4. Zoey #2
A part of me wanted to resist, to insist I was capable of handling this alone. But the impact of George’s gaslighting and the magnitude of my fears was becoming overwhelming. Perhaps seeing a therapist was the best route to take to reclaim my identity.
“I’ll look into it,” I said.
“Good.” She squeezed my shoulder reassuringly. “Let’s find something that makes you feel strong and comfortable, okay?”
“Okay.”
After browsing through the store for a while, we made our purchases and left. My stomach was still in knots, and the idea of eating nauseated me, but Heather insisted we grab a light lunch in town.
“We need to fuel our bodies,” she told me, “but it should be something light. Anything heavy won’t be good for you before exercise.”
We went to a small café, where Heather ordered us grilled salmon with mixed greens, avocado, and a light vinaigrette.
She continued talking throughout the meal, providing a lively account of the people around us.
She and Sam knew everyone in Boldercrest, and she introduced me to anyone who approached our table to say hi to her.
Heather’s constant chatter kept my anxiety at bay, and to my surprise, my appetite returned.
We stayed at the café, sipping iced tea and talking, until it was time for the self-defense class.
We walked to the gym to warm up. The girl at the reception desk greeted us with a friendly smile and directed us to the ladies’ changing rooms. I was relieved to discover individual cubicles.
Being surrounded by these beautiful women who clearly weren’t strangers to the gym was enough to make anyone feel inadequate, and I had enough of my own struggles to navigate without adding to them.
I stepped into the gym, immediately feeling out of place. “Are we here to work out or for a fashion show?” I murmured to Heather, tugging at the hem of my oversized T-shirt.
My clothes draped loosely over my body, so different from the other women clad in skintight spandex that left little to the imagination.
I didn’t know shorts could be that short without being considered underwear.
Arms, legs, and midriffs exposed, they chatted amongst themselves, their laughter echoing off the walls, all so confident and carefree.
I told myself I wasn’t jealous, but it was challenging not to compare myself to them.
Heather and I found an area at the back of the room, far from the sea of bare skin and gleaming spandex.
I contemplated slipping out. In anticipation of that possibility, Heather had placed herself between me and the door.
As I leaned against the cold wall, the door swung open, and Noah Alexander stepped inside. His jawline was so striking, and the way he walked exuded a casual strength that left no mystery as to why he commanded so much attention.
A flurry of hushed tones and not-so-subtle glances passed through the crowd. I honestly thought I saw little heart emojis following him like a wave. They might as well have swooned as he walked past. Folding my arms tightly against my chest, I silently prayed for the class to be over.
“Typical,” I muttered to Heather. Without turning my head, I could feel the shift in the room’s atmosphere, as if the temperature was increasing by a degree or two with every dreamy sigh that filled the air.
Heather’s mischievous smile lit up her face as she tilted her head towards one girl who seemed more fit for the runway than a gym class.
Her gym attire resembled a bikini, and her hair and makeup were flawlessly done.
Heather leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Is a gym bunny still a bunny if she’s a wolf shifter? ”
I pressed my lips together, fighting back the laughter threatening to bubble up. It wasn’t funny, not really, but the predictability of it all bordered on ridiculous.
Noah’s presence was like a magnet, and here I was, miles away from the pull, grateful for the distance.
George had made sure I wouldn’t yearn for a man’s touch for a long time—if ever again.
The thought soured my stomach, but I shook it off, focusing instead on the reason I was there, which had nothing to do with Noah’s looks or how available or desirable he was.
I wanted to learn how to stand up for myself.
“All right, everyone, let’s get started,” Noah said, his no-nonsense attitude cutting through the fog of infatuation that had settled over the room. And though I wouldn’t admit it out loud, the seriousness in his tone was exactly what I needed to hear.
“Can we all take a moment to focus here?” Noah’s tone sliced through the chatter, bringing an abrupt silence to the room.
“Look, this is a self-defense class, not a fashion show. You need attire that allows you to move freely. Let’s get one thing straight,” he carried on, pacing before us.
“If you’re not serious about learning how to defend yourself, you should leave now. ”
Everyone in the room collectively held their breath, but nobody moved. Despite the tension, I knew this was exactly where I needed to be.
Noah clapped his hands once, a sharp sound that echoed through the gym. “Okay, then. Let’s start with some basic stretches.” He moved to demonstrate, and I watched intently, trying to mirror his posture.
I glanced sideways and caught the wide-eyed looks of surprise from a couple of women who clearly hadn’t expected such a sober start to class.
One even stumbled as she transitioned into the stance, her tight leggings hindering the movement.
I stifled a chuckle. By the end of the class, I bet they’d appreciate Noah’s point about the importance of practical clothing.
“Keep your head up, and make a note of your posture,” he corrected someone. That stern tone didn’t waver, nor did his patience thin. It was clear he took this seriously. It wasn’t just a job for him.
I glanced around. Nobody had left. Despite their initial reactions, everyone seemed to be settling into the rhythm of the class. Noah’s dedication, it seemed, was infectious.