Page 5 of The Anchor Holds

When he turned around, I saw what he’d retrieved from the trunk—it wasn’t a weapon. It was yoga mats.

“A gun would’ve surprised me less,” I informed him truthfully.

He didn’t say anything, just thrust a mat at me then went toward the trail. I took it, following him.

We didn’t walk far before he left the trail, leaves crunching underfoot as he navigated with a confidence that told me he’d been there before. I had not. I did not hike. I was not outdoorsy like the rest of my family. I’d made a game of complaining on the camping trips I’d been dragged on throughout the years.

Yet I didn’t complain as I followed Jasper into a clearing that even I had to admit was beautiful.

The leaves were only just hinting at the vibrant orange they’d soon be painted with, wildflowers dotting the area. Late afternoon sun streamed in, birds singing. Jasper was a smudge on the landscape with his jagged edges, his general aura that he’d sooner set fire to the space with a rogue cigarette than enjoy the ambiance.

He kicked off his boots, and they landed quietly in the grass. Following his lead, I toed off my sneakers, wiggling my toes in the dewy grass and not actually hating the feeling of the earth underneath my bare feet. Though my shoulders were tense, waiting for Jasper to pounce, to tell me to take my clothes off,revealing himself to be just like every other boy, albeit with more of an interesting exterior.

But he didn’t even look at me.

Jasper unrolled his mat, and after a moment, I followed his lead, waiting for drugs or illicit contraband to magically appear from inside the roll. None did.

“We’re going to do yoga?” I folded my arms. “Really?”Yoga reserved for the stay-at-home moms looking to stay in shape or the girls at school who wore patchouli perfume. Great for them. So not for me.

“Really.” He nodded without any kind of self-consciousness at my judgment which served to make me look like a close-minded bitch. “Try it. You may like it.”

I licked my lips. Yoga. Inner peace? Calm? “I’m certain I won’t.”

He didn’t even look up at me. “How can you be certain about anything you’ve never done? That sounds ignorant and cowardly, I don’t think you’re either.”

He spoke like someone years older and certainly not like I expected him to. I didn’t think I was a snob by any means—we definitely didn’t come from money—but there was always enough to go around, which I guessed was plenty. But I had expected him to be different, less educated, more … feral, for lack of a better word.

I’d prided myself on being more worldly, open-minded and generally better than everyone in my small town. But there I was, shocked that a boy with a less-than-ideal upbringing was pleasant, well-rounded.

What else could I do?

I sat beside him and followed his lead.

An hour later, my body was covered in a thin film of sweat, muscles I didn’t know I had crying out in pain. I wasn’t athletic by any means. I did the required physical education at school, let my father enroll me in sports that he coached. Then I grew my backbone, understood where I wanted to go in life and promptly told everyone that I was not a team player and would not be acting like one.

That went down as well as a cup of hot vomit.

My father still muttered about it, bringing it up when we were fighting about one thing or another.

But I’d gotten my way, which I’d been smug about until then. Now I wished I’d submitted to my father’s demands, just once, so I could have some cardiovascular stamina, upper body strength.

When we started, I thought yoga was soft, hippy shit that didn’t require much beyond audible breathing, stupid outfits and incense.

Following Jasper’s lead, I discovered it was a challenge and yet somehow … calming. There was nothing to focus on but Jasper’s increasingly complicated movements, having to contort my body, stretching out limbs with the gentle breeze kissing my sweat-sheened skin.

Though at the end, when he’d been lying there in silence with his eyes closed, his face blank and calm, I tried to mimic him, but I kept turning my head and peeking to see if he was done, scratching my nose, wiggling my toes. The movements could calm me. Immobility never would.

“Did you hate it?” he asked, not opening his eyes.

“No,” I admitted, surprising myself by being honest instead of being contrary just to be abrasive, like I was known to do. “I’m not crazy about this whole stillness part, though.”

“Shavasana.” The foreign word flowed easily off his tongue, pronounced in a way that sounded correct. Like he had a cache of other Sanskrit words and their corresponding yoga poses.

“You some kind of yogi?” I was suddenly hungry, ravenous for all the little tidbits about him. “Where did you learn this?”

Jasper stayed stock-still, his eyes closed, expression even, without so much as a crease between his brows. “Foster parent liked it, wasn’t an asshole, showed me books. I read them. Figured this was a better way to work through my shit than beating up a bunch of kids and landing myself in juvie.”

It was the most words I’d heard from him, the most insight I’d gotten into his past, who he was. He spoke without inflection, spitting facts without any emotion attached. I was greedy for more. To hear a hitch in his breath signaling to pain, to the core of him.

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