Watts began his anxiety-dispelling opening speech, where he introduced himself, and then I bench-press three hundred pounds Ellsworth and me in his usual way: ‘This feeble-looking guy to my left is Sergeant Don, and the ugly one is Lucas, one of our parking enforcement officers.’ As everyone snickered, he praised them for giving up a Saturday morning to attend the session and then gave an outline of the three-week programme.
After fundamental principles were discussed, we moved to choreographed demonstrations of attacks and blocks, so the women could get an idea of the moves we would be teaching them. In slow motion, Ellsworth performed the hits and I defended as Watts detailed weak spots of the attacker – some obvious, like the groin, some not, like the middle of the forearm. He stressed the goal of the attacked: escape.
Everyone broke into pairs to practise individual moves, while the three of us circulated to make sure they were executed correctly. Not wanting to stress her out further, I let Ellsworth take Jacqueline’s side of the room, but her navy yoga pants and white T-shirt were continually in my peripheral vision. I watched for signs of distress all too common in survivor attendees. I knew which scenario would trigger memories of her particular assault, and I dreaded its approach.
Thanks to her friend, whose name was Erin, she did well with the hand strikes, yelling, No! with each one, as instructed, and grinning when she nailed the hammer strike block.
We finally came to the last defence move of the day. I couldn’t assess her reaction while we demonstrated it, but once the group broke into pairs again, her stiff posture, wide eyes and the shallow rise and fall of her chest were clear enough panic indicators. Erin held her hand as they spoke in low tones, heads together. Jacqueline shook her head but didn’t release her death grip on her friend’s hand. More murmuring ensued, and then they moved to the mat.
Erin lay on her stomach, and Jacqueline knelt over her. Her hands shook when performing the attack. Instead of trading places, they kept their positions and did the move twice more. Unable to take my eyes off them, I barely observed the pair I was supposed to be monitoring. When they switched places, I felt her panic from across the room and feared she might hyperventilate and pass out.
C’mon, Jacqueline, my mind urged. You can do this.
A surge of pride flowed through me when she went through the motions, pushing herself to perform them accurately despite her distress. As they rose to their knees afterwards, Erin praised and embraced her, and I breathed a sigh of relief, even if Jacqueline didn’t look in my direction in the last minutes of class or when she went out the door.
I didn’t want her fear, or my presence, to keep her from returning. I wanted to make sure that didn’t happen.
That night, before I could talk myself out of it, I texted her, asking if she still wanted to see the charcoal. She answered yes, so I told her to pull her hair back and wear something warm, and then I hopped on my Harley and went to get her.
Outside her dorm, I leaned on the bike and watched the door. People were coming and going all around me, but I couldn’t pay attention to any of them. When she emerged, I was struck again at our differences. I made enough money now to buy non-thrift-shop threads, but my style hadn’t changed much. This girl was a blend of classic and trendy but expensive clothes – they were a second skin she wore comfortably. She slowed, looking for me while buttoning a little black coat that could have come right out of a definitive 1960s film, the type my mother had loved.
It didn’t take her long to spot me.
Her step faltered and I wondered why. I wanted to sweep her up and kiss her as if there’d been no break since the last time I held her. I wanted to erase her friends’ designation for me – her bad-boy phase – an inconsequential segment of time between two sensible, valid stages: Kennedy Moore and whoever came next.
‘I guess this is the reason for the hair guidelines,’ she said, inspecting the helmet I handed her as if it was a complex, alien thing. She’d never been on a motorcycle before, a fact that sort of turned me on. Like I needed help with that.
She gazed up at me as I settled the helmet on her head, adjusting and fastening the straps. I lingered over the process, mentally devouring the sweet lips I could still taste and staring into her eyes, deep and blue as the open ocean.
The care I took on the drive over escaped her, I figured, since she buried her face in the middle of my back and held on to me round corners as if she’d be flung to Oklahoma otherwise – not that I’d ever complain.
By the time we arrived, her hands were freezing, so I took one and then the other between mine, gradually rubbing warmth back into them. I wondered how she played an instrument the size of an upright bass with such small hands, but I bit my lip just before voicing this aloud.
She’d only told Landon about the instrument she played.
Prolonging my guilt trip, she asked if my parents lived in the house on the other side of the yard. ‘No. I rent the apartment,’ I told her as we climbed the steps and I unlocked the door.
Francis didn’t appear impressed or concerned that I’d brought someone home with me. He merely stalked from the sofa to the door and out, as if giving me a few moments of privacy. Jacqueline laughed at what I’d named him, musing that he looked more like a Max or a King. I explained that my cat had enough of a superiority complex without me giving him a macho name.
‘Names are important,’ she said, unbuttoning her coat slowly.
A chill ran down my spine at her words and the possible dual meaning behind them, but it disappeared with the hypnotic draw of her small fingers, slipping buttons through buttonholes at a pace that mercifully drove everything else from my mind and affected my heart rate directly. When she finally released the lowest button, my patience was going up in flames. I slid my thumbs inside and along her shoulders, tugging the jacket gently down her arms.