Or worse—she'd tell him directly. Hand him my location wrapped in apologies and excuses about how she had no choice, how he'd promised to change, how families were supposed to forgive.
The rage choked me.
I locked the phone and shoved it back in my pocket so hard the corner dug into my hip.
She made her choice. I don't owe her anything. Not explanations. Not forgiveness. Not the chance to hurt me again.
The hallway felt too narrow suddenly, walls pressing close. I pushed through the nearest exit into cold air that bit through my jacket.
One hour.
I'd find somewhere public. Visible. Safe.
Somewhere he couldn't reach me even if he was already looking.
The gym appeared three blocks from the stadium—a small storefront wedged between a pawnshop and a laundromat, windows plastered with faded motivational quotes about strength and perseverance.
I almost walked past. Then the poster caught my eye.
SELF-DEFENSE CLASS — BEGINNERS WELCOME
Tuesdays & Thursdays, 6 PM
Something flickered in my chest. Small and fragile, but unmistakable.
Hope.
Or maybe just the desperate wish that I could stop feeling so goddamn helpless.
My feet carried me through the door before my brain caught up. The interior smelled like disinfectant and rubber mats—harsh fluorescent lights revealing a small space packed with equipment that had seen better decades. A handful of people worked out in the back corner, their grunts and the clang of weights oddly comforting.
Real. Normal. Safe.
The woman at the front desk looked up, smile immediate and genuine. Early thirties, athletic build, ponytail threaded through a baseball cap.
"Hey! Looking to join?"
"I—" My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "The self-defense class. Is there... do you need experience?"
"Nope! That's why it says beginners welcome." She tapped something on her computer screen. "Instructor's great. Former cop. Really focuses on practical stuff—how to get away, where to hit if you need to. No ego, just survival."
The spark in my chest flared hotter.
I could learn. I could be ready. Next time he comes at me, I wouldn't just freeze?—
"How do I sign up?"
"Just need to register for a gym membership." Her fingers flew across the keyboard. "Monthly is ninety-nine, but if you do the annual it drops to seventy a month, plus an enrollment fee?—"
The numbers crashed through me like ice water.
Seventy dollars. Every month. For a year.
Plus whatever "enrollment fee" meant.
I did the math automatically, brutal and immediate. That was groceries. Utilities. The buffer between making rent and being evicted.
That was impossible.
