Page 31 of Holiday Star
The yoga instructor tells us to roll onto our backs. Assistants remove our goats. I’m relieved to have the adorable creature off me, but as soon as the bumpy yoga mat is pressed into my spine, the baby goat comes back. They set him on my stomach, and air whooshes out of me as his weight presses into my soft belly.
I really need to strengthen my abs. Goat yoga won’t be the place to do that, though. It’s more about gentle stretching and slow movements, all designed not to knock off our horned companions.
“I still can’t get over Caleb last night,” Jenny whispers as we bring our knees into our chests. “His singing voice is phenomenal.”
I nod, hoping she will stop talking, but knowing from years of experience that she won’t. While I live in a constant fear of getting in trouble, Jenny thrives off it.
Once, when we were in high school, she got detention for speaking in class. She had walked up to Mr. Martin, the scariest PE teacher the world has ever known. A man rumored to compete in lumberjack contests where he chopped down hundred-year-old pine trees and carried them on his back through a six-mile course.
Jenny had walked up tothatman and thanked him for the detention. Sincerely, not sarcastically, she gave him a big thank you in front of the entire class.
For a brief heart-stopping moment, I had been terrified that she would hug him or kiss him on the cheek, but she didn’t. Instead, she traipsed out of the classroom like she was going to a party with fairy princesses rather than a room full of hardened teenage criminals. Later, I discovered that Lance “Smokey” Jones, her infamous pothead crush, had also received detention that day. Thus, her overeager enthusiasm to join him.
In contrast, I have recurring nightmares where I get sent to detention because I forgot to put my name on a test. Even though in my dream I got an A on the exam, I lost all credit for it. I wake up, my body slick with sweat and my mouth dry.
Goat yoga finishes up. We pet our slit-eyed, coarse-haired friends good-bye and kneel to roll up our mats.
Jenny’s still talking. “What’s up with you and Caleb?”
“What?” I straighten to look at her. “Nothing.”
Doubtful, she raises one eyebrow.
“I mean nothing romantic, if that’s what you’re getting at. He’s got a lot going on, and I want to help him…if I can.” I stand and shove the rolled mat into its bag, which I hang over my shoulder. Jenny does the same with hers.
She doesn’t seem impressed. “Really? Because it didn’t look like that to me.”
“That’s all there is to it, I swear.”
“Gwen. Seriously. For such a smart girl, you can be pretty dumb sometimes.” Before I get offended, she goes on, “He watches you when you’re not looking. I caught him doing it multiple times during caroling.”
So she noticed it, too, but he was just looking at me as a friend, right?
“That’s crazy,” I scoff. “Goat yoga has made you delusional. There’s no way Caleb thinks of me like that. He barely talks to me.”
Except for last night when he told me things that I doubt anyone else knows.
Jenny laughs, and even though I’m thrown off by what she just said, a happy Jenny always brightens my own mood. She’s the sunshine to my rain clouds.
“He might be good for you.” She quiets, growing thoughtful. “You need someone like him. Less structured, more willing to bend without breaking.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about. I don’tneedCaleb. He’s a mess. I’ve got my shit together. I don’t need him or any man.
A baby goat wanders over for one last pat before we leave. Jenny bends down to it, blocking her face from my view, but not before I see her expression turn somber. “I know that it’s been hard for you to trust, to love. Ever since your dad died. It’s been hard for your entire family.”
Jenny has lost it. The reason I haven’t fallen in love for years now is because of everything that happened with Jax. It has nothing to do with my dad. Right?
I sigh. “You already gave me this speech, remember? At the food court?”
“I’m serious, Gwen. Don’t blow me off.” The goat wanders away, and she stands back up. “It’s time to let someone in again. Why not have it be Caleb?”
Which is a ridiculous idea.
Utterly preposterous.
When I get home from goat yoga, I find Caleb at the kitchen table, working on the puzzle. One hand props up his chin and the other strokes Pip, who’s lying in his lap, from snout to tail. Pip’s neck is stretched out, her eyes closed and her tail thumping. Her expression is the picture of pure doggy bliss.
Without glancing up, he says, “Rat won’t leave me alone,” but there’s no bite to his words.
