The Reality of Everything - Rebecca Yarros Page 0,55

had myself about fourteen billion times since he asked me last weekend. “We’re just sightseeing.”

“It would be okay if you were. You know that, right?”

“Right. But we’re not.” I shook my head emphatically.

She raised her eyebrows but didn’t argue as we walked down the wooden steps to the beach where our class of about half a dozen women waited…with paddleboards?

“Christina?”

“Consider it the American Ninja Warrior of yoga.”

Our feet hit the sand, and I shook my head. “I’m more on the chair aerobics level.” I brought up my hands to show her my awesome synchronized finger push-ups.

“Push your comfort zone. Let’s go.”

No excuses, no option to back down. She firmly expected me to haul my uncoordinated butt up onto that paddleboard and do yoga. On the water.

“And what happens when I fall off? Because that’s definitely going to happen.” I picked up the unclaimed board next to where Christina claimed hers, grateful that I’d put on the wetsuit.

“You can swim, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then you get wet.” She shrugged. “You can stay on shore the same way you could have stayed in bed this morning. It’s your choice. No one can decide to start living for you, Morgan.”

She dropped her yoga pants and kicked off her sandals.

I was living, right? I’d bought a house, was remodeling said house, and had managed to make friends with Jackson, Finley, and now Christina. Sure, maybe my outlook was still a little gray, but now my days had blocks of sunshine peering through the space that had only been dark before. Blocks of sunshine that had a lot to do with the guy I wasn’t going on a date with tomorrow night.

It was a sightseeing trip with a friend.

Uh-huh.

Kicking off my flip-flops, I wiggled my toes, feeling every nuance of the damp sand from its slight chill to the grit against my skin that I knew would wear away the rougher edges of my feet if I walked far enough. Not abrasive as much as it was refining, comforting as it molded to my arches.

I couldn’t manage to open the truck door.

I had weeks to go in this therapy that felt more like torture than healing.

Will was dead.

But I wasn’t.

Maybe it was time I started acting like it more than just the times Jackson dragged me out of the house.

It wasn’t just one big choice—it was a thousand tiny ones just like this. Just like saying yes to Jackson.

I dropped my reservations and my pants onshore, then headed into the water with the board tucked under my arm and the ankle leash firmly secured—thanks to Christina.

I managed to climb up onto my board in the hip-deep water with the rest of the class and thanked my lucky stars that we weren’t on the ocean side of the island.

Then I fell off.

More than once.

But I’ll be damned if I didn’t haul myself back up on that board every single time.

…

This is not a date.

This is not a date.

This. Is. Not. A. Date.

I mentally repeated the phrase as I headed to answer my front door. Just because I had on a sundress and little matching sweater didn’t make it a date. A date would have meant heels, and my toes were currently cocooned in pair of sensible but cute ballet flats. Maybe I’d shaved my legs, but that didn’t make it a date, either. Neither did my makeup or the fact that I’d taken the time to curl my hair.

Those small acts had been my own affirmations of life. They had nothing to do with the man who’d rung my doorbell a few seconds ago.

I exhaled slowly as I reached for the door handle, then took a fresh breath, pasted on a smile, and opened the door.

Oh shit. He had that whole beach-casual vibe going on, and he made it look good. Really damn good. His hair had that messy, ran-my-fingers-through-it style, and he’d rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt over a pair of dark blue cargo shorts.

But it was his smile that seemed to stutter my heart.

“Wow. Morgan, you look incredible.”

Maybe it was the deep timbre of his voice or the way his gaze warmed my skin as he glanced over me in the same way I’d just done to him, but suddenly this felt very much like a date.

“Thank you,” I managed to reply. “You look great, too.” That was absolutely an understatement. The man looked edible.

“Thanks.” His smile widened. “You ready?”

“You betcha.” You betcha? Oh God, did I really just say that? Where