Page 29 of The Lovers
She covers a chuckle with a cough, and then pats her chest. “Excuse me.” She cringes. “Inhaled some sand.”
Freya Dan’s face remains serene. “Blessed,” is what she says in response.
She turns her attention away from us to give further instructions to the group, and Kit leans over to elbow me in the ribs. “Donotget me in trouble,” she warns.
“This isn’t high school,” I reply, not thinking. Her face glitches at the words, the soft green color of her eyes sharpening with a shock of pain. Her features pinch, closing, and she turns her attention back to Freya Dan.
But I can’t tear mine away from her face.
Chapter Eleven
Kit
I swear I can feel Piper’s eyes boring into my head. She was standing right next to Julia, and that momentary rapport we shared seems to have put me on her radar. The last thing I need at this wedding where everyone is a social media darling is a pissed off bridesmaid making my job more complicated.
I have to keep my head in the game.
I decide to focus my attention on getting into the vibes. The domed ceiling of the yurt has wooden planks that extend out from the center, where a broad circle skylight reveals a snatch of the nightscape. On the wood floors are mismatched rugs of varying sizes and patterns, some with fringe, some without, some fluffy cream like an Abominable Snowman’s hide, and others of the dark luxe faux fur variety. In the center of the room, on her own fluffy Abominable hide, stands the sound bath healer, surrounded by an array of frosty white bowls.
Suni is well-known on the wellness/spiritual entertainment circuit—I don’t know if she knows Healer Arynne, but she does knowme. We’ve been booked for a handful of events together, andI have always been impressed with the presence and composure she brings to her work. Her dark eyes catch mine as I make my way to a purple crocheted puff. I wink a hello and she returns the sentiment. She’s Native American and Aztec, born in San Diego and now based out of Culver City.
It’s a small community that I work in—it helps to know who the competition is so you can decide who will make the best ally. Suni and I often refer each other for gigs looking for a roster of spiritual entertainment.
I drop down to my cushion, just as another woman comes around with a bamboo tray holding small silver cups. She bends, offering me one.
“Cacao,” she says. “For heart opening.” I take it, gratefully, even if I’m not sure if I’m actually supposed to participate in the sound bath, since I’m here to work, not play.
“Cacao, Coco,” Coco says from beside Millie, who cuts her a look laced with warning. “This is my first sound bath. I’m a little nervous.”
“Oh, wow,” Suni says, her voice a warm, low rasp, deep like a cavern hidden well within a mountain. “How many here are the same? First timers?”
Coco raises her hand unnecessarily, as does the fitness model—whose name I have learned is Maddie—and in a great non–plot twist, both Piper and Julia lift and then lower their arms at lightning speed from the opposite side of the room.
“I love virgins,” Suni says, and the seductive tone sends a shiver up my spine.
Julia’s eyes bulge out in surprise and I have to pinch off a snort.
Piper and Julia aren’t sitting next to each other. Natalie took the plush velvet cushion in between, but Piper is edging her bodylanguage toward Julia with precision. She’s positioned herself on a paisley patchwork pillow chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankle. Her shoulders angle in Julia’s direction, not toward the center of the room, where Suni stands ready to start.
Julia literally looks anywhere elsebutat Piper.
Well, Piper orme. She’s looking from Suni, to the contents of her silver cup, to Millie, and back around. Stiff and serious. Thedetermined to look anywhere elsebit helps with my incognito investigation of her.
Julia holds her body in a state of tension at all times. Her posture is rigid, strong, with core control like I’ve only seen in dancers, but I know she isn’t one. The pinch of her jawline and sharpening of her cheekbones, the swift twist of the ends of her hair as she untucks it from behind her ears. The slight lift to her shoulders, and the way she breathes efficient, shallow breaths, or speaks with a shortness that seeks maximum efficacy.
Tense, precise, focused. And so different from the girl I knew when we were young.
She dresses with style, designer brands, clean lines, classic colors, but the flair of rebel that once caused her to shave off a section of her hair, or wear midriff-bearing tank tops in winter without a bra, is gone. Julia was edgy and cool in high school. Somehow she always found a way to subvert the snooty dress code at our private school, adding a strip of leather around her wrist or a stud in her nose; wearing her polo collar up and cutting the hems of her khakis, then rolling them to a cuff so the teachers technically couldn’t fault her.
She was apathetic about other people’s opinions of her.
Except mine.
Whatever happened in the last ten years has replaceddevil may carewithdot every i, cross every t.
She’s beautiful with all her sharp, straight lines running into the curves of her full hips, the pinch of her tiny waist, and the sneaky dip in her collarbone where her tiny heart necklace rests, but the nose ring is missing; her hair is all silky waves and gentle balayage highlights; gone is the emo punk girl with the secret soft side.
At least, on the surface.
