Page 54 of The Faking Game

I want her to feel competent. Empowered. Even if I’ll never let that bastard get close to her.

I approach her again, and this time, she doesn’t hesitate. She ducks from my lazy attempt to catch her and shoves her knee between my legs.

I stop it only an inch from making impact. “Good,” I tell her. “That was really good.”

A smile flashes over her lips. She likes these kinds of compliments, I’ve noticed. Maybe not the ones that make her feel ogled or like an object. She’s had enough of those.

But she loves being praised.

Good thing I fucking love praising her.

“Again,” she says, her cheeks flushed with color. “And Iknowanger is productive. My therapist tells me all the time.”

“Your therapist?”

“Yes.” She jabs my way, and I raise my palms in time to catch her attempts. She’s not holding back today. “I’ve tried to work through all of this. I told you.”

“In a therapy room.”

“Yes, but she wants me to get out there, too. She tells me I’ve said no too many times and that I need to learn to say yes and have the tough conversations that follow.”

“Have you told her about this? About us?”

Nora hesitates only a second, but it’s long enough for me to hear the answer.Yes.“She won’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not worried about that.” I approach her again and wrap my arm around her upper body. Fix my forearm against her throat. We’ve done this before, and I’m not applying any pressure. “What does she think?”

Nora is warm beneath my grip. She’s also quick, reaching up to find the spot on my hand, between thumb and index finger, that hurts like a motherfucker when you press down.

“She thinks this is good for me.” She presses down. Sharp pain radiates up my arm, and I release her.

“Well done,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry,” she says. I fix her with a look, and she shrugs a little. “I know you tell me not to apologize to you, but I have twenty-four years of practice. It’s hard to break.”

“I know. Which is why I’ll remind you. That was really good. You found it immediately.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“On yourself?”

“Yeah.” She must see my look, because she rolls her eyes. “I don’t do ithard. I’mnot the masochist.”

I hold up my hands again, and this time she jabs twice before giving me a cross. “So I’ve been given the stamp of approval from your therapist,” I say. The idea of Nora talking with someone about me, aboutthis, fills me with curiosity. That there’s a space where truth floods out of her. “What have you told her?”

“That’s privileged information.”

I can’t help teasing her. “She’s probably on my side, you know.”

“About what?”

“About what?she asks,” I say and shake my head. “About this. You learning self-defense and embracing your anger.”

Color spreads along Nora’s cheeks. “She was shocked when I told her about that. Our practice with… Well. Practicing dating.”

“Shocked at thebrillianceof it. Don’t forget to move your feet.”

She glances down and then shifts around me, her hands still raised. Tendrils of dark hair have escaped her ponytail and frame her face. “She said she’d never heard of anyone using that approach before.”

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