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It goes like this.
Three months ago, a yoga mat shows up in the car. It’s purple (her favorite color), and Elizabeth probably thought it inconspicuous, neatly rolled up and tucked away in the back. But Rio’s only gotten to where he is in life because he’s got a meticulous handle on the details. So he notices, and it makes him pause -- the reminder of who he is these days.
And he likes to think he’s a smart guy, evolved and shit. But, he’s got to admit he likes the thought of it -- his girl, Aphrodite trapped in suburbia (or was it Athena?), rolling up in the Wagon to some bougie yoga studio. Elizabeth would swing ‘round the back to grab her mat, doing that walk she does when she’s feeling herself as the other PTA chicks’ jaws drop. He likes the security of his second pair of keys in her hands, on her keychain.
What did it say about Elizabeth’s hold on him that he fuckin’ delights in this daydreaming?
And it’s complicated -- ‘cause on one hand, when did he become this guy? Actually, he knows. Three years, eight months, and two days ago. He’s not overly-obsessed with his relationship or anything, but a counter runs in his mind -- how long he’s been with her. So much so that he’s been thinking of getting the date of when she robbed him (the first time) on the inside of his wrist, a complement to the bracelets she’d bestowed him, to drag out as A Move during sex or to embarrass her in front of her friends.
And on the other hand, it’s like... damn, it’s been too long since they fucked in the car.
They cohabitate now -- them and all their kids. They still had an absurd amount of sex in public places (and shit, since when had that been his kink?). He still takes great delight in pushing all her buttons and getting her to unspool around his cock, on his mouth, and in his arms.
But, they were a lil’ calmer now, less feral. They had partially domesticated what this was and had fun in doing so. They shared a bed now, were crate-trained as it were.
She and hers are his family.
But, fuck, he’d been a strict no-strings-attached, hit-it-and-quit-it type of dude for years -- all of his adult life. It was what came with his job.
He had tried to do his best by Rhea when he had gotten her knocked up. But, looking back on it, the exercise had been doomed. When Marcus was born, Rio was in his late 20s rocketing to the top of the food chain. It had been a time when all he could do was keep his head down and do the work -- running in the streets, scheming, consolidating power, and ultimately, he had to make a choice.
Was he going to be a boss, a father, or a husband? To be honest, he only had time for one, but he did his best to make fatherhood fit.
It’s what it was all for in the end, right?
And yet, somehow despite all and many odds, here he was toting Elizabeth’s yoga mat around in his car. Mick rolls his eyes when he sees it, and there’s the typical jokes about being pussy-whipped and what not. But, yeah -- he loves her. At this point, he can’t really deny it. So, he laughs along with Mick’s jokes, and then sends him to chauffeur their million kids around, just to make sure he knows what's what.
Anyway, after a few weeks, Rio comes home from the gym and finds her practicing alone in the house, the kids scattered to their other respective households. Elizabeth’s got a video going on her phone, and her back is arched in a way he’s only ever seen in bed and she has to realize is provocative. But, she eyes him, self-conscious and with old defensiveness, as she twists into a few shapes.
He tries to keep it chill, knows about the residual feelings she carries about her body (and Christ, he can’t believe he’s only had the opportunity to shoot her ex-husband once, he should have taken his own advice and emptied the fucking clip ). So he settles close to her with his battered copy of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology from highschool that he’s been trying to get back into, and steals glances at her over the pages.
He skims the pages on Athena and then Aphrodite, and he likes the hyperbole of each but neither quite fit.
He eventually comes back to Artemis.
And, yeah, maybe.
He looks up at Elizabeth again and admires her form. He admires her strength -- that reedy cord of tenacity he’s admired for so long making itself more visible through the facade of soft as she finds new ways to hold herself up and get herself stronger. Her hair keeps falling into her face and he itches to crawl on the mat with her and pull it out of her face.
She’s fucking gorgeous.
As she continues, Elizabeth notices him watching, and she starts to get a little playful. Eventually, he lures her off the mat and onto his lap.
Yoga becomes part of her routine on the days she doesn’t feel like driving into the studio. And he gets it. He’s always turned to grounding himself in his body when he’s needed to work through things. His first love had been basketball, soccer while on family vacations (and only with his cousins from Tamaulipas). In high school, it was track, and he still loves running, but with Detroit winters he’s mostly moved on to boxing and tennis. Never yoga, though.
And yeah, he has some reservations, and yeah, it makes him feel their differences. He’s a tad judgemental about the white-owned yoga studios gentrifying the fuck out of his city. Blocks he grew up running in Detroit-propper suddenly got white people eyein’ up his tats and clutching their wallets. And shit, when has yoga ever been for guys like him?
But, life increasingly becomes more complicated.
He can still like that E’s found something that’s for her and he likes the peace it brings her. He appreciates the way it unknots her shoulders, the particular vibe it gives their day afterward when she’s able to let go of some of that stress she carries. He tries to complement it by eating her out and that special type of really good sex that comes from whatever alchemy is between their bodies. And yeah, he likes the headspace it gets her in, how it shifts the way she approaches their work, and the new depth it adds to the way they touch each other when sex isn’t her only form of therapy.
So when she gets a water bottle with the yoga studio’s branding, Rio teases her a bit but he encourages her to go for the membership. Naturally, E being E, it don’t take her long to make nice with the owners. And then Elizabeth comes home excited about how she had just committed to doing a run of the studio’s promotional swag at the store. He and Elizabeth end up with a postcard on their fridge, a color photo of the studio’s abstract mural. The other side has text that advertises an event line up at the studio that includes a fucking “gong-bath”. It takes him a week to let it go.
Actually, he hasn’t. He still brings it up.
But, then a second yoga mat appears -- a green one -- tucked away in the spare bedroom, mostly hidden under some of her crafting materials. He finds it, wonders for a split second why she needs two and has an answering inkling of where this might be going.
The next day, a lil’ custom print for a “partners” yoga event gets pinned next to the first postcard on the fridge.
And like... he loves her and all. But, does it really go that deep?
Rio pauses in front of the fridge, sipping his tea and staring at the picture of a white dude balancing presumably his Black girlfriend in a pose above his head. His eyes track to where Elizabeth sits in the other room knitting and watching the latest episode of her British baking show (he has half the mind to submit her name to the American spin-off). Considering what she’s up to, she sits with her back a lil’ too straight (on edge one might say) clearly waiting for a comment or for him to show her some grace.
And…
Nope. He’s not going to make it that easy for her.
To her credit, after her episode is done, Elizabeth FaceTimes Ruby and asks her first. Then, as if to make a point that she’s rounding out her bases, she calls her sister. And it’s true that Marks’ sisters’ relationship is as close as it's ever been -- their family criming has forced Elizabeth to trust her sister with her life. But, damn, if he knows she don’t trust Annie to do anything remotely acrobatic, much less cartwheel Elizabeth into the air.
He settles at the island in their kitchen with his tea and his work. She’s got the call on speaker in the other room, when Annie asks, “And gang boo?”
“What about him?”
Rio scoffs loud enough so she can hear him.
“Why doesn’t he go with you?”
E pauses, probably fiddling with the strand of her knitting yarn on the couch behind him. “It just doesn’t really seem like his thing?”
Annie snorts. “Have you asked him?”
“No,” Elizabeth sighs into the phone, as if she isn’t a few paces away, having a very audible conversation.
“Don’t people usually go with their SO’s to these things? I mean I appreciate that you think I have the upper body strength for this, but you have to know that I will never in my life be able to do a push-up.”
“It was just a thought--”
Annie continues, stuck mid-rant, “And, like there’s no way I can be your counterweight. You have so much more body than me. We’re like completely different proportions. ”
“Well, so are me and Christopher.”
“Yeah, but Christopher actually has body strength. Lots of it. “ Annie retorts. “And he’s going to love you sweaty, and sticking your butt up into the air, bendy and wearing tight clothing--”
He bites at his bottom lip and supposes yeah, he could try it once.
“Okay, fine! I’ll ask him.”
Rio waits for her to come to him as he tries to make headway on his accounting. But, E doesn’t show.
Instead, it comes later -- when they’re in bed. She’s being extra-nice, extra-smiley, and charming, cracking jokes and making him laugh. He hates it except he also loves it -- when she thinks she can get the drop on him like her dumb ass ex-husband. Except, unfortunately for Rio, she really does know her target.
She waits until right after she blows him to ask.
Elizabeth crawls up his spent, panting body, and pins him with hers. She kisses him hotly with her mouth that tastes like his come and he fucking loves when she does that. Then, she retreats to bite playfully at his chin and asks if he’s noticed the flyer on the refrigerator.
And he gives her a little shit about it but…
He admires the strategy
------
The couple's yoga class is on a Saturday morning.
It’s the middle of March, and he’s fucking over winter. Detroit, so far from Mexico and so close to being the fucking North Pole.
The temperature means he’s got to get bundled up in sweats, put on his damn parka and snow boots, all to take it back off again when he gets there. Apparently, the studio is heated perennially at 90 degrees. He don’t know how Elizabeth handles it, she’s so bothered by heat. He complains to her, and she reminds him that this is just like when he goes to the gym on his own. Except this time, they’re doing something together. And she’s being all shy in a way she usually isn’t any more around him and she’s fuckin’ happy he’s coming with her.
The night before she had presented the green mat to him. He had said “Thank you” como su mamá lo enseño, and committed to stepping outside of his comfort zone.
“Show me how this goes, darlin’?”
Elizabeth had swelled up with the thrill of explaining something to him, and launched into it, “The basis of yoga is breathing…”
She had given him the low-down and gotten him started in the basic poses. He liked her hands (soft, and prim and careful) pushing and pulling at him and adjusting his posture. He had ended up fucking her on the mat -- as a proper thank you and to give her a little something to think about in class tomorrow as they contort their bodies in a way she’s adamant is not meant to be sexual.
And he’s not trying to be a dick or ruin the day for her, but he’s dragging his feet a little bit. He don’t really want to be spending his morning off, kid-less, in a room focusing on his breathing surrounded by crunchy, white gentrifiers.
And he might be simmering a choice comment about how it’s ironic that she wants him to focus on his breathing after she was the one who fucking shot him in the lung that one time...
But, he knows she’s not thinking of it like that and he knows if he just told it to her she’d get it. It'd get canceled. But, he don’t want to make it all about him and the struggle... and he’s rich now ain’t he? And Elizabeth’s excited to have him with her while she does her thing, excited to show him off -- and that gives him enough energy to walk through the door, green mat under one arm, and her hand in his.
Immediately, they’re ensconced in a wave of warmth as they step into the heated studio, and there’s an earthy smell hitting him strong. He zeroes in on the incense lit at the check-in counter and Rio’s nose wrinkles in distaste on its own accord.
Elizabeth squeezes her hand, in a silent reprimand.
Behave.
Then, she moves around the counter to hug some of the people hanging out back there.
There’s a flurry of introductions, a Bridgid, a Cassandra, Bryce, Patsy, and Tiffany. Tiffany is Black and he thinks Cassandra could be Latina… He ain’t sure. They’re all revealed to be instructors or staff of some kind and E seems to be chummy with all of them. He knows Tiffany is her favorite and will move heaven and hell (and their fucking drop schedule) to make it to class with her.
He isn’t sure exactly why so many of them are there but apparently, they like to hang out here even when they're off the clock? Wild. His palms itch and he feels the sweat start to drip under his thick jacket.
E starts to pull off her winter clothes, as she lingers in conversation with Tiffany, asking her about her husband and how Tiffany’s weight training is going. He blinks at his girl and the shit she can pull out of her repertoire.
“I’m so glad you get to finally meet Christopher.”
Tiffany turns to smile wide at him. “Beth has made so much progress in the past few months.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” and she’s got a friendly vibe so he tries to dial up the charm. Smiling, and playing the proper beau, “She talks about y’all all the time.”
"Is this your first time?"
And it tries to save it, but he ends up smiling in a way that's more like baring his teeth. "Yup."
Behind them, he clocks that instructor, Brad or Bryce or whatever, checking out Elizabeth’s ass when she ain’t looking. And sure he’s about Rio’s height and got some definition on his abs, but his jaw’s too square like it’s never taken a hit, his muscles never used in a fight.
Looking away in annoyance, Rio snags the eyes of some chicks looking at him a little too eager. Damn, it’s Saturday morning and these people need to chill.
And he rolls his eyes, tsking, then steps closer and loops a hand around Elizabeth’s waist, drops it down to her ass for a moment. He makes a show of leaving a kiss against her temple and then he bounds towards the cubbies, ready to shed some clothes. His jacket is about to kill him.
As he peels off of the layers, he looks around, and okay -- the crowd's not as white as he worried it was. There’s other POC settling in for the class, at least one other interracial couple, too. And that Cassandra chick’s sweatshirt says “Chingona AF’ on the back. She’s the same shade of light brown as him, a mid-30s willowy mujer with a queer buzzcut.
He loosens up a bit and settles into the space. This heated shit is nice.
A few moments later, Elizabeth joins him and after they’re done tucking their stuff away, she draws him over to her favorite corner. They roll out their mats -- purple and green -- side-by-side.
They settle in their respective places and Rio takes the opportunity to give Elizabeth the same once over that asshole did. Her ass really does look great in those pants and she could fill out any shirt. Her eyes linger over him too, tracing his skin, the bar tattoos peeking out from under his t-shirt that she’s seen a million times but she devours at every opportunity. Then her eyes meet his and she gives him that small, crooked lil’ smile.
He’s not one for religion, but every so often he takes his mom to Spanish mass. All the viejitos and pious Catholic types think he’s a banger but his ma’s still excited to show him off. He sits with her in the pew and when the priest asks for the congregation to give thanks to God, he says a prayer for the riches that have come to him, the health and brilliance of his son, the vitality of the other little ones in his life now, and Elizabeth. And when he thinks of her in those moments, he sees her in his mind’s eye with this exact look on her face.
And to top it all off, the 90-degree heat is already working some kind of magic on the knot he’s been trying to get out of his shoulder for the past two weeks.
He smiles back at her.
“This shit is dope.”
“Yeah?”
He shrugs, playful. “I like the heat.”
She scoffs, still smiling, “Of course, you do. I thought I was going to pass out the first time I came.” He laughs and tallies a point. He called it. Elizabeth shakes her head, “I had never sweat so much in my life.”
And it goes like that.
Right as class starts, a white guy with dreads and his skinny, blond girlfriend settle in the space next to them. The dude turns to nod in acknowledgment, but his eyes drop down to take in the ink at Rio’s throat. He tries to be subtle about it but he and the girl scoot a few inches away.
And he ain’t even seen all the old bullet wounds yet.
Rio turns to look at Beth. She’s also staring at the couple, her mouth settled in a thin line.
Then she meets his gaze.
One of the instructors starts calling the group in, welcoming them to class, and Elizabeth takes the last opportunity to gently careen into his side, and kiss him deeply, quickly.
Then she's back on her mat, listening attentively to the instructor like she didn’t just start some shit.
And yeah-- he and Elizabeth are different. They move through space differently, and she has access to things he never will no matter all the gems, rubies and diamonds, Mercedes and stacks he adds to his hoard of wealth. And Rio has wondered, worried, if there will ever be a day when they look at each other and decide they don’t fit anymore.
But, damn if she don’t make him feel alive like nothing else.
Cassandra starts the class and has them all sit back-to-back and leads them through an opening meditation. It’s corny as shit and formal meditation is not really his thing, always having relied on sports (and fights and hits) as a substitute in the past.
But, he tries to settle here, in this room warm like a blanket, next to Elizabeth.
The class itself is pretty fun. The instructors work as a team, hands-on, demonstrating, and walking them through everything. It’s easy enough to pick up with them (and Elizabeth) giving him adjustments, and he likes the excuse to get his hands on her in a different kind of way.
He helps Elizabeth through some inversions, smirking down at her with this particular view of her cleavage. She gets a few, sneaky passes at him, and he don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling surrounded by a room of people, and a whole team of staff circling them.
In one particularly nice sequence, Rio curls down into the mat in the child’s pose Elizabeth had shown him as she stretches on top of him, her whole weight settling along him like a cocoon.
Damn, he’s going to make them take another class like this ain’t he?
The class eventually shifts into what the teachers call aerials.
He lays on his back and lofting Elizabeth up into the air over him. It takes a little finagling to fully adjust to the distribution of her weight, she’s obviously top-heavy. He stares up at her -- her gorgeous, sweaty face smiling back down at him -- and looks over the particular arc of her cleavage. And despite how much time he spends palming at Elizabeth’s tits, he underestimates how much they must hurt her back.
No wonder she needs this shit.
‘Course that’s when Bryce or Blake comes over to “check on their form” and is this guy really going to try to check out his girl’s ass again? Right, the fuck now?
Blake or Bryce paws at Elizabeth’s shoulders trying to adjust her position and she maintains very apologetic eye contact with Rio. Huh. So, she’s aware.
Then, it all happens real fast. Her balance shifts and her hand, sweaty with the heat, slips across his palm and out of his grasp.
The realization hits him-- She’s gonna fall.
And for a brief, terrible moment, her face freezes above him skewed with panic and fear, and then, she floats closer, down to earth.
And he knows better. He fucking knows better from all his fucking years of boxing, the previously-mentioned lifetime of playing sports and career in fucking beating other people up. But he clenches his damn, fucking jaw just as the crown of her head collides with him.
And there’s a sharp bolt of pain spearing through his chin.
And in this room, this heated blanket, incense-burning, crunchy, granola room…
He’s knocked the fuck out.
-----
Well, then it’s a fucking show.
In the familiarity of Elizabeth walking into the studio, they hadn’t asked him to sign a liability waiver. Someone procures ice, and he cradles it to his chin as Bryce apologizes and asks if he can call EMS.
For a concussion.
And he’s pissed the fuck off but it’s still kind of funny? Because the only thing that had ever put him in a hospital had actually been this girl standing next to him (tal pesadilla when she put three slugs in his chest). But, he has to stop laughin’ because it hurts his jaw and they’re all looking at him like he’s nuts.
Elizabeth grips his free hand like a vice, and he’s nursing a hell of a headache, as he has to swear a million times that he ain’t gonna sue anyone. Then, finally, blessedly, they’re allowed to walk out.
Elizabeth insists on helping him into the car. Tiffany and Cassandra accompany them, helping Elizabeth carry all of their shit.
They stand at the curb watching, concern etched on their faces as Elizabeth reverses out of the snowbank and drives off. And yeah, Elizabeth drives because he most definitely has a concussion. And she drives them straight to the fucking ER.
They spend half an hour fighting parked in the lot outside. But, he knows concussions and he knows his limits.
He convinces her to take him home.
-----
The first twenty-four hours of the concussion are the most important. He’s not supposed to look at screens, not supposed to work. He knows his shit but Elizabeth reads at least ten internet articles rapid-fire on her phone as she lies in bed curled next to him.
They spend the childless afternoon with the curtains drawn, lying in their bed, not fucking.
But, the cuddling is good, too.
Elizabeth strokes up and down his arm and talks to him about little nothings to keep him company. She periodically gets up to grab him glasses of water and more ice. And this sucks, but all things considered, this might be the nicest concussion he’s ever had.
Eventually, they wander to the kitchen to figure out food.
Elizabeth pauses staring vacantly at the closed fridge. Then her shoulders start to shake, and now he’s wondering if she’s okay. But, her hand raises to unpin the flyer from the fridge and he hears the first snicker.
She turns to him, laughter breaking across her face, pointing to that ridiculous picture. He knows enough now to recognize Tiffany lofted in that showy, fuckin' dumb aerial pose.
He chuckles and then cringes as the pain at his chin flairs.
Elizabeth pouts consolingly at his discomfort but is still laughing to herself. She ambles over to him, wraps her arms loosely around his middle, and lays the softest kiss on his chin.
“I’m sorry, Christopher.”
He shakes his head, just a smidge because movement fucking sucks right now. “It ain’t your fault.”
“It was my idea.”
“It’s okay.”
She curls into him, deflating, crumbling the flyer into her fist. He gingerly rests his head on top of hers.
He guesses it's time to let the cat out of the bag.
“I liked it," he admits.
He can feel her blinking against his neck, incredulous.
“You did?”
“Yeah.” The smell of her lavender-shampoo drifts into his orbit. “Liked you curled all around me. Liked touching you like that. Gave me some ideas.”
She nods below him, pulling him tighter. “I liked it, too.”
“You’ve gotten so strong now, Elizabeth.” He kisses her at her temple. “Maybe next time you should do all the lifting.”
She pinches him at the ribs. Then, “ Next time?”
“I’ll tell you what.” He shifts back to make eye contact with her. “We get to do a whole lot of practice at home.” He gives her a look to make it clear exactly what he means -- sex. “Then, we’re gonna go back and make sure Bryce is really sorry, ‘kay? Make sure he knows I’m still around.”
And Elizabeth beams that crooked little smile at him.
“Okay, but the next time you have to give me your hoodie or something.”
He nods (a smidge) but still manages to imbue it with sage, territorial wisdom. “That would help.”
“Well, I meant more for me to...” She looks at him, eyes darting. “Claim you.”
I mean he is living for it but he frowns at her. “But, everyone there was a couple.”
Oh . Oh yes. Now he remembers.
“That doesn’t mean anything.” Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “And I don’t share.”
Her hand drifts low on his back, then lower to curl a firm grip on his ass in the privacy of this home that they share.
Unfortunately, despite all this time, Elizabeth still doesn’t know when to quit when she’s ahead.
“Though, honestly, I don’t know why they kept staring at your butt.” She murmurs, sassing him while he’s down. “There’s nothing here.”
Esta pinche mujer. She’s lucky he loves her.
Fuckin’ adores her, really.
Damn.