So Wrong It's Right

CHAPTER ONE

NAMASTE (IN BED)

One week earlier...

"Namaste."

Releasing a long breath, I open my eyes and watch as fifteen intermediate-to-advanced yogis bow back at me. With murmured thanks, they begin rolling up their mats and heading for the exits. I wave when I spot a few regulars in the group, mixed in with a healthy number of new faces. My class has grown more and more popular, these past few months. I'll have to start turning people away if Aimee, the studio owner, doesn't give me another time slot. Plus, I can't lie — it would be nice to have something else to occupy my pathetically under-scheduled Saturdays.

A girl can only spend so many hours binge-watching Netflix alone before her brain starts to atrophy... along with certain other sorely-neglected body parts south of the waistline...

I don't bother looking for my friends in the crowd. They're not exactly what you'd call athletic — unless running through the mall in pursuit of a shoe sale counts as cardio. (I'm looking at you, Phoebe.) Besides, they've all been so busy for the past few months, I'm lucky if I even get to see them at our occasional girl's nights. Without margarita pitchers and gossip to entice them, there's approximately a zero percent chance of getting them to show up at one of my sunrise fitness sessions.

Maybe if I start serving bottomless mimosas after class...

I sigh deeply.

It's not that I don't understand why my besties have been MIA as of late. Our twenties have been a whirlwind of job changes and life shifts, new relationships and apartment moves, lavish weddings and squirming babies. Plus, unlike some of us, my friends actually enjoy spending time at home. (It probably helps that they have men who worship the ground they walk on — albeit, in fabulous footwear — waiting when they step through their front doors.)

What a novel concept: actually wanting to spend time at home...

"Thanks for a great class, everyone!" I call as my students filter out the front exit into the parking lot. "Hope to see you next week!"

When the door finally swings shut behind the last girl, I glance around the empty studio. It's a familiar mess — foam blocks and free weights scattered haphazardly across the hardwood. I flip on the stereo and hum along to the refrains of an '80s love ballad as I stack the equipment in the racks on the left side of the room. My mind makes a slow loop through my daily to-do list.

Stop by the Farmers Market.

Long run along the Charles River.

Cook that new butternut squash soup I've been meaning to try.

Eat a bowl alone while watching a rerun of Chopped I've already seen twice before falling into my empty king-sized bed, pretending not to notice the crushing sound of silence in my empty house.

And repeat.

I'm stacking the last of the free weights when I catch a glimpse of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror dominating the far wall of the studio. Bare feet, high ponytail, pink sports bra, black leggings. My posture is tense despite the past two hours of deep breathing exercises. My bow-shaped mouth is set in a frown. My light brown eyes appear flat and empty. God, I barely recognize my own reflection.

When did I become this unhappy stranger staring back at me?

Maybe around the time I served my husband Paul divorce papers six months ago. Or maybe further back, when he stopped coming home for dinner, or sleeping in our bed, or spending any time with me whatsoever. Then again, if I'm being totally honest with myself... maybe it happened long before then. So far back, I'm almost afraid to look, for fear of what I'll find. Because the stark naked truth of the matter is...