Violet's Octagon
Автор
Michaela Castello
Прочтений
403K
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36
Paranoia
VIOLET
I left my office around ten o’clock.
Although the office space I rented was beautiful, it was located in a dodgy neighborhood full of old industrial buildings and narrow, dark alleys. I hated leaving work this late. My footsteps sounded too loud, and I kept pretending I wasn’t scared.
As if on cue, my paranoia kicked in when I noticed a man behind me. Surely he wasn’t really following me. He was just walking in the same direction. Right?
“Just keep walking, Vi,” I muttered under my breath.
As I walked past the run-down cars in front of the local tavern, I noticed another man coming toward me, his eyes fixed on me. I averted my gaze for a few seconds, then glanced back up, but he was still staring.
Panic rose in my chest and I clutched my purse tighter.
As he got closer, the man’s face cracked into a toothy smile, and I saw a shimmer in his eyes, like a predator about to pounce. My breath quickened, and I tilted my head to take a quick peek behind me. The other man was still just behind me and had almost caught up.
I had nowhere to run. We’d already passed the tavern, and there wasn’t anyone around.
A few more strides and he’d reach me. One, two, three…
“Hey, man, so good to see you!” The man behind me made me jump out of my skin as he spoke.
The one walking toward me went straight past, embraced him, and they hugged for a few seconds, unaware I’d nearly shrieked at full volume.
I exhaled, shutting my eyes for a breath.
I kept walking, faster now, toward my car. Holy crap. I definitely needed to find a way to calm my creative imagination down.
***
The next day went by a little quicker, thanks to back-to-back meetings all day. I mentally patted myself on the back when I left work at six, a reasonable hour by most standards.
I got home and decided to go for a run before the sun set. Pulling on my bright-pink shoes and running gear, I headed off in my usual direction. Creature of habit, I always jogged on the same path.
Twenty minutes in, I slowed my pace a bit, feeling winded.
As my eyes drifted up to a gray brick house across the street, I caught the owner hauling a bin to the curb. His back was broad, his shirt damp, a thin line of ink peeking over one shoulder.
He pivoted, and through my bobbing stride I got a look at his face: sharp jaw, striking eyes, unfairly handsome. He kept walking, I kept running, our gazes snagged for two…three beats, until—
Bang!
“Fuck, ow!” I ran into a stop sign and banged my elbow hard enough to make my eyes prickle. Too embarrassed to turn around and face the witness to this mortifying scene, I picked up the pace.
That was just like me—I shook my head and tried to pretend it never happened.
A minute or two later, I was standing on my porch, out of breath, and I opened my front door. I grabbed my mail and walked into my house.
I was flipping through mail on the console table when a card slipped out and skittered to the floor. Martial arts: everything from self-defense to MMA.
Octagon Gym. A yellow bubble mentioned, Free trial class.
Talk about the universe sending you a sign.
I was all for trying something I’d never tried before. I had been thinking of taking up yoga classes again, but I was ready to try something a little less…silent.
I already had a load of that when I came home to my empty house every night.
I picked up my phone. I knew they probably wouldn’t answer at this hour, but I wanted to leave a message, at least.
I’d learned with time that making a tiny commitment quickly can help in keeping the larger part of the commitment later. I’d have less chance of talking myself out of it.
I waited for the tone, twirling the card in my hand.
“Yeah?” a gruff voice answered.
“Oh, uh…hi! I was calling…about the free trial class? Is this…Octagon Gym?” I was still a little out of breath from my run and could barely say three words without panting.
“Yes, it is. Are you okay?” the deep voice asked.
I walked over to the kitchen and rested my elbows on the counter, hoping to catch my breath, but—“Ouch!” I got a painful reminder of my stop sign run-in.
“Sorry, I was just…out for a run, and I banged my elbow on a stop sign… Anyway.” Why had I just told a complete stranger about my embarrassing blunder?
There was a long silence on the other end, and I wondered if he’d hung up.
“Hello?”
“Y-yeah, um.” The man on the line cleared his throat, and his voice sounded a little softer. “What kind of classes would you like to try?”
“I was thinking of taking…whatever self-defense class you offer,” I answered hesitantly.
“Well, our self-defense class is just one lesson, so we don’t offer a free trial. I think the Krav Maga classes might be a better option. They’re great for women, and you’ll learn a lot more if you’re ready to invest a bit of time over the next few weeks.” His tone was soft yet authoritative. It was difficult to put into words, but it made my knees feel a little weak. Or maybe it was the run.
“Okay then, that sounds good to me.” My breathing was almost back to normal.
“Wednesday, seven p.m. Does that work for you? Just bring sportswear, a water bottle, and you’re good to go.” He paused. “What’s your name?”
“Yes, that’s perfect! My name is Violet. Violet Peterson.”
I set the card on the counter and wrote Wednesday, 7 p.m. on a sticky note, fat block letters I couldn’t ignore.
I stuck it to the doorframe so I’d see it every time I walked by, a tiny billboard yelling at Future Me to show up.
No excuses, Vi. Not this time.
“Nice talking to you, Violet. I’ll see you on Wednesday,” he said.
“Thanks, you too. Have a good evening.” And I ended the call with a buzzing feeling in my bones.
Suddenly, I couldn’t wait until Wednesday.
