Page 18 of Meet Me in the Valley
I readjust my gi, fastening the belt around my waist with a firm tug. When I inhale, I’m instantly invigorated by the smells that would normally repulse people. But not me. Sweat, worn leather, and bleach welcome me, a lingering funk of hard training that never leaves the air and circulates with the sounds of grunts and heavy breathing.
I crave the strain in my muscles, how they burn, twist and bend in ways that if you’re not quick enough to calibrate, you lose.
But more so, I crave the stretch on the brain more than anything. Calculating, then recalculating three moves ahead, your opponent’s move and the instinct to combat it. Jiu-jitsu is the mental chess game of life. One where I seek the challenge and work to center myself when things get wiry.
“You did good today, Tia. Although, you missed four openings to pass my guard. Your mind needs sharpening.”
“I got you to tap out, didn’t I?” I pant heavily, resting my hands on top of my head as I fight to put oxygen back into my lungs.
“I sense something is troubling you?”
“No, Professor.”
Visions from last night assault my brain as if the last hour of rolling didn’t do shit to give me a reprieve.
Isabel’s naked body and her gleeful laugh as she wrapped herself around Logan in the water have the oatmeal I ate this morning churning deep in my belly. The painful sting of jealousy coils around the images in my head, almost like they’re forcing me to watch, even though I drank myself further into a stupor once the rest of the group showed up with cases of beer.
Isabel kissing Logan’s neck. Logan licking Isabel’s ear. Isabel sighing into Logan’s mouth.
Thankfully, Donovan and Audrey were sober enough to drive me home in my dad’s SUV, and vague flashes of Audrey tucking me into bed at my parent’s house flicker behind my aching eyes.
I tossed through the night, wrestling with sudden feelings I didn’t ask for. Feelings aimed at the guy who’s been my anchor for a decade. Maybe they weren’t sudden at all. Maybe they’d been glowing under the surface, a low flame that’s alivejust enoughto not set off any alarms.
After my humiliating reaction to Logan and Isabel last night, it’s safe to say the alarms are blaring now—way too loud to ignore.
Leave it to Professor Silva to see right through the wall I’ve built around myself. I’ve been training with him since I was six until I moved to Texas at sixteen. There was a good stretch of time that I didn’t see him until my parents moved back to Oakwood Valley a few years ago.
Now I make it a point to train with him when I’m in town. It brings happiness to my heart to see his gym thrive in this smalltown, the only Brazilian jiu-jitsu gym in the county. It’s a second home for me.
Professor Silva eyes me thoughtfully, swiping the sweat off his upper lip while his other hand rests patiently on his hip, seeking an honest answer. He knows I’m full of shit. I don’t even know why I try to hide things from him. Maybe it’s because sometimes it’s easier to ignore the truth and live happily in your delusion instead.
Although, a comforting warmth spreads through me when I note his salt and pepper hair and the deep lines around his mouth and eyes. He’s aging with grace. Time has been kind to him.
He’s been a steady mentor in my life, allowing me access to his gym whenever I please. It’s been a place of refuge in times I’ve needed it. Times like today. Another place like Torren’s lake where I can literally work out the kinks in my troubled mind.
He doesn’t even have to say a word for me to hear his gentle probing. It’s all in his gaze with an inquisitive lift of his eyebrow.
Damn him.
“Yes, Professor,” I admit. “Something is troubling me.”
“I have known you since you were as high as my knee caps. We do not lie to each other, yes?”
I nod. “Yes, Professor.”
We walk off the mat toward the bench against the wall with the Oakwood Valley Brazilian Jiu-jitsu mural. The paint is still as bold as the day my dad signed me up for my first class all those years ago. A few pictures of me still line the walls, holding up gold medals around my neck, brace-faced with frizzy french braids as I stand proudly on the podium.
I gulp down heavy amounts of water, replacing the alcohol that’s seeping out of me from yesterday’s events. Hangover or not, I wouldn’t dare miss a rolling session with Professor Silva, come hell or high water.
He comes to stand in front of me, tipping my chin up with his pointer finger. “Whatever is troubling you, remember the lessons I have taught you over the years. You can force your opponent’s submission, but tru?—”
“True peace only comes when you submit to yourself,” I finish the mantra for him as it flows easily from my tongue. A mantra that takes permanent residence in my brain.
I chose this sport because it pushes me to relinquish control. An outlet to give me a release from the things I can’t get a good grip on. When I feel myself slipping, I leave it on the mat.
Today’s session was a poor attempt on my part to force the fragments of my growing infatuation with Logan into submission. It’s looking like my plan to release backfired, and I’m left with more questions than answers.
Why now? Why not the night we met at Torren’s dock? Why not all the years we’ve lived in the same city?
