Page 27 of Wild Card
“Have you done yoga before? What’s your experience level?”
“Never. Sounds like a bunch of baloney to me, but I’ll try it anyway.”
He pushes the incomplete form back to me, and I let out a genuine laugh at his blunt honesty. My gaze drops to his name at the top of the paper.CLYDE GIBBONS. What a bizarre little man.
“Nice to meet you, Clyde. I appreciate your honesty and openness. It’s one of the most important components of a solid practice.”
He stares at me with a blank expression. “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you then,” he grumbles, before removing his boots near the front, just like the sign asks. When he turnsback around, he eyes the welcome area warily. “You got any cameras up in this place?”
His eyes land on the dark bubble in the corner just behind me, and I turn to look at it as well. “Only that one out here. None back in the studio.”
His lips work, eyes narrowing like he might be able to laser the device right off the wall. “Don’t like bein’ watched.”
I wait a beat, considering what to say to that, gauging the best way to approach this man. I’d be lying if I said I’m not a little thrown off by him. Part of me wants to tell him not to worry about it, but that feels dismissive in a way.
“Can’t say that I blame you. It’s unnerving, right?”
He freezes for a moment, like I’ve caught him off guard. Then he nods, and I seize on his small show of agreement.
“And really, if you think about it, there isn’t much to see up here.Butif someone came in while we were in the back and tried to steal, say…” I trail off, glancing around, before my eyes land on what are a damn nice pair of winter boots. “Your boots. Maybe I wouldn’t be able to get out front fast enough to greet the person, but the camera would capture it, you know?”
His scraggly, gray brows furrow as he assesses me. “You know, that’s a great point. Plus, you’re here all alone. Don’t want any weirdos wandering in.”
I smile brightly to cover the laugh that’s lodged in my throat, but I’m also relieved to have put him at ease. I wave him forward and start heading toward the back room. “Well, good then. Follow me back. And we’ll?—”
“Though you know, if someone was desperate enough to steal my winter boots, it strikes me they might need them more enough than I do.”
His response brings me up short, and I peek back over my shoulder. He’s the most unusual combination of cantankerous and thoughtful.
I figure he can’t be much older than my father, but there’s a stark difference. My father would have spat some venom about tracking that person down and serving them up a little street justice. He lives in a constant state of forced machismo.
And who am I kidding? My dad wouldn’t be caught dead in a yoga studio, the place where I choose towaste my life.
My nose wiggles as I push the painful thought away. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Clyde.”
He just harrumphs and follows me back into the studio, the soft shuffling of his socked feet interspersed with the clunk of his cane.
Once in the room, he removes his coat, and I see it then, a heavily distended abdomen. Based on the shape of his socks, I’m assuming his ankles and feet are swollen too. “Clyde, I know you weren’t keen to write down your medical history—especially in front of the camera—but do you think you could tell me about any major health issues you might be facing?”
“Yeah.” He hangs his coat on a hook and turns to face me. “I’m in kidney failure, and according to the white coats at the hospital, that’s pretty major.”
I nod, processing the information. The fluid retention makes sense. My brain cycles through the best poses or asanas that could benefit kidney health, liver support, and energy flow to keep the swelling from getting worse. I’m well aware yoga has its limits. I won’t be able to make him better, but I’m confident I can make himfeelbetter.
I can help Clyde Gibbons be comfortable.
Turning away, I quickly grab a purple mat to help stimulate his crown chakra, a bolster, and two blocks to set up a station against the wall. “Okay, Clyde. Come on over, and I’ll help you get started lying on your back.”
And so begins my mission to help this funny, strange, oddly thoughtful little man feel better.
A jingle at the front door takes my attention away from sanitizing the mats after my last class. “Be right there!” I call out, setting the spray bottle and rag down before pushing myself to my feet.
I’m shaking my hands dry as I round the corner, my gaze lifting to see Clyde standing there. Back again after yesterday. It makes me smile.
But when my eyes slide up behind him, the smile falls off my face.
Bash. Looking like he could kill someone. And also looking hot as hell in black jeans, work boots, and flannel jacket, sherpa collar flipped up to beat the chill.
I ignore the nervous flutter in my chest—and the way my stomach flips like one of those dreams where I’m free-falling—and focus on Clyde. “You’re back.”
