Page 7 of The Games We Play (Balance of Power #3)

NAOMI

S o, Seamus Matthews is an apparent ghost and appears literally nowhere.

I searched every social media platform, every search engine, and zilch.

I felt like a traitor to myself and the thousands of dollars I’ve spent on therapy every time I typed in his name on a different site.

I got more and more frustrated with each dead end, which just fed more into the desperation that I’ve paid so much to manage.

You’d think with my go with the flow, love the one you're with attitude I’d be carefree and loose about this whole thing, but no. I’ve opened up the floodgates and now I can’t stop.

I know I need to go back to Afterburn. I need to go back and ask for him. He’ll get the message. I know he will.

So just stop, Naomi.

As I scold myself and put my phone down, I recall the way he said my name. The name I haven’t gone by since that summer.

His voice was laced with so much confusion, a little happiness, and even lust, maybe.

Mimi.

I always loved the way he said my name. It wasn’t unlike how everyone else did, but the way he said it was with such adoration and appreciation.

Okay, stop.

I am literally a trained professional at clearing my mind, but here comes Seamus Matthews, making an appearance for fifteen seconds—after a decade of being non-existent—and I’m that seventeen-year-old, insecure girl again.

It’s official. I am triggered. Seamus Matthews is my trigger.

I finish my morning green tea and open the sliding glass door to step into my backyard.

My serenity.

No matter how many places in the world I’ve been to, this quaint little space in my own backyard provides a peace my body craves daily.

The back fence is lined with lush trees that rival the deepest forest green color palette. The cul-de-sac my house is on is sheltered from the hustling, downtown Seattle commotion, and the large outdoor bird bath with a waterfall fountain provides a stream of nature’s white noise.

It’s nothing extravagant, but it’s my private oasis. I spend more time out here than I do inside my house.

Rolling my mat onto the patio, I hand brush it flat, clearing away any debris, then step out of my flip flops while simultaneously grabbing the hem of my crop top and pulling it off.

I toss it on one of the lounge chairs then tuck my thumbs into the elastic waistband of my harem pants, letting those fall easily to my ankles, before kicking the loose, flowy fabric onto the same chair with my shirt.

The cold, crisp air kisses my exposed skin and sends goosebumps down my entire body.

It’s not officially winter yet, but after Thanksgiving, there is a distinct shift in the weather here. Almost like it knows Christmas is coming. And although it doesn’t snow in Seattle, we have cool, wet winters, and it’s one of my favorite seasons.

Well, they all are. I love the changing of them. The colors, the sensation in the climate. The shift of the drier, more dense air, to the cooler, humid air.

I suck in a deep breath and circle my arms over my head, pushing my fingers toward the sky, giving myself a full body stretch before kneeling down at the back of my mat.

It’s natural to go through my warm up stretches, circling my wrists, arms, neck and ankles. Then moving into back arches and rolling my shoulders and hips side to side.

The breeze floats around my skin like a comfort blanket, and I recall the first time I did yoga out here.

It was the middle of summer, and I had on leggings and a tank top that felt like a thermal turtleneck.

It was hot, restricting, and I hated it.

So, I stripped down to my sports bra and underwear, and I’ve never gone back.

It’s my own personal space, no one can see me. So, why not?

I flow through my poses, holding each one as long as my breath will allow. Moving fluidly between each. Sometimes I have a plan, using this time to create a class flow in my head, and others I just move wherever my body needs to. That feels most natural and easy.

As I step to the top of my mat, I open my eyes and glance at the neighbor’s house.

My previous neighbors had lived there when I moved in and, to my knowledge, had no plans on moving.

Until one day, a moving truck appeared in their front yard.

They said they just decided it was time, packed up, and left.

They didn’t even give me any contact information or tell me where they were going.

Now, a mysterious—and very large—Ford Raptor has been parked in the driveway since the day the new neighbor’s moving truck showed up. The friend I met, who was helping the neighbor move, seemed nice enough, but it’s been days later and no sign of the new neighbor.

I personally think it’s imperative to know your neighbors, so I have every intention of knocking on the door every day until I do. I know I can be a lot, with my overly bubbly and friendly personality, so I’ll give them a few days to get settled in before doing that.

I cycle through a few sun salutations, and as I arch deeper into my upward facing dog pose, my eyes peer over the fence line to the second story window. It overlooks the neighbor’s yard and, inadvertently, mine, as well.

It catches my attention because that window has always had thick, horizontal blinds that were never opened.

But right now, they are wide open.

I squint, trying to adjust my vision, and suddenly a shadow shifts in the background and the blinds slam close all at once.

Shit .

I push back onto my heels and glance down at myself, then back up to the window.

It’s not like I’m dressed in anything worse than a swimsuit, but that’s not the first impression I wanted to give my neighbor. I hope they just so happened to be looking out the window and weren't actually staring the entire time.

Well, shit.

I roll up my mat and grab my clothes from the chair, stepping back into the house.

I need to plan to meet my neighbor sooner than later.