There are things she doesn’t love about teaching, but she loves this—being in the teacher’s seat, the confidence it brings her, the confidence that reminds her of her old self. “I’m Molly. You have a great practice.”
“Thanks for class, Molly.” The woman slings her yoga bag over one shoulder, and Molly notices the cartilage piercing in her left ear, the same tiny, thin gold hoop that Molly used to sport herself. She removed it on her wedding day—it didn’t feel very bridal—and never put it back in. The earring isn’t glaring, but it’s still the kind of mildly edgy accessory that would provoke hours of gossip between women like Meredith Duffy and Edie Kirkpatrick.
“I’ll definitely be back.” She adds, “My husband and I are newlyweds who just moved here. I’ve been looking for a good studio.”
Molly smiles warmly. “I’d love to have you again.”
The woman’s eyes linger on Molly’s in a way that feels slightly unnerving, but mostly intriguing. “Have a nice rest of your weekend,” she says brightly, and Molly watches her walk out the door, hoping, genuinely, that she does come back.
Chapter Three
Sabrina
You are even more radiant in person than you are in pictures. I know, I know: I shouldn’t be surprised.
I spent much of class watching your ankle bones from ground level, their delicate structure, and the way your heels form a near perfect ninety-degree angle with the soles of your feet.
I know what you’re thinking, and no, I don’t have a foot fetish, not even close. What I do have is a preoccupation with you. It isn’t sexual; I suppose you could call it emotional, if you’re the kind of person who needs everything explained, but that wouldn’t be quite right, either.
So where were we? At the feet. Let’s keep working our way up, then.
Your calves are slender—you have the kind of naturally skinny legs that stay that way even when you put on weight. I’ve seen you pregnant—you don’t know that, of course, but we’ll get to it later—and even then, your legs were stems. Your belly has seen better days; even underneath your loose-fitting top, I can see the belt of flab that forms when you fold forward. But your body is good, there’s no doubt about that, especially given the fact that you had a baby. Five years ago now, but still. My mother held on to an extra fifteen pounds after she had me. Never lost it. I give you credit.
Moving up. Your rib cage is slight, and your breasts are barely there; because of this, you are the kind of woman who looks good in clothes. This makes me jealous. I’m a 34C, and there are so many shirts and dresses I can’t get away with. Your shoulders and arms are toned but not excessively, and your wrists are twiggy. Your fingers are long. You’re tall, Molly. You’re taller than I thought you’d be.
You have a graceful, sloping neck and a heart-shaped face. Pale, clear skin—I’d love to know your skin-care routine—and wide hazel eyes. And your hair—your hair is your pièce de résistance, it has to be. Big, messy waves of golden blond, and I bet you haven’t colored it a day in your life. That beautiful heap twirled on the crown of your head is complex and layered and untamed—like you, maybe. I’m the opposite. My own hair is dark and sleek and dries pin straight in the sun. I am one-dimensional; I know what I want and I know how to get it. And I won’t stop until I do.
I meant what I said, Molly; you taught a great class. I can tell teaching yoga isn’t your passion, but you’re talented. Or maybe you’re just well versed; maybe you’ve spent years spitting out the same sequences using the same inflection in your voice during the appropriate moments. Maybe it’s a recording inside your head and all you have to do is press Play.
Either way, your class was a solid one, and like I said, I will be back. But I’ll see you again before then. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, you and I.
Chapter Four
Molly
2013
On Monday, two days after her night out with Nina in East Williamsburg, Molly’s phone rang as she walked home from Angelina’s, the café on Berry Street where she worked as a barista four shifts a week. An unfamiliar number filled the screen. Molly hesitated before answering, securing her headphones into her ears the way she always did when she walked and talked.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Molly Diamond?” The voice was male—low and confident, but friendly.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“This is Jake Danner. You were at my show on Saturday night. At the Broken Mule.”