What does it take to become special?
I dig for the journal and pencil I’ve hidden under the plush cushion of the window seat and open it to the next available page.
Dear Hannon,
I tried something new tonight. Aerial yoga. I can imagine you laughing now, but honestly it was the most alive I’ve felt in years. Something about dangling in the air and letting your body fly free put some things into perspective. I haven’t been living, Hannon. And I’m still not sure I want to, but I know I should want to, and that counts. Right?
Dr. Hart told me to try something new and physical to get my blood pumping and endorphins flowing. She suggested it as a substitute for, you know…the thing. And today it worked. Though, I had a weird episode in the class, kind of like a mini panic attack. Nick was right there to bring me out of my freak out.
Nick. That’s my teacher’s name, and Hannon, he’s beautiful. Everything I’m never going to be. And I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe he likes me a little bit. I don’t want him to like me. Again, that’s not exactly true. It feels good to have his interest, but I don’t know how to be normal. Once he gets to know me, if I ever go back to his class again, he’s going to see how strange I am. All men do eventually. And if they don’t disappear before they see the real me, they will as soon as they meet our parents.
I’m not sure if I’m going to go to his class again, even though I enjoyed it. It was the first time I can recall that the weight I’ve been carrying around for the last two years lifted off my heart, giving me room to breathe.
Is it wrong to feel happy when you’re not here to share it?
Hannon, I’m so screwed up. I wish I could be someone else. I wish you were here to tell me what to do, but you’re not. You left.
Come back to me.
I miss you.
All my love,
Honor
This yoga room is different from the one I was in last week. It’s smaller, more cozy, with candles and a beautiful mural of a forest along one wall. Since Nick’s class, I’ve held up in my room, reading, journaling, and thinking about the sex-on-legs yoga instructor. I even Googled him and found out that he not only teaches yoga a handful of times per week, he owns and operates Sal’s Gym & Fitness Center. I saved all of the pictures of him from his bio on the Lotus House website and the enticing photos of him boxing and teaching on the other website. Hands down, the man is fit, healthy, and makes my heart pound a million beats a minute. Because of said pounding, I decided to skip going to his class until I could get a handle on my inner freak. That didn’t mean I didn’t want to do yoga, so here I sit on my mat, waiting to start a class called Vinyasa Flow with a woman named Grace.
Yesterday, I spent a long time refreshing the henna I’d placed over my scars. I even added it to the marks on my outer right thigh in case anyone sees me shower or change in the ladies locker room. For me, it’s always been better to be prepared than to have to answer any questions. Besides, I think the ink looks pretty, and I’ve gotten really good at it.
Feeling a tad more confident when I see tatted-up patrons strutting around in just shorts and bralettes, I remove my bulky hoodie. I’ve chosen a brilliant green tank this time that seemed cheerier than the drab black and taupe colors I wear around Mother. Maybe I’ll go online and pick up a few more outfits if yoga is going to become a regular thing.
No. Go out and shop for clothing. Get out of the house, Honor. That’s what Dr. Hart would suggest.
I nod to myself and sit quietly in lotus pose while the people around me get situated. A bright-blue mat lands a couple feet to my right, jarring me out of my peaceful contemplation about where I could find yoga clothes like the ones I see on the ladies here.
“Hey, Dove,” a deep, low voice calls out, sending a tremor of recognition through my veins.
To my right, I find Nick pulling off his shirt. He raises it slowly, allowing each brick of his abdominal muscles to make an appearance one toned slab at a time. I lick my lips, wondering what it would taste like to run my tongue through the lines of each indentation. My sex feels heavy as I imagine running my fingers along his square pecs before licking and sucking each of his nipples. I’ve never done that to a man. I’m ill-experienced in the bedroom. The dozen times I’ve had sex, I allowed the man to basically get me naked and do his thing. I’ve never even achieved an orgasm that wasn’t self-induced, and I rarely indulge in that pastime. I’m too lost in my own head and unhappiness. This man, though, brings all kinds of tawdry, sexual ideas to the surface.
Nick tosses his T-shirt on the floor near his mat. He thumbs the waistline of his track pants, and I swallow. As if putting on a show, he inches the loose pants over his hips, past his muscled thighs, and down to the floor, leaving him in a skin-tight pair of yoga shorts. They look more like boxer briefs, but I know they’re not. These are lined and have a cool red stripe down the side, but good God in heaven above, his quads are cut. I want to lean forward and touch each hill and valley, memorize what the hair on his legs feels like fluttering across my palms.
“Keep up
