I debated texting her, then decided I'd better do it before I lost my nerve and ruined our friendship.
hey, i'm off the grid for a bit. just needed to recharge. i'll hit you up when I'm back
Her reply came seconds later.
i thought you were ignoring me, bitch
The winking emoji made me smile.
I was in the middle of watching another set on my laptop—wrists locked, chin tucked, body turned—when the door rattled.
I spun, my fists still coiled tight in front me.
Seven was a dark shape on the threshold, nothing more. My pulse and my heartbeat went all crazy, even though I felt relief. He closed the door behind him and stood very still, bandana pulled up as always, eyesshadowed by the visor of a baseball cap. He wore the same jacket I saw him wearing when he'd left, but I could see a different shirt underneath, gray. His boots were muddy and he removed them before stepping further into the loft. Then he took off the gloves and tossed them on the table.
I tried for a greeting, "Hey. You're back."
He nodded once. "I'm going to shower," he said, walking toward the bathroom.
"Sure," I replied, as if this was normal. As if having a strange man who wouldn't show his face come and go in my life made any sense at all.
I heard the clunk of the lock, then the snap of the faucet. I stood frozen in the center of the room, listening to the sound of water hitting the tiles.
He was in there for less than ten minutes. I barely had time to collect myself and wipe the nervous sweat from my hands before he emerged again.
He'd changed into a black T-shirt and black sweatpants. His hair was damp and combed back. This made him look almost like a regular person if not for the bandana covering his mouth and jaw. He did move like a weapon rather than a human.
He walked over to the fridge, pulled out the remaining bread and turkey, and made a sandwich. As he sat down at the table without touching the food, he glanced at my laptop. He didn't comment while I tried to repeat the movement playing out in front of me. At least not for a few long moments. His eyes simply tracked me. Then he rose up from the chair, stepped over, and, without asking, folded my laptop closed.
I was about to object when he said, "You're never going to learn anything without a partner."
"You think I don't know that?" I scoffed.
"Attack me."
I laughed. "What?"
"Attack me." He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, hands loose at his sides.
I hesitated. I'd never laid hands on another person. Even now, the idea of grabbing his arm seemed idiotic, or worse—pointless. "You're injured." I motioned to his abdomen. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You think people chasing me care?" He shifted closer, shrinking the space between us to less than a foot. "You can't learn by just thinking about it," he said, voice clipped. "Come at me."
I did as he asked. I lunged forward and shoved him in the chest, trying to be mindful of his wound. It didn't work. He didn't even budge. He just stared at me over the bandana.
"Wrong," he said, his tone entirely professional. "You're still thinking like a civilian. Here." He reached out, fast but not rough, and took my arm in both of his hands. With the barest of effort, he spun me around, pinned my wrist behind my back, and then let go. "It's about leverage. Not force. Try again."
I squared up, focused on my grip, tried to remember the steps. Then I went for it again. This time, I twisted my hips like he'd shown me, jerked the thumb toward the gap, and tried to roll out from his grasp.
He was ready for it, but let me go. "Better," he said. "You learn fast."
I felt a strange sense of pride, even though it was clear he was only letting me succeed to teach the lesson.
He reset, squared his own shoulders, and said, "Next move. If someone grabs you by the throat."
He made a hand gesture, then, before I knew what was happening, his left hand was at my neck. Not squeezing, just holding, but the pressure was immediate and real.
I froze.
