Page 116 of The Yoga Teacher

“Stack’s crooked.”

Daniel turned. James stood behind him, thumbs hooked in the back pockets of his jeans, his expression unreadable.

Daniel stepped aside, reflexively adjusting the chair. “You always this critical after a full day of labor?”

James grunted. “When it’s warranted.”

Daniel let out a short breath, not quite a laugh. He bent to fix the lopsided legs, and James didn’t stop him. When Daniel straightened again, the two men stood facing each other—neither hostile, neither warm. Just… wary.

“She’s been doing better,” James said finally.

Daniel nodded, his throat dry. “I know.”

They stood there for a beat longer, the quiet stretching. Then James reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“Barbecue,” he said. “Mia’s idea. Sunday.”

Daniel took it, staring at the photocopied invitation—clip-art flames, a crudely drawn burger, a handwritten “don’t bring cheap beer” in the margins. He almost smiled.

“I’m not sure—”

“Hannah’s going to be there,” James cut in. “And so are a lot of people who still think you’re a selfish, lying piece of shit.”

Daniel looked up. James met his eyes squarely.

“She’s letting you help out here.” James said it like it tasted sour. “For whatever reason. But if you screw up again—” he leaned in, voice dropping, “—there won’t be another chance. Not with Mia. Not with me. You understand?”

Daniel swallowed hard. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

James nodded once. “Good.”

Daniel looked down at the paper in his hand. The corner had smudged with sweat from his palm.

He folded it carefully and slid it into his back pocket. He already knew he’d go.

He’d show up for Hannah.

He’d keep showing up however he could.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Hannah

THE PEN WAS expensive. That was her first thought.

Heavy in her hand, capped in brushed gold, the kind of pen that probably sat on real mahogany desks in corner offices, next to nameplates and untouched mugs of coffee.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the lawyer said.

Hannah blinked.

The divorce decree sat in front of her, all tidy paragraphs and numbered subsections. Clean. Civil. A far cry from the grief that had shattered her chest for months.

Irreconcilable differences. No contest. No children.

It was all here. Everything they’d agreed on. Everything she had demanded. Everything he hadn’t fought.

And at the bottom of the final page—her name. A blank line. Waiting.

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