Page 21 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

Wes

T he moment I step into the pastel hellscape of “Little Sprouts Baby Yoga,” I know I’ve made a huge fucking mistake.

It smells like lavender and shit.

“Why is everyone barefoot?” I whisper. “This feels like a cult. You smell that?”

“It’s lavender oil,” Lena whispers back. “It’s supposed to relax you.”

“I know what it is. I’m still not relaxed.”

I don’t even remember agreeing to this, but here I am.

“It’s your day off,” I remind her, hoping she’ll suddenly remember so we can all get the hell out of here.

“It’s for Rosie,” she says.

That makes me feel even worse.

“Welcome, everyone!” calls a disturbingly perky woman from the front. “I’m Meadow.”

Of course she is.

She’s wearing leggings with daisies on them and a sports bra that reads Inhale Good Vibes . I instinctively don’t trust anyone whose name sounds like a scented candle.

Meadow beams at us. “Okay. Let’s start with some grounding breaths and intention setting.”

My intention is to survive.

Lena is already on the floor with her legs crossed and Rosie in her lap. Meanwhile, I have no idea what to do with my limbs.

“Let’s move into Cat-Cow,” Meadow chirps. “Hands and knees, everyone!”

I groan and lower myself down, bones protesting.

Lena gives me a look. “You sound like a haunted rocking chair.”

“This is my nightmare.”

“You’ve never tried yoga before?”

Poses like these usually involve having a woman with me, but I don’t tell her that.

“I’m more of a hiking and weights guy.”

She bites her lips together to stifle a laugh. “So manly.”

Rosie is giggling now, slapping her hands against the mat. Lena gently helps her roll over and points out how she’s “doing yoga” too, while my spine cracks so loudly I think I saw a toddler flinch.

“Now we’re going to try Happy Baby!” Meadow announces.

I glance at Lena. “Please tell me that’s a position for her and not me.”

“You’ve never looked more out of place.”

“Glad I could entertain you.”

“Oh, you’re doing amazing,” Meadow calls out to me like I’m a toddler who just found the potty.

I shoot her a look that probably says fuck off in every language.

Rosie, however, is having the time of her life. Lena lifts her little legs and gently helps her wiggle. She’s in her element. They both are. I don’t know who’s having more fun.

“You’re doing great, sweetie,” she praises Rosie, not me, because obviously.

Meadow smiles at us again. Why is she always smiling? My face hurts just from looking at her. “I just love seeing dads here.”

I open my mouth to correct her, then stop. No one needs that conversation in this room. Not while I’m barefoot and humiliated and trying not to pull a hamstring.

We switch poses every five minutes, and with each one, I discover new parts of my body that can ache. At one point, Meadow says something about “opening our heart chakras,” and I black out for a second.

Eventually, Lena leans in and whispers, “You can go wait in the car if you want.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re dying.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You just did a downward dog and audibly grunted ‘fuck me.’”

This is a special kind of torture. I’m never agreeing to sign Rosie up for anything again without having it in writing that I don’t have to participate.

Rosie farts during the next pose. Loudly. A real eye-watering one.

Meadow, of course, claps. “Release is good! Such a healthy digestive tract.”

Jesus Christ.

At the end, Meadow dims the lights for baby savasana, whatever that is.

Lena lies back with Rosie curled on her chest, and I have to admit, there’s something about the way her hand rests gently over Rosie’s back, her other arm flung lazily across the mat, eyes closed and peaceful, that hits me right in the sternum.

So naturally, I ruin the moment.

“Lena?”

Her head rolls to look at me. “Yeah?”

“You’re fired.”

She fights a smile in response.

I make it halfway through baby savasana before I tap out and quietly collect what’s left of my masculinity. Standing up like I haven’t aged a decade in thirty minutes, I retreat to the far wall where I can observe without being expected to breathe through my third eye.

Lena catches me abandoning ship and smirks like she knew I’d crack. She doesn’t say anything, just pats Rosie’s back like, See baby girl, some men just aren’t built for this .

I lean against the wall and watch them. She’s guiding Rosie through the final pose, lifting her legs and demonstrating some ridiculous stretch.

Lena’s flexible.

I don’t know why I feel the need to mentally file that away, but I do.

Then she shifts her balance to help Rosie straighten, and they both topple sideways in a heap of limbs and giggles.

It’s chaos. It’s loud. And it’s beautiful.

“Shush,” Meadow hisses.

Lena’s head snaps up, and the look she and Rosie give Meadow could peel paint.

Right on cue, Rosie lets out another triumphant fart that echoes off the cork floor like a warning shot.

Lena meets my eyes across the room, and we both break into silent, shoulder-shaking laughter.

I swear, we’ve never been more proud.