Do I Know You?(61)

I’m grateful when Graham replies from where he’s kneeling with more patience than I could have managed. “We’ll stay with the class, thanks. Eliza,” he continues, “why don’t we switch positions?”

I withdraw, letting him stand up. I’m honestly a little surprised he wants to continue, with what a nervous mess I obviously am. Kneeling in front of him, I press my forehead to the mat. When Graham’s hands press into my back, I congratulate myself for not flinching in surprise. He shifts his weight forward gently, stretching my spine. It feels good, if strenuous.

Suddenly, his face is near mine. His scent is everywhere. He exhales—like he did last night, when he was close enough to press his lips to my neck, close enough for his breathing to play with my hair. This close. While he doesn’t do those things now, the moment is surprisingly intimate, the signals in my body chaotically confusing.

“You have to listen to each other,” Trish says. “Hear each other’s limits and work within them.”

Graham’s hands walk down my back, elongating my tendons pleasantly. “More,” I tell him.

“My pleasure,” Graham exhales, which leads me to consider my word choice.

“Oh, very mature,” I reply, nevertheless warming with my unintentional insinuation. It is not the heat of embarrassment. Who knows—maybe what I said was a subconscious slip instead of poor phrasing. “I meant, you can press harder,” I clarify.

He does. The sweet burn of pleasure fills me—momentarily. The next second, my mind snags once more on what’s waiting for me. Michelle. The wedding. How I’ll probably forever be the maid of dishonor in my family. My muscles clench, turning Graham’s massaging presses into pounding strain.

Graham obviously notices. I feel his hands leave my back, ending the pleasant pull of the stretch. He sits down on the mat behind me.

Unfurling, I look over my shoulder, my heart racing with uncertainty. I wish I didn’t feel this way. But part of me is glad he withdrew. If we try to be flirty, to have fun, and I still can’t pull myself from what’s distracting me, it might hurt worse than not trying in the first place.

Graham, I’m relieved to see, is eyeing me with playful patience. “You know, we did just meet,” he says. “Maybe the instructor’s right. We can feel out our connection first before jumping into the other stuff.”

Ignoring how every other couple here is finding their balance in the new pose under the gorgeous, cloudless sky on this hillside—ignoring my disappointment in myself—I sit, crossing my legs, facing him.

The other instructor, the woman who is not Trish, comes over to us. She places our hands on each other’s legs. “Eye contact,” she says encouragingly.

We follow her instruction. Finally, I stare into Graham’s eyes. It’s impossible not to see the feelings coursing in his emerald irises—so profound, so loving. My instinct is once more to divert, to withdraw, even when forced into this ironically tranquil standoff.

But when we refuse to break each other’s gaze, something . . . starts to happen. Our breathing evens. Our movements start to synchronize, chests rising and falling in unison. Like parts of one whole.

I don’t notice when the instructor guides us gently into clasping hands for side-to-side twisting motions. In fact, everything starts to disappear—the clear sky, the mats, the grass, the whole world shrinking down into my rhythm with Graham. We never drop our eye contact. Sweat springs to my skin, not just from the movements.

With my gaze locked with Graham’s, I feel our charade crumbling, feel myself looking into the eyes of my husband once more. We move together, sweat-slicked arms sliding in unison, chests heaving, and I’m not prepared for the vulnerability. With each stretch, each exchange of straining muscles and skin on skin, I feel like I’m physically pulling inner parts of myself forward, exposing my soul to the sunlight. Like the stretching, it’s strenuous, even sometimes searing.

I register my own instinctive reaction to what’s happening—I want to hide. I want to let those pieces retreat into their interior walls.

But I don’t. I make myself stand naked in the day, because Graham is with me. We exhale in unison, our movements fluid. I have to fight tears from springing to my eyes while Graham holds my gaze, his grip on me tightening. For months, I found him unreadable, impossible to decipher. Now, it’s easy, even innate. I can feel his feelings, how he’s urging me to stay with him, to be bare. To keep my emotions exposed instead of masking them in performance. Not just of Vacation Planner Eliza, either. Longer performances, deeper ones. Someone who’s fine when her marriage, her relationship with her sister, start to suffer.

I’d normally be uncomfortable with this openness. Instead, it’s tiring, but—wonderful.

I lose track of how long we hold these poses with each other. Eventually, the class ends. I’d only envisioned this morning yoga session would be something invigorating in our day together, but it’s become something more. I feel genuinely peaceful.

We start to walk up from the grass, hand loosely in hand. Instead of stopping myself, I speak up.

“Hey,” I say to Graham, who looks over. He’s calm. I feel the same way, I realize, not because what I’m going to say is effortless, but because, right now, I’m suspended in the unfamiliar conviction that it’ll be okay. “It—wasn’t a work thing this morning. It was my mom calling. She wanted to know if I’m coming to my sister’s wedding.”