I'm barely through the door of my ranch house when my phone rings.
Dad's name flashes across the screen, and I already know what's coming. News travels faster than light in Portree.
“Boy, you got somethin’ you wanna share with the class?” Dad says the moment I answer, laughter barely contained in his voice.
When I don’t answer he continues “Tell me Dr. Malan didn't actually prescribe you yoga,” making no effort to curb his laughter.
Fucking snitching Betty.
I sigh, dropping my keys on the counter. “Hello to you too, Dad.”
“Yoga, son? What's next? Scented candles and chanting?”
I huff. “I take it he’s not heard of doctor-patient confidentiality?”
“Oh no, this came from a reliable source, and you know, the good doctor was doing a public service, son,” Dad shoots back, voice full of glee. “Prescribed the whole damn town a big ol' dose of comedic relief right here.”
I rub my forehead. “Glad my rotator cuff is your punchline of the week.”
“You got off lucky,” he snorts. “Back in my day, we didn’t have yoga. We had duct tape and cussing.”
“Yeah, well, your day also had mullets and denim shorts with socks up to your knees. Let’s not get nostalgic.”
“Anyway,” trying my best to sound unfazed. “Doc says it'll help with flexibility without putting stress on the joint.”
The hearty laugh that explodes through the phone makes me hold it away from my ear. “Wait till the boys at the Whisky Barrell hear about this! Grant Taylor in yoga pants!”
“I'm not wearing yoga pants,” I snap, though I have no idea what I'm supposed to wear. He barks out a laugh, “Damn shame! You got them long legs—reckon you’d be a hit.”
I shake my head, but despite myself, I grin. The man lives for this kind of shit.
“Dad, can you not broadcast this to the entire county?” I plead
“Too late.” He's wheezing now. “I already texted your mother.”
Perfect.
“Great, Dad. Thanks for the support.”
“Oh, come on, it's funny! My bull-riding son doin’ downward dog with a bunch of wine moms!”
I rub my temple where a headache is forming. “It's physical therapy, not a lifestyle choice.”
“Next thing you know, you'll be doing Reiki voodoo with love and light shining out your root ass or some shit.”
“That's not even—you know what? I gotta go.”
“Don't forget to breathe through your third eye!” Dad calls out before I hang up.
I toss my phone onto the couch and stare at the prescription in my hand. Pain meds I can handle. But yoga? In Portree? Where everyone knows me? Yet the alternative—giving up riding—isn't an option. Not when it's the one thing that makes me feel alive, that connects me to Jake's memory.
The screen door creaks open like it knows better than to get in my brother’s way. He walks in carrying two heavy paper bags like they're filled with feathers instead of half the grocery store.
Still dressed in a faded tee stretched across shoulders built like a freight train, his combat boots thud against the tiles as he makes a beeline for the kitchen island. Christian is wearing that troublemaker grin of his, that look that always makes me very nervous.
“Heard you're becoming a yogi,” he says, pushing past me into the kitchen.
“Jesus Christ, did Dad call everyone?”
