“You ready?” Reece asks as he drops down onto the yoga mat I laid out for him.

No, I’m not fucking ready. I don’t want to do any of this. I’m both tired and anxious. Yesterday with Dan and Todd was a disaster. I need today to be better. And I don’t feel like giving yoga lessons when what I need is a real session to make today bearable. But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I smile pleasantly at him and say, “Sure thing.”

He rolls his eyes and laughs. “Liar.” He’s in a good mood. Even though I’m irritated, his enthusiasm is contagious.

I let myself take a long look at him. From the tips of his toes, to his long, thick, muscled legs and thighs. He’s wearing swimming trunks, and a white T-shirt that exposes his tattoo.

“How long have you had that?” I ask him, breaking the quiet.

“Only a year.” He looks down at it and then smiles rakishly at me. “You like it?”.

I scoff. “It’s fine. Just wondering how I didn’t notice it before.”

“And when would you have seen it?” he asks and I try to look casual.

“I’ve seen pictures of you. From when you used to swim. That’s all. You didn’t have it then.”

I’m not going to confess that two nights ago I stayed up all night trying to find a picture of him where the tattoo was visible.

Most of them were taken at premiers, award shows and fundraisers. A few were candid shots of him in street clothes taken while he was married, so his ex-wife was in the pictures, too.

As I scrolled through them on my laptop, I felt the bitterness of jealousy in the back of my throat. They looked so good together. Both tall, beautiful, tanned and dressed in designer clothes.

“I got it after my divorce. It’s a collection of symbols from all over the world. They all mean the same thing —freedom,” he says the last word with real relish.

I’m mesmerized by the way freedom spills so easily from his mouth. I instinctually bring my hand up to cover my heart, where my own ode to freedom is also tattooed.

“Well, then congratulations. Nothing feels better than emancipation,” I quip and I sit back down next to him.

“Indeed . . . and what do you know about being shackled? From where I’m sitting you appear to very much be the master of your own destiny.”

“If only you knew,” I mutter inaudibly.

“What?” he asks.

“Let’s get started,” I say with a forced frown. I couldn’t begin to explain, even if I tried. He’s found his freedom; I was only getting a taste of someone else’s. No matter how much I pretend, I won’t ever forget that Lucía’s life isn’t really mine.

He closes his eyes as the rising sun kisses his face, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I wonder what that would be like.

When our eyes meet, his are so open, so calm that I feel myself relax a little. He smiles at me gratefully as if he can feel the change. I try to focus on why we’re here.

“I thought I’d start by demonstrating the twelve basic poses called Asanas. You don’t have to master them and you can modify them for now. After that, I’ll show you the Sun Salutations. Those are less challenging and you should be able to do them with me.

Instead of waiting for his reply, I start with the headstand and move through the twelve poses, quickly, naming them as I go.

When I finish, I find his gaze is riveted on me. “You’re strong. I’m impressed.” I know he’s paying me a compliment, but his scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. It reminds me of why I stopped taking group classes.

Yoga is where I open my mind, it’s where I leave all my stress. It’s where I can let my guard down in a way I can’t when I’m with other people. My time on my mat is where I find my sanity. It’s how I make it through each day. It grounds me, reminds me of who I really am. It’s a safe place for me to feel all my hurt, all my desires. The part of me that is desperate to be free and honest. The part that cries. The side I don’t let anyone see.

I need yoga. I know that sharing my practice with him means he’ll catch glimpses of me that I don’t show to anyone. The thought leaves me slightly breathless.

“Did you get all of that? I’ll write down the names of the poses for you so you can practice them later. But for now, let’s move to the Sun Salutations. You’ve got to sync your breathing to your movements. So you only inhale or exhale when you move.”

He nods, his dark eyes are serious again. “Okay, I’ll follow your lead.”

That comment feels loaded, but I only nod and say, “Fine.”

So, we begin. We move through this exercise that I’ve done every day without fail for almost five years. He’s quiet and attentive and as we move together and breathe together. When we finish, my senses are heightened. I can feel fine hairs on my arms rustle in the light ocean breeze. I smell the salt in the air with each inhale. I can taste it in the back of my throat with each exhale. Reece’s scent is like sweat mixed with sun. Every single nerve ending in my body is aware of him.

I feel . . . great. He’s staring out at the horizon, his posture relaxed. I study his profile. My eyes trace the gentle slope of his forehead where it meets his dark, thick brows. The bridge of his nose is perfectly straight, his lips full and so . . . appealing. If I were an artist, I would want to draw him and then never let anyone see my work. His morning beard covers his jaw and chin and I wonder, again, how it would feel beneath my hands.

“That was great,” he says, as if it was the last thing he expected.

I’ve never been so tongue tied in my life. I just give him a quick smile before I busy myself with my mat. “Tomorrow, we’ll start with the Sun Salutations and then we’ll work on the first position, the Sirisena, or headstand. You’ve already got good core strength from swimming, so we’ll focus on your balance.”

“Okay . . . do you think I should get a manual or something to study?” he asks and I finally force myself to look back at him. He’s so sexy. I want to stomp my foot at the unfairness of it all.

“No, you don’t need a manual. I’ll write the basics down for you. Just practice when you can. If you want to continue learning after we’re done, I can recommend some great teachers in Calabasas or even here.”

“When we’re done? Who says we’ll ever be done? I might want you to teach me forever,” he quips. I laugh. He’s charming when he’s relaxed and it’s so easy to forget myself.

I’m worried about not being able to relax during the session, but surprisingly, I feel even more relaxed than I normally do. But this was . . . a revelation. Our synchronous movements and breathing felt intimate and comfortable.

“I can’t be your teacher forever, Reece. Unless you’re a fast learner, working with you will mean I’m not making progress in my own practice. You’ll be holding me back,” I say with a laugh.

“We’ll see. I’m a natural born athlete, kid. Maybe by the time this is all said and done, I’ll be teaching you.”

“When pigs fly,” I shoot back.

“Oh, man, Luc. Don’t dare me. I can’t say no to a challenge.”

He’s been calling me “Luc” since the day he fished me out of the pool. Everyone shortens my name. But somehow, on Reece’s lips it sounds special.

“I don’t have time to argue, I have a writing team to wrangle and I don’t want to be late. Same time tomorrow?” I say as I start toward the house.

He calls over his shoulder, “Yeah, handle your team.” It’s the only reference he’s made to yesterday’s debacle. “See you tomorrow, same time. Bring your A-game. I’m going to make that headstand my bitch.”

I sing in the shower, and as I make breakfast, and then on the way to the office. It’s a good day.