Chapter Eleven - Ryder #2
Amy shakes her head. “That man is everyone’s type. I mean, come on, just look at him! And think about what a great stepdad he’d make.”
“I’m not looking for something right now. Lyla is in a tough spot, and she’s my focus.”
“Just don’t forget to focus on yourself, too,” Carol coos. “I mean, you have needs.”
Is this how all women talk to people they’ve just met?
Besides, they’re having this conversation within my earshot as if I’m not her… her what? I’m not Rachel’s anything. I have no claim over her that would warrant avoiding the topic of relationships.
I push off the wall, heading to the front counter without another look in their direction. I fold my hands at the front desk, smiling politely to Elizabeth.
“How can I help you?”
“Can I get some more information on the program?”
“Of course!” She nods, clicking through some screens on her computer, then nodding in Rachel’s direction. “Would you like your wife to join us?”
The correction is on the tip of my tongue.
It’s an easy mistake to make, a simple, understandable mishap, but when I look over my shoulder to where Rachel sits among the desperate housewives of Sacramento, the urge to correct Elizabeth’s assumption is nonexistent.
In fact, it sends a feeling of satisfaction through my chest, and I can feel my smile warming to a genuine one.
“It’s all right,” I tell her, sending one last, admittedly hopeful look to Rachel before turning to the counter again. “I’ll catch her up later.”
“Ready?” I ask, standing at the back door with Lyla in one arm and two water bottles in my other.
“Define ready,” Rachel mutters, walking into view wearing shorts and a loose shirt. Her hair is braided back on either side of her shoulders, and she’s wearing a pair of tennis shoes that are so old I remember them from before she was pregnant.
I make a mental note to get her new ones.
“Willing to give this a try even though you don’t want to,” I say in a way of definition.
She rolls her eyes. “Let’s get this over with.”
I lower my body so Lyla can open the back door for us, which she does with a giggle. Rachel murmurs something behind me but follows us outside nonetheless.
We spend the first fifteen minutes stretching, and Lyla enthusiastically joins us. She performs her own version of each stretch, and it’s the only thing easing the tension between her mother and me.
I realize—with a pang of bitterness—that this is the first time the three of us have spent any real time together since I moved in. Most of the time, Rachel is all too happy to pretend I still live hundreds of miles away.
By the time we’ve finished stretching, Lyla has lost interest and gone to the playhouse with a few of her dolls.
So much for family time.
We start the workout from there with a series of push-ups, sit-ups, and squats, which increase in repetition with each round. When we finish that, I grab my equipment bag from the pool house and return to where Rachel is lying on her mat, staring up at the sky as she catches her breath.
“I haven’t had a good workout in weeks,” she huffs when I stride toward her.
“And we’ve only just started.” I take two jump ropes from the bag and toss one to her.
She looks between me and the rope with open distaste. “Aren’t these for kids?”
I hold out my hand, which she takes with a groan as she stands.
“No, they’re not for kids,” I say as I set a timer on my smartwatch for our reps. “We’re going for endurance, not speed, so pace yourself.”
The next hour consists of jumping rope, planks, and sprints. We’re both dripping with sweat and chasing our breath when Rachel narrows her eyes at me.
“I thought we were going to learn self-defense. I could’ve gone to the gym if we were just going to work out.” She takes a long gulp of water, then tosses the bottle aside when it’s empty.
“If your endurance wasn’t so impressive, we would’ve started by now.”
“What do you mean?” she asks, taking my water bottle and finishing it off, too.
“Now that you’re finally tired, we can actually start training.”
She pushes her head forward, like she needs to be closer to hear me better, and blinks with dramatized timing. “I’m sorry, I could’ve sworn you just implied that we’re just now starting your self-defense lesson.”
“We are.”
“You must be out of your mind. I am exhausted. There’s no way I can do anything else.”
“Trust me, you can,” I tell her, taking the water bottles to the pool house to refill them.
When I return, Rachel is glaring at me—and I’m starting to wonder if that’s just her default reaction to seeing me.
“I’m going to pull a muscle or something. Isn’t it dangerous to over-exert yourself when working out?”
I hand Rachel her water bottle and grab two shield-shaped pads from the equipment bag.
“We’re not working out anymore. Besides, you’re in shape and can handle pushing your limits.”
“Oh, right, because you know my limits so well,” she says with an eye roll that might as well have been audible.
“As a matter of fact—”
She lifts a hand. “Make a comment, and I swear I’ll punch you.”
I suppress my smile and secure a pad over each hand. “As it happens, that’s up next.”
“Getting to punch you?” Rachel asks with a bit too much excitement.
“The pads.”
I don’t miss how her shoulders sag in disappointment.
I hold up the pads, instructing her on a simple jab and cross combo to start. Once she’s done that a few times, I add hook punches, then uppercuts. We do the combination over and over again, and finally, I add a knee strike to the end.
We try out a few more combinations, mixing in some ducks and blocks when I swing the pad at her head and body.
Her movements are smooth, graceful even, and there’s a part of me that’s proud to see her doing so well.
If her concentrated squint and curled lips are any indication, she seems to be enjoying the drills, too, despite her initial hesitation.
When she leans over her knees to catch her breath, I throw the pads aside.
“Finally done?”
“Not quite,” I tell her, and she groans again, looking over to where Lyla is half-asleep, watching a movie on her tablet while lying in the playhouse.
“We’re going to go over a few scenarios. We won’t drill them like everything else, but I want to go over them briefly at the very least.”
“Scenarios?”
“The most statistically likely self-defense-related situations you could end up in.”
If she’d warmed up to the idea of self-defense at all in the last hour, it’s gone now. The rigid wariness snaps back into her posture like a rubber band.
We’ve officially reached the end of Rachel’s comfort zone, but unfortunately for her, the capability and confidence she needs lie well beyond the limits of comfort.
“I think we’ve done enough for today.”
“You can handle it,” I tell her, knowing it’s true even if she doesn’t believe it. “We’ll start with a simple wrist grab, then move to a shoulder grab.” She doesn’t react beyond her cautious expression, so I press on. “After that, we’ll try a hook punch attack, then a grab from behind.”
The last suggestion makes her stiffen, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.
Her head shakes absently, and a distant look glosses over her eyes. She’s going back there—to the memories that are tormenting her and preventing her from moving on.
Sorry, Rebel. I can’t let you go there alone.
She’s gazing more through me than at me, which is why she doesn’t react to what I pull out of the equipment bag until I’m standing directly in front of her, holding the plastic knife at my side.
From any distance, the shiny silver could make the blade look real, but even though she’s close enough to see the scuffed-up plastic that proves it fake, Rachel still holds her breath like she’s staring into certain death.
She takes a small step back. “No.”
“No?”
“No,” she repeats, firmer this time.
“Why?”
Her eyes never leave the weapon, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess where her apprehension stems from. After all, I’ve watched her avoid the utensil at every meal we’ve had together. “They had knives when they took you?”
She doesn’t say anything or even look up, but the sinking in her brow is confirmation enough.
“How did it feel?”
Rachel finally looks up at me, and though her eyes narrow in surprise, they’re still covered by that glossy haze.
“How did it feel?” I ask, slower this time. “When they came into your home and held you at knife-point?”
Rachel’s mouth tightens as she tries to step past me to get to the house, but I block her path.
“How did it feel when you saw them hold a knife to our child?”
I barely hear the strangled whimper that she tries to suppress, which is in contrast to her distant, frosty expression and tells me that I’m getting closer.
“How did it feel when you watched as they sliced her arm open?”
“Shut up, Ryder,” she grates, shoving at my chest, but I don’t relent.
She’s still being held in that grip of fear.
“How did it feel, Rachel? When they took you and Lyla, then locked you up?”
“It was hell,” she bites out, and I watch the exact moment her eyes spark with a fiery passion that brings her back to the present.
“It was the purest, most absolute form of hell to be unable to help the one person who I have dedicated my life to protecting. I felt hopeless and worthless and like nothing could ever make up for what a horrible mother I am.”
She shoves me again and scoops Lyla up from where she sleeps in the playhouse before storming inside.
I don’t follow them.
I’ll let Rachel come to me once she’s had time to cool off. I’ll explain that I’d rather she be mad at me than lost in the memories that hold her hostage. She’ll be too busy fuming to remember how that day stormed into her consciousness and tried to drag her into reliving them.
The same blazing passion that had her yelling at me is exactly what she needs to fight through those moments—even if pushing her to that point makes her hate me.
I’ll gladly be Rachel’s villain if it means saving her.