Chapter 24
Daniel
Isla holds the door open and waves us into the dry safety of the yoga center. “Come on in, guys! You two are getting drenched!”
The wind whips through the trees, howling in the dead predawn air. Autumn in Reyfield is always wet and cold and unapologetic. With Grace leading the way, I hustle toward the door and my hair clings to my face. Blinded by the rain in my eyes, I stomp straight into a crater-sized puddle causing cold water to splash the legs of my sweatpants.
This day is already off to a splendid start!
I got to my apartment from the office around 2:15 this morning. My alarm clock started crowing at 4:30. But I was already wide awake, staring at the ceiling, fuming that I have to be here at this tantric yoga hocus pocus.
Contorting my limbs into impossible positions while chanting shit in ancient languages I don’t even understand is supposed to save my marriage?
Meditation, is that the answer? Really?
Gimme a break.
If the $400-an-hour therapy sessions with one of Chicago’s most renowned relationship counselors couldn’t fix us then I don’t see how this mumbo-jumbo will.
You know what I think is the solution? We need to send Sebastian off to my parents’ for the weekend, bring a few bottles of wine and some chocolate fondue up to the bedroom and fuck until we’re too tired and dehydrated and intoxicated to fight. That’s what we used to do in law school and it worked every time.
But Grace just isn’t having it this time.
“Hi hun,” my wife greets Isla as she steps into the reception area and brushes her wet hair out of her face.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been here – Keeland has dragged me here a few times since he’s considering renting out a small room at the back to run his tattoo business – but every time I step into this building, the whole new-age bohemian vibe gets under my skin.
The essential oils and incense being diffused through the air.
The sitar music echoing in the room.
The large, colorful cushions all over the floor.
The candles. All these damn candles.
Apparently, the bedrooms upstairs where couples stay during these retreats are equally quirky. There’s no escaping the eccentrism in this place.
Don’t get me wrong – I like Isla. But all this woo-woo she’s selling, I just don’t buy it. The shit’s outlandish, to say the least.
“Good morning,” she says to Grace and me, and she’s way too perky for this early hour.
I tell her just that. “You’re way too perky for this early hour.”
She laughs melodically. “Once you allow yourself to sync up with the energy of the Universe, you’ll feel the bliss, too.” I try not to roll my eyes.
Nope. Not buying it.
But I don’t want to be rude so I’ll hold my tongue.
“The other participants are down the hall in the big room. We have a light breakfast spread out just in case you didn’t have time to eat. You guys probably want to go get dried off first, right?”
I look down at my drenched clothing and nod.
“The locker rooms are just down that way.” She points to a long, dimly-lit hallway, “Once you’re done, we’ll all gather in the big room and begin with an overview of what to expect this weekend. Sounds good?”
Grace hoists her overnight bag up on her shoulder. “Sounds good,” she says with a hesitant but willing cadence to her voice.
Both women turn their expectant eyes to me. I push out a rough exhale and rake my fingers through my wet hair. “Sounds good.”
Isla smiles warmly. “Most men start out with their reservations,” she tells me, “but by the time this weekend is over, you’ll be looking at your wife and your relationship with whole new eyes.” She peers at a sceptical-looking Grace. “Trust me, the biggest hurdle is usually getting your mate to walk through the front door.”
My wife’s eyes move to me, those beautiful brown irises pleading with me to play along. She has no idea the power she has over me.
Not one other women on this planet could have me standing here right now. I should be working today. Next week is a big week. The Shinewell case goes before the court of appeal. I don’t have time to be sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat all weekend, trying to get in touch with my inner Dalai Lama. I have things to do. Real world things.
But that look on Grace’s face, the way her drenched white t-shirt clings to each of her curves. I want that. More than I want anything. That’s why I’m here.
I’ll need to keep that at the front of my mind if I’m going to get through this weekend. “I’m gonna go dry off,” I say and turn down the hall, following the sign that leads to the men’s locker room.