“Has Kristen said she wishes you were doing more?”
“Not exactly,” I said. Kristen seemed…weirdly fine. Did she really not need me like I’d needed her? I’d sent her a certificate for a massage at a Sydney spa, then an Uber Eats gift card with a note about getting herself some comfort food, but her thank-yous were upbeat and a bit gobsmacked: Aw, you didn’t need to do this!
“What’s going on with the rest of your support system?” Adrienne asked. “Family, other friends? A partner?”
“I’m not close with my family,” I admitted. “Just Kristen—she’s like my sister. And I don’t have a huge gaggle of friends; I’d rather have one ride-or-die than, y’know, a million acquaintances. But also, I just started seeing someone. It’s…super new, but yeah. He’s great.” I hooked my ankle over my knee and blinked at the tiny lotus flower there. It felt like eons ago that Kristen and I had gotten these.
“Can you tell me about him?”
I relaxed, told her how we’d met, how Aaron only put me on edge because he seemed too good to be true. How he was the first guy I’d really liked in five whole years, the first one I could see a future with. How different things felt with him, but how whenever we started to make out I froze up.
“Your face lights up when you talk about him,” Adrienne observed. “Even when you’re talking about putting walls up. It’s nice to see.”
I looked away, a closed-mouth smile tugging at my lips.
“You said he’s the first guy in five years—who was the last one?”
“Oh, I don’t think about him much.” I waved my hand. “His name was Colin, we met on OKCupid. At first I thought things were going really well—we had great chemistry, he was totally my type, all that. But then, after a few months, shortly after he met my friends, I realized he was kind of…possessive, maybe. He and Kristen butted heads. And, you know. Love me, love my people.”
Colin had flickered back into my consciousness a few months ago—a suggested friend on a new app I’d downloaded. While everyone else in my life had given me their vague, blanket approval of him at the time （“He seems great; glad to see you happy!”）， Kristen had been the one to look closely and ask questions. One night she’d pointed out that his irritated response to my canceling plans “reeked of a personality disorder.”
“And then no one for five years,” Adrienne prompted.
“No one serious, no.”
“And does…” Her eyes flicked to the notepad in her lap. “Does Aaron know you survived a sexual assault last year?”
“Oh, like I said, I wasn’t…raped. He just—”
“It was sexual assault, Emily.” She let it hang in the air for a second. “If it was unwanted sexual contact, that’s sexual assault.”
Tears sprang into my eyes again. “I guess. But to answer your question, no, he doesn’t know about it. I don’t talk about it.”
Her eyebrows jolted. “Except with Kristen.”
This is Joan. She’s the best friend a girl could have.
“Of course,” I said, right as the clock hit 7:50.
* * *
—
Drishti Yoga had always been my happy place, a point of refuge.
But now I wasn’t sure.
It was a sunny, spacious spot with the scent of palo santo sugaring the air. In the front window, crystals and cacti had been artfully arranged, and I flicked my mat open on the studio’s smooth wood. Priya appeared as I was carrying a tower of blankets and blocks over from the wall, and the props tumbled to the floor as she gave me a one-armed hug.
Back in college, Kristen had introduced me to yoga—I had her to thank for that. I loved it: cued breaths so slow they stretched my lungs like weather balloons; the fierce concentration required for even the simplest asanas. After Cambodia, my yoga studio had been my church. I’d feel tears brim in the deep ache of Pigeon Pose or in Camel Pose’s brave unfurling, and in that moment I’d believe that maybe, maybe I could someday let it all go.
Could I really start the entire healing process…again?
Priya whipped off her sweatshirt to reveal a swath of rippling abs. “I invited my friend Tim, from Gethsemane,” she said, straightening her mat next to mine. She meant the church, not the garden. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Of course! Have I met him?” Priya attended a huge Episcopal church in Bay View, and all the Gethsemane folks I’d met at her parties seemed fun and artsy.
“I don’t think so. You’ll like him.” Priya was always inviting folks to things, mixing groups, happiest in a thrumming cocoon of other people. She strode to the front window to take a picture of the plant-and-rock vignette. I envied her effortless Instagram aesthetic, still lifes she elevated into art.
It had been a week since the incident in Chile, and it crept into my mind as I moved and flowed, my quads quivering. I imagined my fear of someone finding Paolo trickling out in my Ujjayi breath, my salty sweat. As my hamstrings finally, finally gave up their week of soreness in Staff Pose, I pictured Aaron sitting across from me, the two awful incidents hanging between us like a hologram. In Bow Pose, balancing on my belly, I felt something deep inside my abdomen tightening, taking form like a heat pack snapped into a solid. When we eased onto the floor and the class moved on, I lay still, waiting for my eyes to blink dry.
After Savasana, as we sat cross-legged, the instructor went off on a woo-woo tangent: You are divine consciousness that has chosen to become human, because consciousness needs form to evolve and explore. I cracked my eyes open and Priya and I exchanged a smile.
On the sidewalk after class, Priya said goodbye to Tim and then checked her phone. Her face lit up. “This is your friend, right?” She held up her screen and I squinted at the comments below her picture of Drishti’s window display. Kristen was an Instagram lurker, following others but never posting photos of her own, so it took me a moment to recognize her handle. So pretty—Emily was telling me about this place!, it read.
Guilt surged through me. I hadn’t contacted Kristen today—I’d been reaching out less, reasoning that she didn’t seem to need me, that she always brushed me off when I asked if she was okay. Our phone calls felt awkward and strained as I struggled to discuss anything other than Sebastian and Paolo…or Aaron, since I figured she didn’t want to hear me blathering on about my new relationship. Now, when something funny caught my attention, I sent it to Aaron, not Kristen. Which was shitty of me, right? Pulling away from her after she’d been there for me?
“That’s her!” I managed, looking away from Priya’s screen. How weird. The rock in my belly from class re-formed, sharper than ever.
* * *
—
But I didn’t hear from Kristen that night, either. A naggy part of me kept whipping myself—bad Emily, you’re avoiding your best friend—but in the evening Aaron and I caught an indie horror movie at the Oriental, his arm slung around me in the cinema’s red-velvet core. We spazzed out at the jump scares and he kissed my cheek when the credits rolled, and though we didn’t spend the night together, during the date any thoughts of Kristen were a distant flicker.