Every Single Thing About You: A “Tuck Yes” Love Story - Book 3 by Hopkins, Faleena (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“Yes.”

“He just showed up in mine. Subtract your age from mine. You’ll have as many years I haven’t had a father as compared to you.”

“Oh.” Elliot frowns, “That is a lot more,” and disappears into the bathroom.

Bennett takes a drag off of his beer. “You’re not the only father who fucked up.” Jogging his thumb to me, he adds, “Only Josh here is perfect at it.”

“You’re getting better, Bennett. You’ve come a long way.”

He nods, “I’ve got a good woman to help me.”

My chest tightens, and I take a sip, mind traveling to places I haven’t dared allow myself to go. I barely hear Bennett telling his father he has a new baby on the way. All I can think about is a certain yoga instructor I’ve been trying to forget.

Chapter 13

With my once-used red yoga mat in hand I walk to Tempest’s class for a second time, this time very aware she’ll be teaching. It’s not quite seven o’clock. I arrived early on purpose. Don’t want to throw her off like I accidentally did last time. Though I’d argue she threw me off more. I was the one who didn’t regain my cool, when she did.

I don’t have it now, either.

For the days since Bennett’s life changed forever, I’ve been thinking about my own. I couldn’t argue with Zia or defend myself that day, because I agreed with her. I know that now.

Walking into the studio I take note of people storing their shoes, others signing in, the small foyer cramped when last time it was just me. I kick off and stow my sneakers, wait in line to scrawl my name on a numbered list of eleven and growing, and head into a candlelit room that’s haunted me for months.

A frown pierces everywhere as I spot a man onstage, sitting crosslegged like Tempest was. Glancing around for her, I cock my head and freeze. The dude has his eyes closed, so I clear my throat and interrupt his meditation. “Is Tempest Tuck teaching tonight?”

He opens one eye. Then the other. “She doesn’t teach here anymore.”

“At all?”

“No.”

My mat droops in my arm. “Oh.”

“You’re welcome to stay.”

“Thanks, but I won’t be able to concentrate.” Pivoting on my heel I scan faces of his students and find none familiar. I was in an agitated state that night. I would remember the people who all stared at me when she barked that order to grab blocks and a blanket. Think I locked eyes with each one of them.

None are here.

Heading for my sneakers, I pause as the guy calls out, “You should try her at Yin Yang Yoga.”

A Google search later and I’m walking seven blocks west on Houston, counting down address numbers on windows, doors, signs, until I come upon a red awning with the letters Yin Yang Yoga in elegant capitals with a handwritten font below reading: for beginners to masters.

The foyer is small but welcoming with a few shelves selling products — candles, blessing salts, crystals, and a rack with branded yoga pants for women, plus unisex t-shirts. My gaze slides up a shelf with backup stacked to the ceiling, yellow tags sticking out every five shirts or so, probably for easy size-search.

I hear Tempest’s voice coming from inside, and check my phone for the time. I’m late, of course. Kicking off my shoes I store them inside unpainted wood cubbies, and note the improved visual appeal over those my sneakers were last in. Straightening, I grab my mat and quietly open the door to class, locking eyes with Tempest before I shut it. “Sorry I’m late,” I offer her and all of the students I’ve interrupted. “Went to the wrong place.”

Tempest’s eyebrows shoot up as she tries to decipher my meaning. After three long seconds, she points a yellow fingernail that matches her yoga pants, long-sleeved midriff, and the band around a single braid that hangs over one shoulder. “There’s a spot over there.”

I nod, “Thanks,” grab two blocks and one blanket, holding them up for her approval as I weave my way to the far end of a room with hardwood floors, a fountain near the stage, and scentless candles lit throughout, like last time. Only this one has gold walls over white, and the fountain is quieter with statues of fairies dancing around trees. The other was just metal leaves. The candle holders here are more ornate, and they all match.

While I get settled, Tempest explains to the class as a whole, “We don’t spend enough time thinking about our breath. It’s something that comes naturally, so most people don’t realize how shallow it often is for most of us.” She pauses as I unroll my mat, eyes quizzical before resuming, “But think about this, we can’t live without air. Oxygen is our life-force even more than water is. Taking in just a little bit of air with shallow, unconscious breaths means you are thirsty for the energy that lives in all things. Expanding your intake of oxygen not only strengthens your immune system and increases blood flow, it also improves the harmony of all of your cells. Science says it decreases depression and even anxiety. So as we move through each posture today remember to breathe deeply and fully. It will seem awkward at first to focus on something you take for granted, but you will feel the rewards.”

Just like my first class, Tempest brings us through postures I’m positive I can’t hold for as long as she wants us to but my resistance is gone. After about twenty minutes where I think I might die, my limbs finally adjust, mind slipping into a relaxed state.

Focused breathing helps me stay present in each pose, my chest rising slowly, holding, and releasing again as we hit Warrior, Cobra, Locust, and a bunch of other names I can’t keep in my head. I’m here and I feel good. Strong. Centered. Like the old me.

“That was very