I clear my head of all arm porn thoughts and realize Eric is looking around the property as he turns off the engine and gets out of the SUV. Taking a deep breath and thanking God he didn’t catch me ogling him again, I open my door and join him on the other side of the vehicle, and we walk through the grass towards the farmhouse.
Living in suburbia where there are sidewalks and professionally manicured lawns everywhere, car horns honking at all hours of the day and night, and so much light pollution that midnight could pass for noon, I’m actually kind of glad to be out here in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing but trees and fields as far as the eye can see, and the only sounds are the occasional chirps of birds.
I suddenly don’t want to kill my friends for signing me up for this class. It’s a little weird to be taking a yoga class at a farm instead of inside a gym, but I can see why Belle and Cindy thought this would be a better option for me. Being inside a small studio, crammed close together with a bunch of irritating skinny bitches who complain about how the kale smoothie they had for breakfast is going to go right to their bony hips while the glare of fluorescent lighting highlights every bit of cellulite on my body would have surely ended in bloodshed.
Being out here in the open, with the sun shining down on me and plenty of room to spread out and just breathe the fresh air is already making me feel lighter and more relaxed.
“Hi! Are you guys here for GOGA?!”
Eric and I stop in the middle of the front lawn as a woman who looks like she’s in her early fifties, wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a hot pink T-shirt, steps down off the front porch and hurries over to meet us.
“I’m sorry, did you say GOGA?” Eric asks in confusion.
The woman laughs and points to the words printed in black cursive script across the middle of the shirt she’s wearing—GOGA: Relax, and don’t mind the poop!
“Yep, GOGA!” she repeats with a bright smile.
“What in the hell is a GOGA?” I question, not entirely sure I want to know the answer, considering it has something to do with shit.
“It’s goat yoga!” she shouts happily, throwing her arms out in excitement.
What in the actual fuck?
“Goat yoga?”
“Goat yoga,” she confirms with a nod.
“Is there an echo in here?” Eric asks with a laugh.
He turns his head and looks down at me, my look of horror - slash - you’ve - got - to - be - fucking - kidding - me making his smile immediately drop.
“Follow me, you guys are right on time. My name’s Mary Lou and my husband and I own this farm and started GOGA about six months ago,” Mary Lou tells us as she turns and starts heading around the side of the house.
Eric takes off after her, and when he’s a few feet away, he looks back at me and sees I haven’t moved from my spot. He jogs back to me and jerks his head towards Mary Lou.
“Come on. This will be fun.”
“First of all, there is nothing fun about yoga to begin with. It was created as a way to torture prisoners during wartime,” I snap.
“I’m certain that’s not true,” Eric replies, the corner of his mouth tipping up in amusement.
“Whatever. I’m allergic to goats. I’ll go into anaphylactic shock, my airways will close up, and I’ll die a slow, painful death, clutching my throat, and staring at you the entire time croaking, ‘Why? Why would you forsake me?’ Do you really want that on your conscience?”
All of a sudden, Eric grabs my wrist and tugs me towards him. He turns away from me and starts moving faster and faster, until I almost have to run to keep up with him. I’m all prepared to kick my foot out in front of his ankle to make him trip and fall face-first into the grass when his hand slides down from my wrist and he laces his fingers with mine, slowing his pace when we reach Mary Lou. Warmth travels up my arm, starting where his palm is pressed against mine, and spreads across my chest. My throat immediately gets itchy and tight, and I start believing in the power of suggestion.
Am I seriously having a fucking anaphylactic episode?
I can’t even remember the last time I held hands with a man. Probably when I was back in high school with Sebastian, since there weren’t a lot of sweet moments like that after we got married. Or maybe there were but over time the bad stuff has eaten away at all the good memories until I can barely even remember them. For the first time in a long time, thinking of Sebastian doesn’t make me break out into a cold sweat or curl up in the fetal position and cry. I look down at mine and Eric’s joined hands and I feel . . . relaxed.