Chapter 2
T hree days after the attack, I couldn’t shake the anxiety.
Every creak in the floorboards, every distant siren from the street below sent my heart racing.
I'd reinforced the door with a cheap security bar bought online with express shipping, but my dreams didn't care about the extra protection.
In my sleep, the hooded man still found me, his fingers still dug into my shoulder, and the tree trunk still slammed against my spine.
I'd slept maybe four hours total since that night, and it was taking its toll. My body ached for rest, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw the yellow teeth of my attacker grinning from beneath his hood.
Until the image shifted, blurring and transforming into something else entirely—Chad's face appearing from the darkness, his movements precise and controlled, his eyes scanning me for injuries.
The memory of his voice saying, "You're safe now" would momentarily chase away the nightmare, only for it to return when I drifted back to wakefulness.
I dragged myself from bed after another broken night and padded to the bathroom.
The woman in the mirror looked haunted—dark circles beneath her eyes, skin pale despite her natural olive tone.
I touched the fading bruise on my shoulder where my attacker's fingers had dug in.
The mark was yellowing now, almost gone.
My eyes fell on the cream-colored business card sitting on my nightstand.
I'd placed it there that first night, intending to call him the next day.
Three days later, I still hadn't worked up the courage.
My thumb had hovered over his number countless times, but something always held me back—a mixture of embarrassment, fear, and a feeling I couldn't quite name.
"Wake's Jujitsu Academy," I read aloud, my voice scratchy from disuse. The embossed black lettering felt expensive under my fingertips. I traced the handwritten number on the back, imagining Chad's fingers holding the pen, writing the digits out.
My phone buzzed with a reminder. Work in an hour. I couldn't call in sick again—I'd already missed a day after the attack, and I needed the money. Reality didn't stop for trauma.
At Glimmer Beauty Salon, Trina looked up from the reception desk as I walked in, her eyes widening. "Jesus, Dali, you look like shit," she said, her voice carrying across the salon floor.
"Thanks," I muttered, hanging my coat and heading for my station. I checked my schedule—Mrs. Henderson at nine, followed by three other regulars. At least I'd be busy.
Trina followed me, lowering her voice. "So is it true? You got attacked in the park?"
I froze, polish bottle in hand. "How did you—"
"Small town, honey. Marge's daughter's boyfriend works park security. Said some drunk tried to rob you."
Of course. News traveled fast in Oak Haven. I'd been hoping to avoid this, to slip back into my routine without the pitying looks and whispered conversations.
"I'm fine," I said, arranging my tools with unnecessary precision. "Nothing happened."
"I heard some guy beat the crap out of your attacker. Some kind of super hero?" Trina leaned closer, hunger for gossip overriding any concern for my wellbeing. "So, was he hot?"
The question caught me off guard. Was Chad hot? The word seemed so inadequate, so superficial for what he was. Powerful. Commanding. Protective.
"He was just . . . there at the right time," I said carefully.
Trina looked disappointed by my non-answer.
"You know, you should get into politics.
Well, in any case, thank God he was there.
I always said that park was sketchy after dark.
" She patted my arm in what I supposed was meant to be a comforting gesture.
"Maybe stick to the gym from now on, hon. Safer that way."
The suggestion stung, though I knew she meant well. Of course she thought I should go to the gym.
Mrs. Henderson arrived promptly at nine, settling into my chair with her usual air of entitlement. I braced myself for questions about the attack, but she seemed oblivious, launching instead into a story about her neighbor's awful new fence.
I worked on autopilot, filing her nails, applying the base coat, listening without really hearing. My mind kept drifting back to the card on my nightstand, to Chad's words: "Brave isn't something you are, Daliah. It's something you practice."
Was I practicing bravery, going back to work, pretending everything was normal? Or was I just hiding?
The day dragged on. By seven, my last client had left, and Trina was counting the register. "You can head out," she said. "I'll lock up."
Outside, the spring evening had turned chilly.
I pulled my coat tighter and began the three-block walk to my apartment, my pace quick, my eyes scanning my surroundings with new vigilance.
The streetlights cast long shadows that seemed to reach for me like grasping fingers.
Every person I passed became a potential threat—the businessman on his phone, the teenage girl with headphones, the dog walker with his golden retriever.
I hated this new fear, hated how it made me see danger everywhere. This wasn't living; it was surviving, and barely that.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't notice the group of men across the street until they called out.
"Hey, sweetheart! Nice ass!"
My steps faltered. There were four of them, lounging against a building, sharing what looked like a bottle in a paper bag. They weren't following me, weren't even on my side of the street. Just ordinary jerks being jerks.
"Why don't you come over here, let us see the front too?"
One of them made an obscene gesture that sent the others into laughter. My face burned with humiliation and something deeper—a raw, primal fear that had nothing to do with logic.
I quickened my pace, clutching my purse close to my body, my knuckles white around the strap. Their catcalls followed me down the block, each one hitting like a physical blow. By the time I reached my building, I was practically running, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I fumbled with my keys at the entrance, dropping them once before managing to get the door open. The safety of the lobby washed over me, but the relief was tainted by anger—at those men, at myself for being afraid, at the world for making this normal.
I took the elevator, too drained to face the stairs. Inside my apartment, I locked the door, then jammed the security bar under the knob—a ritual that had become second nature in just three days.
After a shower that couldn't quite wash away the crawling sensation on my skin, I sat on the edge of my bed, wrapped in my robe. My gaze fell once more on Chad's business card. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands, feeling the weight of the cardstock.
"Brave isn't something you are, Daliah. It's something you practice."
His voice had been so sure, so confident. Like he knew things about me that I didn't know myself.
There had been something in his tone, too—a note of command softened by care. That sense that someone stronger was watching over me, guiding me, expecting the best from me while protecting me from the worst.
Something stirred in me—a desire to be sheltered but not smothered, guided but not controlled, protected but still able to grow.
My fingers tightened around the card. Did I want self-defense lessons? Yes. But there was more to it than that. I wanted to feel safe again.
And deeper still, in a place I barely acknowledged even to myself, I wanted to see Chad again. Wanted to stand in the circle of his calm authority. Wanted to earn that look of quiet approval I'd glimpsed when he'd said, "First lesson's free."
The realization sent a flutter through my stomach that wasn't entirely fear. Something shifted inside me, a small but significant realignment, like a dislocated joint sliding back into place.
I placed the card back on my nightstand, but differently this time—not hidden under a book or tucked away, but prominently displayed where I'd see it first thing in the morning.
Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I would call. Tomorrow I would begin to practice being brave.
***
M orning arrived with unusual clarity. I woke before my alarm, the watery light of early Saturday filtering through my blinds, my mind already alert despite another night of broken sleep.
The business card sat on my nightstand where I'd left it, cream-colored against the dark wood, waiting with silent patience.
I grabbed the card and sat up, cross-legged on my rumpled sheets. The apartment was quiet, that special weekend stillness when the world seemed to move at half-speed.
My phone lay beside me, screen blank, innocent. I picked it up, then set it down again. Ridiculous. It was just a phone call. People made them every day. I wasn't asking for a date or a favor or anything complicated. Just information about classes.
So why did my stomach feel like I'd swallowed a handful of moths?
I forced myself out of bed and through my morning routine—teeth brushed, face washed, hair combed back into a ponytail. In the mirror, I looked marginally better than yesterday. The dark circles under my eyes had faded from purple to a softer mauve. Scant progress, but progress nonetheless.
Back in my bedroom, the card and phone waited for me.
"Just do it," I muttered to myself, channeling a lifetime of Nike commercials. "Just pick up the phone and call."
The clock on my nightstand read 8:27 AM. Was it too early to call on a Saturday? Did martial arts instructors keep regular hours? I had no idea.
I could wait until later. Maybe around noon . . .
No. If I put it off, I wouldn't do it at all. I knew myself too well.
Before I could reconsider, I punched in the number, my thumb moving with surprising steadiness despite the flutter in my chest. The phone felt slippery in my sweaty palm as I lifted it to my ear.
One ring. Two. I held my breath, half-hoping for voicemail.
"Wakes."