Page 47 of Maid of Dishonor
“Nope,” I say, already shaking my head. “No. I’m not a meditation kind of guy.”
“Oh, come on,” she wheedles. “How do you know you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?”
“It just feels like a safe guess for me.”
“Please? Please, please, please, Carter? Come on. Don’t make me do this alone. You can be my moral support while I face my demons.” Her tone is light, but her eyes are not, and that’s what does me in.
I scrub one hand down my face before muttering, “Fine.” Pretty sure I’m going to regret this.
But this is how I find myself seated cross-legged in Winifred’s living room thirty minutes later, my upturned palms resting on my knees, wishing desperately that I was almost anywhere else—partly because I don’t particularly care to spend extended time in my own head, but also because Winifred’s living room floor is paneled wood, and my butt is going to hurt soon.
In the beginning, following along with Winifred’s instructions makes it necessary to look at her. This is a little bit uncomfortable, because Winifred is wearing a sports bra and what looks like men’s flannel sleep pants. I can honestly say I never thought I’d see this much skin on any eighty-two-year-old, much less Wini, and I was happy with that assumption. When she finally tells us to close our eyes, I do so with relief.
“Now, I want you to focus on your breathing,” Wini all but shouts. I don’t know why I imagined she’d be speaking with a soothing, quiet voice—she’s practically deaf. Quiet is not in the cards for Winifred. I was also imagining some sort of soothing scent, but all I can smell is whatever Wini has in the oven.
My stomach rumbles.
“Inhale deeply,” Winifred says loudly. The sound is like a foghorn blaring in an otherwise silent room. “No, girl,deepbreaths. Deep. I want to see your chest rising and falling, Samantha.”
Iwant to see Sam’s chest rising and—
Wait. No.Stop it!I chastise myself.Don’t go there.
“You too, muscles,” the foghorn blares, and I take a wild guess that she’s talking to me. “Chest rising and falling. Slow down that breath.”
Reluctantly I note that my breathingisa bit more shallow since she mentioned Sam’s chest rising and falling. So I force a deeper breath and turn my mind inward as Wini yells,
“Pay attention to your breaths,” Wini yells. “Focus on them going in and out. Let the oxygen—oh, my timer,” she says, breaking off as a loud beep sounds from the kitchen. “I’m making beef stroganoff for dinner. Do you want some beef stroganoff, Samantha? Boy?”
“None for me, thanks,” I say, because even though it smells delicious and I’m hungry, I don’t feel like going through the list of ingredients to make sure there aren’t any peanut products or cross-contamination issues.
“I—uh—sure,” Sam says after a second, sounding disconcerted. I don’t blame her; Wini may know how to meditate, but this environment isn’t suited for it. Even I can tell that, and I know nothing about meditation.
“All right, I’ll dish some up. Don’t stop breathing,” she yells. “In and out. Don’t stop. You’ll die if you stop breathing.”
I hear Sam choke back a giggle, and I force myself not to smile. We just help Wini to her feet, and then we sit back down, looking at each other.
“It’s, like, four in the afternoon,” I say under my breath, watching bemusedly as Wini shuffles away. “Is she really eatingdinner?”
Sam shrugs, her lips twitching. She closes her eyes again, resuming her meditative position. “She goes to bed really early, so maybe. She got mad when I woke her up because I was hammering a nail into the wall at something like eight at night.”
I shake my head, disbelieving. “Wow. Okay. Well, did you get anything out of her meditation tutorial?”
From the kitchen, the oven door opens and then slams loudly shut again, as though to display exactly how well this session has gone.
Sam snorts, and I grin. “Yes. I learned that I should google it, and also that I’ll die if I stop breathing.” She begins breathing deeply. “Is my chest rising and falling?” she says, her eyes still closed.
My eyes flit to her chest and then immediately away again, because my mind doesn’t need any more encouragement. I’m both relieved and disappointed that Sam isn’t wearing a sports bra like Wini is, but I shove those feelings away. “It’s rising and falling,” I confirm.
“Oh, good.” She opens her eyes again, and then she grins at me. “Let’s go, muscles.” She pokes me in the abs before standing, and I follow her, smiling the whole way.
Thirteen
Sam
The next fewdays bring baseball practice, lesson planning for my first graders, and then a baseball game.
The day of the game is hot, and I can feel sweat gathering around the collar of my jersey as well as in my bra; boob sweat is theworst.Carter looks just as sweaty as I am, but somehow on him it’s just attractive. Like those models they rub down with oil. Glistening men are fully capable of still being appealing. Glistening women usually just need to shower.
