Page 39 of Hot Girl Summer

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Nobody should have to go through what you did, and still do. But it explains a hell of a lot about your reasons for having your guard up.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to play the role people want you to,” I muse, remembering his first, extremely vocalised impression of me.

“Why do you think so little of yourself?”

What an odd thing to ask. I’m taken aback, and although I hate to admit it, hurt.

“Excuse me? I’ve practically bared my fucking soul and you—”

He shakes his head.

“No. What I mean is, why do you think you would have to play a role for anybody? Because from where I’m standing, the you I know is pretty damn remarkable, and I would love to know who you really are.”

I debate whether to continue. Nobody, aside from my parents, has bothered to ask or care how I was after that night, but I won’t let what happened define me.

“Oh.” I pause. “I guess I’ve always felt like a bit of an alien. I’ve always questioned my purpose, always been a foreigner, never truly belonged. After the incident, I hit a really low point. I felt guilty for craving that validation because it led me to lose my power, and at a time in my life when I questioned who I was, and how people perceived me, yoga and meditation was the only thing that was there for me.”

“Is that why you decided to become a yoga teacher?”

I shoot him a questioning look.

“I overheard you and your friends talking at Lilura.”

“I want to help people like me, and people like Kiki. I want to give teenagers something to identify with, to give them an outlet. Teach them that yoga isn’t just about the poses they see on Instagram. It’s about lifestyle, and mind-set. It’s about compassion, and boundaries, and kindness to self and others.” My mouth goes dry. “I’m not used to doing all this talking. You’re the only person I’ve met recently that has asked so many questions of me.”

“What does that say about everyone else?”

I’m not sure, but it speaks volumes for the kind of person he’s showing himself to be.

Fuck the pact I made with myself. Life is about living. I need to stop running and embrace my opportunities while I still have them.

His gaze falls to my mouth, and I remember his words from earlier.

Life’s too short to have regrets.

I allow myself to be in the moment, to be pulled in by his gravity. I drop my gaze to his lips and inch closer, but before I have a chance to seize the opportunity, a car alarm sounds, and jolts us back to reality.

Once we’re over the initial embarrassment, we share an awkward laugh, and I put a band aid on my wounded ego by telling myself this isn’t meant to be. There’s no going back now. We both know what was about to happen, and that can’t be erased.

“So, tell me about you,” I say, in an attempt to gracefully change the subject. I’m grateful for the darkness hiding the flush in my cheeks.

“What do you want to know?”

“Where do you stand with pineapple on pizza?”

“Fruit doesn’t belong on pizza. What are your thoughts?”

“I mean, I don’t hate it.” I shrug at his look.

“You call yourself Italian? You should be ashamed.”

I laugh just as my phone chimes with a text.

Stefan: Heading home. Everything okay?

Sophia: All good. Won’t be long.

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