Sometimes you end up living in that third act, content with an ever-after, even if it doesn’t come attached with the “happily” you always pictured.
I click over to Patton’s text, the three-letter message my friends believe is some grand romantic opening for asecond chance. But what they see—what theyhope—as another opportunity for love, I see as a temptation to walk a path I had already left behind.
It’s just as clear to me now as it was that evening in L.A. after the taekwondo championship. The night of almosts and maybes. The night of what-ifs and perhaps . . .
The night I remembered that some doors needed to stay closed, no matter how your heart begs for you to walk through them again.
But even now as I look down at my screen, some small traitorous part of me still flutters at the sight of his name. It’s a part that never quite accepted our ending—the dissolution of us—that’s always belonged to him. And though it took seven years to convince the rest of me that I made the right decision that night, I won’t deny there are days I still have to say those reasons out loud.
My dad and my girlfriends think I haven’t moved on, but they’re clearly not seeing all the ways I have. I’ve built a great life here, running a thriving salon, teaching kids an art I’m proud to pass on, and training my body until it’s practically a weapon. Not to mention that I regularly volunteer at the local homeless shelter, cutting hair for free.
I have friends who love me, a family who supports me, and a house where I might live alone, but at least I’m not living each day waiting . . .
For him to come home.
No, some paths are meant to be traveled once and then left behind.
My gaze flicks to the time on my phone before I place it into its designated sleeve inside my purse. Time to head to thedojangfor tonight’s charity spar.
I shift into drive, eyes on the road, and shove all thoughts of Patton’s three-letter lure from my mind.
three
nisha
In Life, In Love, And On The Mat
My feet find the familiar feel of the rubber mats, and my lungs fill with the scents of sweat, old sparring gear, and disinfectant. The scent composition might make someone else’s nose wrinkle, but it instantly puts me at ease.
Tonight’s charity spar has drawn quite the crowd with approximately twenty volunteers in comfortable clothes, chest guards, and headgear who look like extras on a low-budget remake ofGladiator.
They mill around with palpable nervous excitement, likely wondering if they’ll walk out of here on one or two legs. I suppose even knowing you’re in good hands, sparring against fifth and sixthdanblack belts, the idea of getting your ass handed to you in front of an entire audience doesn’t reduce the flow of adrenaline . . . or visible armpit stains.
Twice a year, mydojanghosts this charity spar, encouraging experienced martial artists from the community to spar its four instructors, including me, for a few controlled rounds. It’s our way of giving back to youth programs and spreading the word about our center, while offering people a chance to go toe-to-toe with a black belt in a safe environment. In the past sevenyears I’ve been a part of thisdojang, it’s become one of our most anticipated events.
“Good evening, everyone! I’m Nisha Arora, but here you can refer to me asSabumnimArora, which is the Korean title for instructor,” I call out, sweeping my gaze around the room to the various new faces. “Remember, sparring is about form, technique, and control, not ego. We’re here to raise money for foster families around the Bay Area, not to end up in the emergency room.”
A few chuckles ripple across the crowd, and a soft laugh escapes Micah’s lips to my left. I don’t have to look at him to know his eyes are pinned on me.
“As a reminder,” he says, stepping forward and addressing the crowd with an easy confidence. His English accent has some of the ladies in the room raising an interested brow. “We’ll be breaking out into rotations where you’ll get two-minute rounds with each instructor, orsabum. We’ll be using the World Taekwondo rules and scoring system. Remember, you only score with legal techniques, so keep your head-butts and elbow strikes for your next Black Friday shopping spree.”
His comment earns him more confident chuckles, and his eyes light up when he catches the smile I’ve turned his way. But my smile falters when I see the spark of hope once again reflecting inside his irises.
Micah’s not a bad guy—a little socially oblivious and gossipy, but he’s also funny and confident. Perhaps a little overconfident.
We dated for a few months a couple of years ago. Let me rephrase: we fell into a pattern of going out to dinner after class, then falling into bed. Soon enough, however, I realized that was all it was, a sort of Netflix and chill without the Netflix.
Which would have been fine if his bedroom game was as impressive as his roundhouse kick.
Don’t get me wrong, Micah was plenty enthusiastic, pummeling me like he was trying to exorcise a demon and rolling his hips like Shakira’s backup dancer. But, unfortunately for me—and him—he was like an English Springer Spaniel. Tail wagging, he’d eagerly bound off to fetch a stick but would, disappointingly, always come back with a dried leaf.
I suppose that’s not completely on him, either, considering no one’s bedroom game has been up to par since . . . well, sincehim. The man who no longer has space in my mind and the only man for whom I didn’t have to put on a Broadway-worthy performance just to convince him—and myself—that “yes, that’s the spot” when it absolutely wasn’t.
I thought Micah and I were on the same page when I put the brakes on the “chill” part of our arrangement, but judging by the way he’s looking at me, it seems I misunderstood.
Clearing his throat, Micah addresses the crowd once more. “If you happen to deliver a legal knockout technique that hinders your opponent from continuing, you’ll automatically win by knockout. Any questions?”
My gaze sweeps the room again, taking account of the shaking heads, the determined set of shoulders, and the shuffling feet. And then?—
