Her smile finally cracks, and all the sunshine drains out until she just looks tired. Small. "I don't."
"That guy was sexually harassing you. The late one disrupted everyone and cost you teaching time. The lady’s card declined and you just wrote it off like it was nothing. You apologized twelve times in the past hour for things that weren't your fault."
She deflates completely, shoulders curving inward. "I'm just trying to be nice."
"Nice is going to bankrupt you, sweetheart." I gesture toward the desk where I saw the late payment notice she tried to hidebehind a stack of folders. "When's the last time you actually got paid by everyone in that class?"
Her eyes go wide with panic. "You can't tell anyone about that!"
"You need help. Not financial help. You need someone to teach you how to say no. Set boundaries. Stand up for yourself."
"And you're volunteering?" The question comes out more challenging than she probably meant it, and I can see there's some spine in her after all.
The words surprise us both, but looking at this tiny ball of anxiety and people-pleasing, thinking about how my buddies forced me here to fix my broken body... maybe we can help each other.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "Maybe I am."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war happening behind those blue eyes. She wants help, afraid to accept it, not sure if she can trust this grumpy stranger who just called her out on all her bullshit.
"Why would you do that?" she finally asks.
Good question. Why would I?
Because she reminds me of every private I ever trained who was too soft for the Corps but had potential underneath. Because her studio smells like flowers instead of whiskey and pain. Because my back feels better than it has in months and I'm already thinking about tomorrow's pain levels. Because she needs someone to protect her from herself, and I need someone to focus on besides my own broken pieces.
"Because I'm apparently a masochist who enjoys hippie bullshit," I say instead. "And because that class actually helped. So I'll be back. Three times a week, like the guys said. But if I'm suffering through this, you're going to stop being a doormat. Deal?"
She bites her lip, considering, then nods slowly. "Deal. But I don't know how to change."
"That's what I'm here for." I head for the door, then pause with my hand on the frame. "Same time Wednesday?"
"Wednesday's at 6 PM. Evening class."
"I'll be here. And Lilah?" I look back at her over my shoulder. "Next time someone makes a comment about your ass, you kick him out. Immediately. No second chances."
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "But he's a paying client."
"Is he though? Or is he another one who 'forgets' their wallet?"
She flushes. Busted.
"Wednesday," I repeat. "And send Kevin an email tonight telling him he's no longer welcome. If you can't do it, forward me his contact info. I will."
I leave before she can argue, before I can change my mind, before I can think too hard about what I just agreed to.
My phone buzzes before I'm even in my truck.
Marshall:How'd it go?
Me:I hate you all.
Marshall:So you're going back?
Me:Wednesday.
Marshall:Knew it. You're welcome.
But I'm smiling slightly as I drive home, and my back isn't screaming for the first time in weeks. Maybe the guys aren't complete assholes after all.
