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One thing I’ve learnt from just two days of self-defence classes is that I am the furthest thing from being fit that anyone could possibly be. I’m watching in awe as the female instructor demonstrates a move where she throws a grown-ass man over her shoulder. The guy lands on his back, on the floor, with a groan. But he’s also smiling like he’s done this a million times before.
“My cousin Axe—he makes it easy. Who wants to try?” Hope asks the class, pointing to her partner.
I really want to know how to do that, so my hand shoots up. “I’ll do it,” I say and walk to the front of the class.
Hope and the guy, Axe, share a look before I swear I hear her murmur, “It’s your funeral,” to him.
“Okay. I was watching but what do I do exactly?” I ask them.
Hope shows me how to stand, while Axe positions himself behind me. His arm comes around my neck, and Hope whispers into my ear, “Stomp on his foot as hard as you can, then elbow him in the ribs before bending and rolling his weight over your shoulder.”
I do exactly what she says, and to my surprise, Axe flips onto the floor by my feet. He groans with a hand reaching up to clutch his ribs. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Shit, are you okay?” I ask, bending over to check him for… I don’t know what.
“He’s fine and, honestly, that’s the least of his worries right now.” Hope smirks, then turns to the rest of the room. “Class dismissed. See you next time.”
“Will you be here next time? There was a different teacher before, a slightly more sleezy one. I’d much prefer you…” I tell her.
“Uh, yeah, I think I’ll be here until we find someone to fill the vacancy. I’m Hope Williamson.” She holds out a hand to me as she introduces herself formally.
“Lucy,” I offer in return, purposely leaving off my last name. I mean, I know the Williamsons are one of Australia’s wealthier families and all, and that they own this chain of gyms. I just don’t like being judged because I’m a Christianson.
Hope’s smile is genuine and big. “It’s great to meet you, Lucy. So is there a reason you’re here? Not that you need one. I mean, every woman should be taking defence classes,” she says.
“I have a stalker,” I blurt out, needing to tellsomeone. Why I’ve chosen to tell a complete stranger instead of my family? Who knows?
“A stalker? Are you okay? Do you need help?” Her eyes dart from side to side and her brows furrow.
“I’m okay, I think. It’s just…” I shrug a shoulder. I don’t even know what else to say.
“What makes you think you have a stalker?” she asks.
“The fact that I’m getting random messages, and that someone is sending me flowers and breaking into my apartment to leave them. I even had a tulip left on my study desk at the library yesterday.”
“Maybe it’s just a guy who really likes you and doesn’t know how to tell you?” she suggests. “But the breaking into your apartment, that part is fucking creepy.”
“Maybe. Anyway, I’ve taken up enough of your time. Thanks for today.” I wave and walk away, my face heating up with the realization I just told a complete stranger about my personal problems.
Opening my assigned locker a few minutes later, I reach in to grab my bag and my hand stops midair when it lands on something cold and soft. I quickly pull away like I’ve been burned and stare inside. Sitting on top of my Louis Vuitton gym bag is a blue tulip. A fucking single blue tulip. I look over my shoulder, pick up the flower, and bring it to my nose. It smells amazing, of course. Then I grab my gym bag and head for the door, tossing the flower in a bin as I pass while hoping that whoever put it there is watching.
* * *
I makea stop at the florist on the way home and buy myself the biggest bunch of red roses they have in stock. When I enter my apartment, I place the roses in a vase and snap a picture of myself smelling them.
I post the picture to all my socials with the caption:Thanks for the roses, my love. How did you know that they’re my favourite?
I want whoever this stalker guy is to think I’m in a relationship. I wonder if I can get someone to fake date me, just to make it seem that much more realistic? I laugh like a crazy person at the thought. Since when have I ever had an issue finding dates?
Needing someone to agree to fake date me is a new low.
Post notifications start pinging on my phone almost immediately, so I check each account and read through the comments with a smile. There are a lot of guys, who have tried and failed to win me over, commenting how me “being off the market” is a real tragedy. One even offers to buy me a rose farm.
Is that even a thing?
As I’m about to reply to some of their comments, a text message comes in.
Unknown:
Who sent you flowers, Lucy?
