by DM Davis
The smile that lights up her face makes me feel like I could run my 10K in a minute flat. I kiss our joined hands and reluctantly let her go as I line up with the other runners.
Remaining behind the barrier, she keeps up with me. “Good luck.”
“You too. You’ve got this.” I don’t know why I tell her that. I assume since she’s doing the 5K, that she doesn’t do this very often.
“I’ve got this,” she whispers, confirming she needed to hear it.
The gun goes off. Runners all around me take off, and on reflex I start to jog. I look back in a moment of panic but ease when I see her running beside me with the barrier still between us, darting around spectators. “I’ll meet you at the finish. I’ll be there. I promise.”
She nods and slows. I don’t miss the worry on her face.
“I’ve got your number now. I’m not losing you. I’ll be there.”
She holds up her piece of paper with my name and number on it. “I’ll see you there.”
“I’ll see you there,” I repeat. Nothing could keep me away.
What am I doing? I shouldn’t be here.
My nerves and pure adrenaline had me finishing my race in record time. Not that my time really matters. I ran to raise money for local women’s shelters, not to qualify for additional events. This was a one-time deal. Probably. I could do it again for charity, but I don’t see it going much further than that. Running doesn’t do it for me. I’ve never hit that runner’s high I keep hearing about. Perhaps I don’t run long enough to reach that peak, or I’m just not built that way.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt off-center—not normal. Things affect me differently. Always have. I’m a bit broken. I think too much. I feel too much. I’m entirely too emotional, I’ve been told. I relate to everyone, yet fit in nowhere. My fantasy life is more active than my real life. And since last year, my disconnection has only grown. But I’m most disjointed when it comes to men. I fall hard. I fall fast—way too fast—and always for men who are unattainable.
Ms. Unrequited should be my name. It’s all too fitting.
I stare at my reflection in the water, trying to tame my hair, but it’s no use. Curls have broken free and swirl in wet ringlets around my face and neck.
God, what am I doing here?
One minute I’m thinking about Mr. Dark and Dreamy, fantasizing about how it could be between us. The next, I’m scolding myself for allowing such thoughts to take seed. Then I’m running into him at a happy hour, elated to see him again, only to have my hopes dashed by his indifference in the end. And today, he charged at me like I’m a prized possession he thought he lost and then happily found.
The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster for sure, and I’m teetering on the edge, unsure if I should get off or buckle up and hold on for dear life.
I suppose, as I scan the impressive crowd around the finish line, I’m leaning more toward buckling up and taking the ride for all it’s worth. But the option to bail still weighs heavy on the scale.
Having not studied the routes of the other races, I didn’t realize until I crossed the finish line that the 10K participants wouldn’t cross until after most of the 5K runners. I figured since they started before we did and were likely in better shape, they would finish first. I was wrong.
As I sip my second bottled water, I watch the 10K racers come in. The crowd’s cheers rise to near deafening proportions. I back up onto a hill to get a better sightline, my legs not thanking me one bit. I scan those coming in and those in the distance to see if I can spot Theo. My heart hammers against my chest with each passing moment and with each runner who crosses the finish. Slowly the number of runners dwindles to a trickle.
Where is he?
Besides the fact that I fear he may have changed his mind, I worry that something has happened. Even if he didn’t want to meet me, he would still finish the race. Wouldn’t he?
I sit on the hill. Waiting. As the mid-afternoon sun begins its decline, so does my faith that he’s coming. There’s still one more set of racers to come in, but the 10K leg is long over. It’s time to go home. It’s time to put these fantasies to bed and live in the real world, a world where men like Theo don’t fall for women like me—women who are damaged with too many curves.
My sore body rebels as I stand and stretch. I make my way down the hill, weaving through the remaining crowd of spectators, runners, and news crews here to catch the last of the winners as they cross the finish.
“Hey!” I hear over my shoulder. I glance back, but it’s not Theo or any voice I recognize.
“Hey! It's you!” A man points in my direction, his voice obnoxiously loud, drawing attention from those around him.
I look around, trying to determine who he’s talking to. It can’t be me. I don’t know him.
“You're that woman from the news.” He steps closer. “The one who was attacked. I saw you on TV.”
“No.” Oh, God. No. He continues moving in my direction. Faces around him begin bouncing between the two of us. One of the news cameramen takes notice.
I back up, looking for the quickest escape route.
Before I can gather my wits, his hand wraps around my wrist. “It’s you. Isn’t it?”
His hand burns my skin with tainted memories. My vision goes dark, and I suck in air, not able to get enough.
“Don’t touch me!” I sound like a lunatic even to my ears as I twist out of his grasp.
He continues to advance. His lips are moving, but I don’t hear him over the static in my ears and the fear racing through my bloodstream.
I turn and run. Run as fast as I can. Faster than I should be able to after running a 5K. His voice fades away the closer I get to my car. My escape.
I don’t remember pulling the key fob out of the pocket in my bra, starting the car, or pulling onto the highway. I barely remember unlocking my apartment door, locking it behind me and setting the security alarm. It isn’t until I sink into the hot bathtub to soak my weary body that I take my first full breath.
I focus on breathing—in and out—calming my body—in and out—clearing my mind—in and out.
As the tension leaves, I sink lower, floating.
Floating weightless.
Floating untethered.
Floating away.
Away.
Away.
I FIND SILVY IN THE CAFETERIA at our usual table. “Hey, I thought I might find you in here.” I set down my lunch and take the seat beside her.
“Yeah, I’m avoiding my boss. He’s got a stick up his ass or something. I thought eating lunch in here was safer than at my desk.”
“What’s going on with Jason?” Her boss is usually a sweetheart.
She leans in. “Rumor has it his wife left him.”
“Oh, no. No wonder he’s messed up.”
“I know. They were such a great couple.” She shrugs. “Maybe it’s not true.”
“We can hope.”
I unpack my lunch of uninspired leftovers. The food tastes like nothing and looks even less appealing. Not that there’s anything wrong with the food; it’s just that my appetite has been nonexistent since the race.
“Any progress on finding your mystery guy?” She’s all too eagerly awaiting my response.
Sometimes I wish Silvy’s zest for life would go take a flying leap. She makes me feel even more down in comparison to her never-ending stream of hope and positivity. She grabs life by the balls—without apology, without regret—and rides the hell out of it.
I want to be like her when I grow up. Though we’re the same age, I aspire to find the well of light she has inside her.
“Progress? I’m not looking for him, Silvy. And he obviously decided I’m not worth the effort.”
“Stop. That’s not true,” she chides.
Oh, but it is. If she only knew.
“You said yourself, maybe something happened. He didn’t even cross the finish line. He could be injured, hobbling around right now, pining over wh
y you didn’t meet him. Maybe he thinks you stood him up.”
“He has my number. He could have called.”
“He could’ve lost your number like you lost his.” She waves her hand in the air. “What idiots write their phone numbers on a piece of paper—in pencil, I might add—then go run miles and sweat all over said pieces of paper?” She waits like she really wants a response.
“Apparently, we do.” I never did find my piece of paper with Theo’s number on it. I assume I lost it in my haste to get to my car and escape the guy and the growing interest from the crowd as he continued to shout for all to hear. I never told Silvy about that little encounter.
“It wasn’t meant to be.” I take a bite of pasta, hoping she’ll drop it.
“I don’t believe that.” Her face lights up. “Promise me this…if you run into him again, you won’t run. You will stand there—put his name and number in your phone—and make plans to see each other again.”
“What? No. I can’t promise you that.”
“Yes, you can. And you will.” She sets down her sandwich. “Look. I know you’re scared. And you have every right to be. But the universe is trying to tell you something. You’ve met the same guy three times now. I rarely run into anyone I know, much less the same stranger over and over again. It means something, Lauren. Mark my words—you will see him again.”
I smile at her certainty and reverent tone. “Okay, I promise.” It’s not like it’s going to happen.
“Good.” A quick nod and she changes topics. “So, about tonight. Are you nervous?”
“Terrified.” I’ve avoided thinking about it all day. I even allowed myself to think about Theo as a means to distract my worrying.
“Don’t be. The guy who runs the class seems really nice.”
“Yeah?”
“I bet he’s hot too.”
I laugh. “Silvy, you think every guy is hot.” Not quite true, but she finds the good in everyone, and her tastes are wide-ranging.
“Not everyone. I don’t think Jason is hot.”
“He’s your boss.”
“I think your boss is hot.”
That’s because Tyler is hot. Crazy hot.
“And you think your boss is hot,” she continues.
I do. “No, I don’t.” Tyler is in the unavailable, unattainable, off-limits category of hot. Like Theo.
“We’re getting off point here. I think the instructor is hot. You might meet your new Mr. Dark and Dreamy and fall madly in love.”
“When did you talk to him?” I’m curious since she hasn’t mentioned him before.
“Talk? I haven’t actually talked to him, but I can tell from his emails he’s hot.” She’s entirely serious.
“You’re certifiable. You’re like a guy, thinking with the head between his legs instead of the one on his shoulders.”
She chokes on her drink, covering her mouth as she cycles through laughing, choking, and coughing. After she’s recovered, she simply beams at me. “My vajayjay has very good taste. I trust her implicitly.”
“Yes, your vajayjay gets around,” I tease.
“Hey, I can’t help it if you’re closed for shopping down there. I, on the other hand, am open for business.” Her arms spread out wide, looking around the room as if to advertise her availability.
We laugh for what seems like hours. I relish the sweet release of tension, leaving me relaxed with my nerves reset.
“You never know, he may be the one.” The awe in her voice gives me pause.
But I can’t give in to her fantasies. I have enough of my own I’m trying to squash. “Yeah, I’m gonna meet the man of my dreams in a self-defense class, dealing with my worst nightmare. I don’t think so. Besides, didn’t you just ask me to be open to finding Theo again?”
“Yes, I did, but be open to this guy too. You never know,” she urges.
“You never know,” I agree. “I never dreamed I’d be the victim of an assault. I guess stranger things have happened than falling in love with the guy teaching me to kick ass.”
I arrive early at Simon’s dojo to set up and get the paperwork ready. The first class of a new session always takes longer before we get into the actual teaching because the students need to fill out forms and pay.
Simon still has one class in progress, but it will end before mine begins. Unless Simon adds an additional class to his already packed schedule, we will be alone here during my class time, 7:00 to 9:00 pm on Wednesdays and Fridays, for the next six weeks. It’s perfect. It allows my students, who will most likely be beginners, to relax without being intimidated by experienced students. It’s less pressure on them.
I have thirty minutes before class begins, though I’m sure a few students will arrive early, the eager ones. Brian, my second instructor, is arranging the rooms, getting things set up. He’s a good guy, strong and agile as a cougar, likeable and easygoing. We’ve worked together for a few years now. We make a good team. He’ll welcome the early arrivals while I focus on my mental preparation.
Silently, I walk through my opening remarks in the back room, getting my head in the right space. This is different than my teaching style at university. I need to be firm, confident, in control, yet open and engaging. These students need to feel safe and welcomed, not lectured to, and definitely not judged for whatever reason brings them to class today.
I try to keep my focus on the task at hand, but since mucking up my third meeting with Lauren, she’s never far from my mind. I don’t know how I’ll find her again. All I have is her name. Thus far, my internet searches have left me empty-handed. Not so much as a social media account, networking site, or even those sites that promise to provide people matching your search for a nominal fee. Everyone has some sort of digital footprint—except Lauren.
It’s like she doesn’t really exist.
I haven’t been this preoccupied with a woman in a very long time, if ever. She is important. I know it to the core of my being.
I need to find her. As if on cue to taunt me, my right knee aches. The stitches from my tumble itch, ready to be removed. Only a few more days and all that will remain of my third missed opportunity with Lauren is a scar and the phantom pains of losing her—again.
The front door chimes, alerting me that students have probably started to arrive. I visit the loo before heading to the reception area to help Brian welcome our class.
As I make my way, I note five people already working on the paperwork and processing payments with Brian. There are three women and two guys. It’s a good mix thus far.
The door chimes again. I turn to see a petite woman with brown hair holding the door open. I move closer, my hand outstretched, a smile on my face, and a welcome on the tip of my tongue. But as I open my mouth, my world freezes. My voice is lost. My breath halts. My step stutters to a stop. My brain jams into overdrive trying to comprehend what I see in front of me, rather, who I see standing behind the brown-haired bird.
With tremendous effort I croak the only word I can form, “Lauren.”
How is this possible?
I latch on to Silvy’s arm as she pulls me inside, my progress stilted at the sound of my name on his lips—in his deep, rich, British timbre.
“Theo,” I manage around the tightness in my throat, my body so excited to see him—to be seen by him—that all cylinders stop churning.
“Theo?” Silvy stares at me, apparently as shocked as I am.
I can only nod.
“As in Theo, Theo?” she clarifies, as if I know other Theos.
My head bobs again.
“Holy shit.” She looks between the two of us.
Yes, yes, holy shit. Still unable to form words, I stare at the beautiful man in front of me as he introduces himself to Silvy, directs her to some guy behind the reception desk, and then takes my hand.
“Come with me,” he rasps, pulling me along, glancing at me briefly—all too briefly—for me to surmise if he’s happy or disappointed to see me again.
Maybe
he’s mad that he thinks I stood him up?
At the back of the gym, he opens a door, flicks on the light, and stands back, allowing me to enter before him.
I stop in the middle of what seems to be an employee lounge and storage room. The click of the door has me spinning around and coming face to face with the man I’ve thought about entirely too much, and yet not nearly enough.
He closes the distance between us in two strides, his hand capturing my cheek as his arm snakes around my waist. “Bloody hell, I’m happy to see you.”
I gasp. My elation at his joy to see me breaks through my nerves and stupefied surprise. “You are?”
“Fuck, yes.” His thumb caresses my bottom lip. “You have no idea.” His warm, soulful eyes flit between mine and my lips.
Is he going to kiss me?
He wets his lips, leaning in. His breath sweeps across my mouth as he hovers. “I assume you’re here for the class.” His eyes close, and he presses his forehead to mine. “Please tell me you’re here for my class.”
His class? “Yes, I’m here for the self-defense class.” I lean back. “Your class?”
His wolfish grin has my heart thumping harder. “Yes, my class.”
“You’re the self-defense instructor?” I clarify.
“Yes.” His hand on my cheek skates feathery-soft along my arm and down to my hand, capturing it in his. “Is that a problem?”
“No…I’m…surprised. I didn’t picture you as a self-defense instructor.” I think of the first time I saw him in his suit and overcoat, looking every inch the professional I believed him to be.
“I wear many hats. At the moment, I’m your self-defense instructor. Later—” He squeezes my hand. “I hope to be something else entirely.”
Holy moly, my thundering heart just dropped to the floor.
He steps impossibly closer. His lips graze my cheek on the way to my ear. “Tell me I can see you later, after class. We have much to discuss.”
“Yes,” I squeak and want to kick myself for sounding like such a mouse.
