This scene has definitely officially hit the cutting room floor; there's now absolutely no way it can come back into the fic so I'm dropping it here as an actual real honest-to-goodness outtake in the original, "cut from this story" sense of the word.
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The locker rooms at the rec building were expansive; with dozens of rows of freshly-painted lockers with dark wooden benches spread between them. Apparently, if you wanted, you could rent a locker for the year for a hundred dollars or so, but most of the lockers were open for borrowing. I stashed my backpack inside one, and affixed my freshly-purchased combination lock on the outside.
The mat and bag were also brand new. I asked Kelsey if there was a good exercise store downtown, and, once she finished laughing, she pointed out that the bookstore on Liberty sold plenty of yoga supplies.
“And this has nothing whatsoever to do with Will Edward,” she’d said.
“Aside from him reminding me the classes existed? You’ve seen me. Balance is not my strong suit. People have been telling me to do yoga for years.”
Her smirk had been instantaneous.
“Sure. Well, you let me know how it goes, seeing that body in yoga pants.”
I’d decided to start with the noontime one, which seemed likely to have more students. I hadn’t been completely lying that it wasn’t just for Carlisle—my therapists had suggested over and over that I try yoga; that it would bring my mind away from struggling over information about Edward and would calm my body. I just had never had any reason to do it. But our student fees paid for our access to the three gyms, and to all the classes therein.
I had no sooner stepped into the hall when I met Nabil, because I had of course I had run the same idea past him, a week ago.
He had just glowered.
“Fine,” he’d said. “See if there is a two-for-one on mats.”
“Two?”
He gave me a withering look. “Bella, there is absolutely no way you are taking yoga with the Asshole by yourself. I believe every word of what you said about what did not happen when he spent the night, I promise. But I also promise that dude has a dick, and you are someone he would definitely want to…” He pulled himself up short. “So yeah. I’m coming along.”
So now he was here, standing in the hallway in shorts and a tank top, with a mat rolled under his arm. I gave him a quick peck on the lips.
“Thanks for doing this,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “You are crazy. But I am coming to love crazy.”
We went into the studio. It was a basic gym, but with a dance barre and mirrors across one wall. Other students were setting up their mats; I picked a spot toward the back of the room, where we’d have a chance to see the instructor do the poses before we attempted them. Google told me that Ashtanga practice differed from Vinyasa in that Ashtanga was a set sequence of poses; I had at least looked at them ahead of time—they didn’t look too terribly difficult, at least not for the first sequence. The only difference I had found on YouTube seemed to be in the proficiency of the people who were actually practicing it. I was fairly certain I would not be putting my nose between my legs any time soon.
We were stretching on our mats when Carlisle entered the room. At least sixty percent of the heads snapped up, male and female alike. He was dressed like a true yogi, wearing a pair of tight, thigh-length shorts and a gray tank top, neither one of which left very much to the imagination.
Nabil was right. Carlisle definitely had…the requisite equipment.
