Balancing Acts Read online

  Dedication

  For Ronen,

  my eternal subway crush

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part II

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Part IV

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Three Month Later

  An Excerpt From Driving Lessons

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Epigraph

  PRANAYAMA

  (Sanskrit: pranayama)

  lengthening of the breath

  Comprised of four parts:

  PURAKA: inhalation

  ANTARA KUMBHAKA: retention (lungs full)

  RECHAKA: exhalation

  BAHYA KUMBHAKA: retention (lungs empty)

  Part I

  Puraka

  Chapter One

  Charlie

  In one swift, graceful movement, Charlie was up from the floor—following behind her students, adjusting the pile of blankets and neatening the mound of blocks. She smiled to herself as she watched them zip themselves back into their jackets and prepare for the frigid blast of winter, happily noting the contrast between their newly relaxed faces and the tense, jaw-clenched bunch that began her class just an hour ago.

  She never stopped marveling at the restorative powers of yoga. She loved opening up her students’ hearts and weary, New York–trodden minds with each stretch and flow. Turning to face the wall of windows overlooking the bustling Brooklyn street below, she surveyed the now empty studio and smiled.

  To think that this belonged to her, that she was truly the captain of her own destiny. . .it was something. Sometimes she still had to pinch herself. She turned out the light and glanced at the clock on the front wall.

  Five fifteen! Damn it! she thought. She had only forty-five minutes to make it into midtown, and she was in the far-out Brooklyn neighborhood of Bushwick. Please let the train be in a good mood today. With no time to shower, she gave her underarms a quick sniff and surmised that a spritz of her perfume would have to do the trick.

  “Classy!” she heard behind her. She turned around, smirking already.

  “What, you’ve never seen someone inspect their pits, Julian?”

  “Yeah, gorillas do it all the time.” He looked up from behind his post at the front-desk computer and gave Charlie a grin. “Do you pass inspection?”

  “As fresh as a mountain spring! What’s cooking on the Web?”

  “In today’s news, another former teen star has checked herself into the psych ward and Scientology has claimed another closeted leading man,” answered Julian, shaking his head as he scrolled through his favorite gossip website. “I swear, I think the bad weaves are to blame.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Charlie, as she changed clothes in the adjoining bathroom. She pulled her favorite red sweater out from her gym bag and gave it a shake.

  “All of these teen starlets, losing their minds. . .I think it’s the toxic glue from these rat-nest weaves seeping into their skulls. Maybe we should develop our own line of weaves and organic glue. I’m sure Felicity has a formula to share. We could sell them here and make billions of dollars!”

  “Oh yeah, that makes perfect sense. Yoga and weaves. We might as well offer Botox, too,” she said as she pulled her boots on over her jeans.

  Julian laughed and got up from his chair. He stretched toward the ceiling. “I think we might be on to something here. A yoga studio for the new millennium!” He glanced at Charlie as she pulled her honey-colored hair into a huge bun on top of her slightly sweaty head. “Where you goin’, hot stuff?” he asked.

  Charlie paused as she pulled out her lip balm. “Why, to my pseudo ten-year college reunion, of course,” she responded.

  “Say what?” asked Julian. “You lookin’ for an old boyfriend to reignite the passion? To carry your books and hold your hair while you puke? Honey, you know Big Man on Campus is now balding and married to some hooker with three kids. Oh, and his pants are pleated.” Charlie cringed at the thought. “Wait, why is this a pseudo reunion and not a real one?” asked Julian. “Are you too cool for name tags and a catered dinner of iceberg lettuce wedges and Hamburger Helper? Maybe a Jell-O dessert and a little dancing to Black Sheep and Biggie Smalls at the end of the night?”

  Charlie laughed. “Good Lord, Black Sheep? That’s a blast from the past. No, it’s not that I’m too cool at all, I just think that the alumni association wanted to do a little something in New York, since a lot of the Boston University graduates live here now, especially the old ones. Ten years out. I can’t believe it, actually.” She paused to reflect. A decade. Damn. “All I know is, I got an e-mail, and I decided to go. I have zero interest in rekindling any sort of long, burned-out flame, by the way. I only have one goal in mind for tonight.”

  “To show off your yoga abs?” asked Julian.

  “Um, no. I’m going to spread the word about Prana Yoga. Surely, some of these people are looking to make good on their New Year’s ‘get in shape’ resolution. The timing couldn’t be better.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Lil’ Miss Business Sense,” answered Julian. “But show off your abs anyway. A little eye candy always works.”

  “What are you, my pimp?” asked Charlie with a snort. “That’s rich. Seriously though, we all have to start pounding the pavement to get our memberships up. Including you, mister.”

  “Hello, earth to Charlie! Duh.”

  Charlie, Julian, and Felicity were co-owners of Prana, and since their opening two months ago, they had been on a serious mission to pack classes. Guerilla marketing had so far proved mildly successful, but they were still far from target. Running a business was not an easy gig, even if said business was based on Zen principles and faith in the universe. All of the oms in the world couldn’t pay their electricity, mortgage, and heating bills. Not to mention gas and water.

  They had all realized this coming in, of course—Charlie was a former Wall Street wiz, Julian had made a small fortune in the real estate market, and Felicity had even owned her own yoga studio at one point. Still, with all the brain power and know-how between them, it was a struggle to keep their dream afloat.

  “Where have you been spreading the word?” asked Charlie.

  “I’ve been hitting all the coffee shops and holier-than-thou hipst
er boutiques in Williamsburg and Carroll Gardens,” Julian replied. “Handing out flyers and posting them on bulletin boards. I hit Flatbush Avenue this morning before I came in. And then, of course, there’s my ultimate marketing coup,” he pointed to the dog’s bed behind the desk. George and Michael, the much-adored pugs of Julian and his partner, Scott, looked up at Charlie warily. Their tight little tummies and haunches were bound in Prana Yoga onesies—one in orange and the other in baby blue. Charlie laughed.

  “Those poor little nuggets!” she exclaimed, walking over to give them a love pat.

  “Are you kidding me, they love dressing up! Don’t you, babies? Seriously Charlie, people on the street are constantly oohing and ahhing over these guys, so I figured, why not make them walking billboards?”

  “Pretty genius. Although they don’t look entirely enchanted by their wardrobes, I have to say.”

  “Oh, that’s just George and Michael. Being fabulous is a way of life for them. Expressing any sort of enthusiasm for anything is so bourgeois.”

  Charlie laughed again as she zipped her jacket. “Okay, I’m off to midtown!” she announced, as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

  “Oh gawd, you poor thing.” He hopped up to hug her. “Good luck and try not to come back with a washed-up frat boy clutching your ankles.”

  “Will do,” she replied as she breezed out the door and down the stairs. The cold air smacked her in the face. She inhaled sharply and pulled her hood up around her hair.

  She wondered who would be there tonight. She had lost touch with almost everyone since college. She shook her head with a slight grin as she imagined what they would make of the “new” Charlie.

  She was a far cry from the money-hungry, raging type-A tycoon of yesteryear. While all of her peers had been smoking pot out of downy tubes and laminating their fake IDs, she had been color-coding her note cards and watching C-SPAN.

  She had been bound and determined to make it in New York among the other cash sharks, and knew that her humble beginnings would make her journey that much harder. But as her wise Pops had always said, “It’s all about the journey, baby.” That little pearl of wisdom had never been truer than it was right now, considering her imminent return to her past. Thank goodness it was only for one hour.

  Okay, two hours! Charlie reminded herself begrudgingly. A trip into midtown warranted at least a two-hour stay, as that would probably equal her travel time on the godforsaken subway. Charlie swiped her fare card and eased through the turnstile.

  Making her way down the damp platform, she was surprised by the nervousness she felt. Who would be there? She mentally Rolodexed her very short list of college paramours. She rarely had made time for them, but occasionally she had broken her stoic reserve and engaged in the typical two-to three-week dating ritual. She marveled at the length of those entanglements, but three weeks in college seems like four years—or at least they always did to her. Especially if the guy was a total dufus, which they almost always were.

  As the train approached, Charlie laughed to herself, remembering Russ, the strapping football player with a penis the size of a jujube. Said jujube was a steroided mess, and even after rolling out her tried and true tricks, that candy was just never going to unwrap. After surrendering and submitting herself to an awkward snuggle, Russ had made no mention of the “incident” and had instead asked her which kind of sports car was her favorite. The next day, Charlie was back in the business school library, plotting her eventual world takeover. If Russ was any indication of what was out there in terms of distraction, she was all too happy to maintain her focus.

  Charlie switched to the 6 train at Broadway-Lafayette. She thought about what it would feel like to explain herself to these people she knew once upon a time. She had run into the occasional person from her Wall Street past and just shrugged off the noticeable difference.

  “Where did you go?” a former colleague had asked incredulously during an awkward Saturday Starbucks run-in. “One day you were there, and the next day—poof! No one had any clue what had happened to you.” She had adjusted the strap of her Birkin bag as she said this, one hand juggling her nonfat, nonsugar mocha grande and the other nervously smoothing her Japanese-straightened and lowlighted hair.

  “Oh, I just had a—” Charlie frantically searched for an explanation that would reveal just enough, while at the same time, slam the door shut on any further questions. “I had a quarter-life crisis, you know? It was just time.” Charlie tried to look dramatic and mysterious. The woman, whose name Charlie couldn’t remember for the life of her (Sasha? Natasha? Nicole?), nodded her head as if she understood, the whole time thinking (Charlie was sure), Bankrupt lesbian chops up her bodega guy and stores him in the fridge. The full story at eleven.

  “Got it,” she whispered, obviously uncomfortable. “Well, glad to see that you’re still alive!” she said, making her way away from Charlie and into her afternoon of Bergdorf and ball-busting.

  Charlie smiled, remembering. She looked up. Oh shit! How are we at Forty-second Street already?! She rushed out of the car—her canvas shoulder bag just barely escaping the jaws of the closing door. The crowd surged forward and Charlie was more or less carried up the stairs and planted above ground, right in the thick of New York City mania. She took a deep breath as she began heading toward the bar.

  Here goes nothin’, she thought.

  Chapter Two

  Sabine

  Sabine pressed SEND and rubbed her temples. Violet was not going to be pleased about her five pages of edits. Not at all. But what could she do? Violet’s book was about vegan romance and, sorry, there were only so many ways to make an impromptu quickie in the co-op bathroom sexy.

  Sabine’s editor in chief was on a mission to expand their readership and somehow she had determined that organic vegetables and soy cheese were a recipe for sexy. Hence, their new line of vegan and eco-friendly romances.

  At a publisher best known for Fabio-covered bodice-rippers, this was a departure, to say the least. And as a senior editor, Sabine had to make these new titles work. . .or else. Or else, what? she often wondered. Would getting fired be such a bad thing?! Sabine sighed. She supposed that some days she did like her job, and even found herself strangely turned on by editing page after page of passion-fueled romps, but today was not one of those days.

  She looked up to find Jasmine, her assistant, lurking in her doorway. “Um, is there anything else you need, Sabine?” she asked hesitantly, her hope that the answer was no and that she could go home decidedly apparent.

  “No, no, go home!” answered Sabine. “Start your weekend, already!”

  Jasmine smiled with relief. “Thanks, Sabine,” she answered, practically running out of her doorway. She heard the distinct zip of Jasmine’s jacket and then her sneakered feet bounding toward the elevator. She wondered what Jasmine’s weekend entailed. Jasmine was twenty-three, fresh out of college, and living in the East Village with four other struggling friends. Jasmine had confided in Sabine that “really, she wanted to write” one night as Sabine treated her to wine and appetizers at a nearby bar. No shit, thought Sabine. Good luck with all that.

  Sabine, too, had started in book publishing with the sole intention of writing, and here she was, ten years later, spell-checking quinoa. She stretched her arms high above her head and rotated her neck counterclockwise as she shut her computer off. The kinks in her body were so textbook “office kinks” that she wanted to weep. Work had been a bear lately. When was the last time she had gone to the gym? August? It was January. Ugh.

  Sabine’s cell phone rang. She picked it up to inspect the culprit. MOM it read, the shrill ringing eerily reminiscent of what she was sure to hear the moment she pushed TALK.

  “Hi, Mom,” she answered.

  “Hi, Saby,” she replied. “Are you wearing lipstick?”

  Sabine laughed as she involuntarily grazed her lips with her fingers. They were so chapped by winter’s unrelenting cruelness that they felt like beef jerky.
And there was not a speck of color gracing their flesh. “Oh sure,” she replied. “I’ve got a full face of fake on. Not to mention a push-up bra, a miniskirt, and stilettos. You know, just another day at the office.”

  “Your attitude is for the birds, Sabine,” her mother replied. “Being such a smartass is going to land you on your couch with that dumb cat for the rest of your natural life.”

  “Don’t call him dumb!” Her cat, Lassie, was a huge bone of contention with her mother, who, as soon as Sabine had adopted him, had told her he was “the feline equivalent of a locked chastity belt.”

  “Well, I hope you’re over penis,” her mother had gone on to say in one of her more vulgar, martini-induced moments. “Because you’ll never see it again in that apartment.” Sabine had laughed at her audacity.

  “Mom, keep your pants on, I’m on my way to that ridiculous ten-year reunion night,” Sabine said.

  “Oh good!” her mother shrieked. “I have a good feeling about this.” As much as Sabine hated her mother’s involvement in her personal life (or lack thereof), she was a glutton for punishment. She couldn’t help herself from sharing and her mother was a particularly entertaining sounding board.

  “What’s the good feeling about?” asked Sabine. “Washed-up divorcés desperate to spread their seed?” Sabine reached into her bag and pulled out her makeup case. She had been staring at a computer screen under the brutal glare of fluorescent lighting all day. She didn’t even have to see a mirror to know that she looked like a corpse.

  “Listen, I have to dash,” her mother said, cutting Sabine off. “I’m meeting the girls for movie night. Don’t act like a jackass, and put on some lipstick and mascara. You’re a beautiful girl and I love you.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” replied Sabine, her eyes tearing up against her will. “Love you, bye.”

  “Love you, too, honey. Call me tomorrow. For chrissake, don’t sleep with anyone! Not yet, at least.”

  “Roger that, Mom,” Sabine replied, laughing. She hung up and wiped her eyes. She couldn’t believe she had teared up. Had it really been that long since someone had called her beautiful? She whipped her magnifying mirror (the mirror responsible for Sabine’s ever-changing eyebrow arch) out of her desk to survey the damage.