She could see her body changing before her eyes. She had tried to stay in shape through her two pregnancies, always back at a barre or spin class within six weeks of delivering. But this was different. She could see the definition forming in her shoulders, the ropy muscles on her back. She almost looked like a different woman.
Myra’s training had given her a feeling of power she had never imagined. Unleashed something inside her that had been dormant. And just as important, it had given her a place to direct her anger. She wanted to pound the speed bag into oblivion. To put every ounce of her strength into every single punch during sparring sessions. But one thing Myra had taught her was that strength only mattered when controlled. Anger uncontrolled was useless. A bull let loose on a raft would drown.
“Think of anger like a bottle of seltzer that’s been shaken up,” Myra had said to the class early on. “You twist the cap, the liquid spurts everywhere, and you end up a soaking mess. Each of you is that liquid inside the bottle right now. Dying to get out. Pushing to get out. But you’re only at your best when controlled. Open the cap slowly. Let some out—but not all. And then close it before it overwhelms you. Learn to control your anger, and you’ll be capable of great things.”
And Rachel could feel it. The anger welled up inside her almost constantly. She liked Myra’s seltzer analogy, but there was just one problem. Eventually, the carbonation in the seltzer would subside. Eventually, it would be safe to open and pour. But Rachel could spend hours at the gym working the bags, practicing self-defense and attack techniques, hauling kettlebells until she couldn’t raise her arms above her head. She would go home, exhausted, barely able to lift a pan to cook dinner. And yet she would wake up the next morning with the anger still there. The bottle shaken up all over again.
What did you do when the anger never went away?
The truth was, when Rachel left class at night, she was at a loss. Everything felt unfamiliar. The world as she knew it had ceased to exist, and she didn’t know how to live in the new one. Her children were her dock. When she was home, she fed them and clothed them and bathed them and nurtured them. When she was home with them, she had a purpose. But when she was away from them, she felt unmoored.
She presumed that was why she spent hours on end battering speed bags and heavy bags, lifting weights that, several years ago, would have seemed too heavy to even consider. It was why when, after her children went to bed, she read every book she could find to understand the world and how it worked. She was soaking up knowledge: physical and mental. At first, because she wanted to understand what had happened to her husband. To understand the system. But now, it was beyond that. She wanted to understand everything.
About him.
Harwood Greene.
The man who’d torn their life to pieces and walked away with his own intact.
She searched the books, threw the weights around, looking for an answer that even she knew she would probably never find.
Each training class with Myra was three hours long, broken up by a fifteen-minute water break. After the first session, Myra had bestowed upon Rachel the moniker of “shin-kicker.” Rachel had smiled and then retched into a bucket. By the end of the third hour, she’d felt like her insides were liquefying. Now that fifteen-minute break was simply an annoyance. Breaks were for soft people. And she was granite.
Sometimes Myra would stay after class to work out on her own. One night, Rachel had gathered up the courage to ask Myra if she could stay late and work out alongside her. Myra obliged. They pounded the heavy bag until their arms were numb, did burpees until their legs wobbled. Rachel felt only a modicum of guilt arriving home half an hour late to relieve her sitter.
And as fulfilling as it was to toughen her body after two children and years of neglect, she also stayed because she wanted—needed—to know more about Myra. Why this woman spent three nights a week teaching a free self-defense class to a group of strangers. But Rachel had no idea how to broach the subject. Myra had made it clear the students’ privacy was tantamount. And Rachel didn’t want to risk crossing that line.
They worked out together but rarely spoke. Rachel would hold the heavy bag while Myra pounded away. Myra would hold Rachel’s ankles as she did sit-up after sit-up, tightening up the muscles that had helped grow two glorious children.
At the end of that crisp fall day, Rachel and Myra both finished their workouts, cleaned up the equipment, and left the gym at the same time. There was a cool breeze in the air. It felt wonderful on Rachel’s tired muscles. Myra walked fast, and Rachel had to make an effort to keep up.
The gym was not in a particularly good neighborhood, but class usually ended early enough that the sun was still out, and the trainees could feel safe going to their cars or waiting for a taxi. But since they’d stayed an extra hour after class, the sun had faded to burnt umber on the horizon. Darkness was descending like a soft blanket.
They walked in silence. Myra seemed fine with this arrangement. Rachel did not. She wasn’t sure how to cross the silent divide, so she just barreled ahead.
“So . . . where do you go when class is over?” she said, immediately regretting it.
Myra turned to Rachel and laughed. “How long have you been waiting to ask me something about myself, Blondie?”
“A while. A long while.”
“Yeah. I figured. I’m heading home. Got a son and a husband, and if I’m lucky, I’ll catch some TV before I pass out.”
They continued to walk, Rachel speechless. This was already more information than Rachel had ever gotten in the year she’d been training with Myra. A husband? Son? She watched television?
Rachel searched for a follow-up question but came up blank.
“What, you didn’t think I had a life? I might be boring, but I’m not that boring.”
“I don’t think you’re boring,” Rachel said.
“Well, thank you, Blondie,” Myra said.
“How old is your son?” Rachel asked. Had she gone too far?
“Fourteen,” Myra said. “I know, I know. Had him young. Met my ex our freshman year of college. Was knocked up by my senior year. And that waste of carbon was gone two years after that. Thankfully he left me the best part of him. Other than his sperm, he wasn’t worth a damn.”
“Can I see a picture of your boy?” Rachel said. Every question felt like a massive intrusion, breaking the class omertà. But without hesitation, Myra took her cell phone from her gym bag and opened the Photos app. She held it up for Rachel to see.
In the photo, Myra had her arms wrapped around the neck of an adorable young boy. He had sandy-brown hair, blue eyes, and the happy, toothy grin of someone who’d just had his braces removed. Myra’s eyes sparkled with joy.
“His name is Ben,” Myra said. “And he’s the love of my life. Even my husband knows that.”
“He’s beautiful,” Rachel said. “I’m happy for you.”
“Took my husband a little getting used to,” she said. “We married when we were both thirty. Most dudes aren’t looking to marry into a family at that age. They’re happy to play the field, lay pipe for a while, or looking to start their own family fresh. Not easy dating as a single mom in your twenties. But when Javier met my Ben . . . I swear, he might love that kid more than I do by now. So, what about you, Blondie?”