Page 3 of Until The Lights Go Out

Seriously, who scheduled a date on a Monday night at a karaoke bar? I pulled out my phone, calling Serena.

“Given the early hour of this call, I’m assuming you bailed on the date?” Serena’s voice drifted through the speaker on my phone.

“He assumed I didn’t know what DRS was.” I sighed.

Serena gasped. “And did you educate him?”

“Nope,” I replied as I hopped over a small puddle on the ground. The neon lights of the city were reflecting off the damp sidewalks and left-over puddles from the earlier rain. This kind of weather should have never been wasted on a night out. I should’ve been at home, watching When Harry Met Sally with a glass of wine and my favorite takeout.

“Seriously, Mrs. Neller is nice and all, but you have to stop letting her set you up on dates.” Serena was right of course. My good-intentioned elderly neighbor really did pick the worst ones. But who was I to complain? Dating in this day and age was not for the weak.

“Did you eat yet?”

“Nope,” I sighed, my stomach rumbling at the thought. So much for free food making dating worth it.

The sounds of people and music in the background of the call brought me back to reality as I walked. “Sorry Maze, I gotta go, but I ordered you a surprise. Love you, mean it!”

My phone pinged with an alert as I said my goodbyes. “Love you!”

“Love you most!”

The phone clicked off, and I went to find whatever notification pinged. There at the top was a screenshot of an order from our favorite Chinese restaurant across town to be delivered to me in about twenty minutes. The exact amount of time a ride home from the bar would take. My heart swelled at the gesture, and I immediately pulled up our text thread.

Maisey:

You spoil me

Serena:

I have to live through you, I miss that spicy orange chicken!

I switched over to schedule a rideshare to my little neighborhood outside the heart of the city. Serena and I used to live off leftovers. Getting the most bang for our buck when we were broke twenty-somethings living on our own for the first time. While I stayed back in New York, she was traveling the world and racing for a living. Her reality was what we had once stayed up late dreaming about, what we had trained for and worked for. I had traded that fast-paced life for a slower, more benign one. Here I was, excited to be home instead of out like any sane twenty-seven-year-old. A red car slowed and pulled to the side of the street, a window rolling down to reveal the rideshare driver.

“Maisey Andrews?” he asked.

I confirmed his name, glanced at the license plate to see it matched the app, and replied with a smile, “Yep.”

I slid into the back, the overly strong air freshener scent reaffirming the fact that I should just never go out again. I twisted a ginger lock of hair around my finger repeatedly—an old anxious habit—as the city blurred in the distance. My mind wandered as it always did, to a life from before. I mindlessly scrolled on my phone through socials, seeing everyone I knew from a lifetime ago settled down, married, having babies, getting promotions. Sometimes I felt like life moved on and left me behind. It was overwhelming at times. My chest constricted, fighting off the imaginary weight. My depression showed up like that frequently; out of nowhere, the world would feel too big and too heavy.

The feeling stayed until I saw the takeout Serena had ordered on my welcome mat and my keys were turning the lock of my apartment door. Until I felt a semblance control come back, and the familiar and comforting scents of my home hit me. Pumpkin and spices and warm vanilla. Scents that calmed me and stayed in my house regardless of the season. My mom had called me pumpkin since I was little, partly because of the orange hair, but also because I adored fall time. I over-decorated the house every year, loved hosting friends’ nights and carving pumpkins, putting on my favorite cozy movies. I hadn’t changed much in the last decade of course, I was just watching the same movies with a glass of wine in my own apartment. Alone.

The weight was back by the time I sat down on the couch, covered in blankets, in leggings and a giant T-shirt. That familiar pressure always came back, even in my happiest of spaces. I found myself sleeping on the couch more often than not these days. I would wake up to sore muscles and the familiar throbbing in the back of my neck from uncomfortable sleep. Consequences of my own actions and all that.

But this was my safe space, I had made it all by myself. So I clicked on my television and scrolled till I found a movie in my collection that sounded good. I fell asleep like that. The only light illuminating the small living room was the ending credits before it eventually went into sleep mode after lack of use.

My alarm woke me up before the sunshine was wafting through the curtains, a soft piano melody that had been my alarm for over fourteen years. Keeping a routine was a vital part of my recovery as instructed from my long list of doctors and therapists, so my alarm went off at 5 a.m. every day. I put on workout clothes with my eyes half closed, walked into the kitchen, and pulled out a water bottle from the fridge. I reached over to the small fruit basket on the counter and found a banana to add to my tote bag for a post-workout snack before heading out to my yoga class a few blocks away. The soreness of my body was a constant reminder as I walked with my headphones. The start of a new racing season was ever looming. Not that I kept up much with racing anymore, but this week still haunted me every year. I remembered the nerves of a new season, staring at the traveling schedule in excitement, packing my bags and getting ready to jet to racetracks around the world or training in London. Now, life was always off-season. No more racing, no more braiding my hair back with bows and stuffing them under a balaclava and a helmet. I was seventeen when I left the racing world against my own will. A crash that changed everything, and a life spent training left behind.

The receptionist smiled at me as I walked into the studio. I placed my things down the same way I did every Tuesday morning, in the same cubby on the second row. I unrolled my mat and started stretching out my cold limbs. Yoga was something of another safe space for me. I tried to surround myself with safe spaces after I moved back.

Going from being an athlete to a former athlete was a weird shift, mentally and physically.

I couldn’t work out hard like I used to for a long time, and after a while, I didn’t want to. It all reminded me of what I had lost. Yoga, however, was something I had never done. Serena was the one who took me to my first class, swearing it was more meditative than anything. She said that I could eventually add harder classes if I wanted a true workout. But the light movement was good for my mental health, especially as my body recovered from a shattered leg and the aftermath of crashing a Formula Two car. Getting out of the house at all was a win back then. Some days, it still was. When I brought it up to my therapist, she was very encouraging. Any movement was good movement.

“Morning!” a soft voice greeted me. I opened my eyes to find familiar pink hair as Vera set her mat down next to mine.

“Morning,” I greeted back. I wasn’t very familiar with anyone in class, but every Tuesday, a girl about my age would set up her mat next to mine. She introduced herself on the first day as Vera, and we continued on like that: said hi every morning with some small talk, did our class together, then went our separate ways. It was oddly comforting. Something about Vera felt like she understood. She never pushed me to talk much, only offering small things here and there. I liked listening to her, and I tried my best to share when I had the energy. While she usually sat closest to the wall at one end of the studio, today another mat and a man three times her size covered in tattoos was next to her.

“Sorry, this is my family friend, Dante. He lost a bet to his brother after saying yoga isn’t that hard. Now here we are,” she giggled. Dante introduced himself and went back to trying to stretch out his legs. He looked like he should be in one of those bro gyms rather than a yoga studio. But I guess he was about to see just how much of a workout our class truly was.