper
’
s. While those sessions were predominantly female, there were always a least a handful of guys in attendance.
Are there
any
men in here? Or
—
crap
—
is this a mommies only class?

I shrug off the question and the attached curiosity. I'm here now and I'm not leaving, mommy class or not. I spread my mat out in the back of the room, not really interested in competing for a spot closer to the front. I
’
m feeling pretty anti-social, but my body needs this; at least, that
’
s what I keep telling myself. When the instructor for the class walks in, the chatter in the room grows a little louder. I can
’
t see his face, but I can see his body. Then it clicks and I assume that his toned, lean, build is why there are so many females in this session. When he speaks, I can
’
t help but smile at the sound of his velvety, low voice
—
not because it makes me want to swoon, but because I'm positive it has that effect on at least half of the women in this room. Considering my height deficiency, I can
’
t actually see his face, but I can imagine it
’
s just as enticing. Luckily, I
’
m here for the yoga, not the hot instructor.

Five minutes into the workout, my body starts to speak of its appreciation for my efforts. I begin to relax as we flow through each movement. I
’
m familiar enough with the various poses that I can concentrate on my breathing instead of whether or not my technique is right. I make it a whole forty minutes without feeling sorry for myself, which I find impressive, and then, out of nowhere, the tears come.

I can
’
t even be sure what has happened to trigger this outburst. One second I
’
m fine, the next
…
I
’
m in child
’
s pose, clamping my lips together in an attempt to muffle my cry. The class goes on without me, but I can
’
t move. It takes every ounce of energy I have to keep my sobs silent
—
my body tenses with the effort.
Well
—
so much for stretching out my tight muscles
.

“
Hey, are you alright?
”

My body stiffens even more at the sound of his voice. When I peek underneath my outstretched arm, I see the instructor
—
what is his name again?
—
crouched down beside me, balancing on the balls of his feet. His hushed tone conveys his concern.
At least, I
’
m pretty sure he
’
s concerned. I can
’
t see his face to be sure.
Either way, I appreciate his efforts to not draw attention to me
—
but his very
presence
draws attention to me, so he kind of missed the mark on that one. He
’
s made his way around the room a few times throughout this session, but he hasn
’
t stopped in my corner until now. I want to tell him I
’
m fine, but when I open my mouth, the only thing that comes out is an embarrassing croaking sound. I immediately cover my mouth with one of my hands, keeping my head down.

“
Are you hurt?
”
he asks, dropping to his knees.

Yes!
I want to scream, but I don't. I know what he means, so I shake my head and try and calm down enough to take a deep breath. I have to get out of here. No way I'm going to get myself together with an audience; and yeah, I'm sure by now I have an audience larger than one.

I
’
m standing before I can talk myself out of it and I
’
m out the door even faster. My feet and arms are bare and, despite it being the second week in May, it's cool in the shade. I don't care though. I can't go back in there until the class is over. I suck it up, rubbing my hands up and down my arms as I plop down on the step just outside the studio entrance and concentrate on taking deep breaths. I
’
m so focused on stoping my tears that I don't hear the door open behind me. I jump when I feel my hoodie being draped around my shoulders. I look over and see a pair of familiar feet and then, suddenly, the instructor is sitting beside me.

I was right about his face. I can tell he
’
s older than me, but probably not by much
—
maybe five or six years. It
’
s his lack of boyish charm that gives it away. He
’
s all man. He
’
s got dark brown eyes outlined with thick eyelashes and a gorgeously chiseled face, complete with a goatee that he wears well.
So that's why this class is so popular.