He doesn’t respond, just moves to the speed bag with that same focused intensity he’s had since we were kids. Two years older than me, he’s got that successful small business owner look now. Confident, tired, slightly annoyed at everything.
“You’re sweating like someone who’s thinking too much,” he says, settling into his rhythm on the bag.
“That’s what professors do.”
“Yeah?” he verbally jabs, “how’s that working out for you?”
Dominic starts working the speed bag, his rhythm perfect, mechanical. He was always the technical one. I had power; he had precision. Made us good sparring partners until I left for college and he stayed to run the gym with Dad.
“So,” he says between strikes. “Maren.”
My shoulders tense. “What about her?”
“She’s been here for years. Took care of everything. Mom. The cabins.” The speed bag blurs under his fists, that perfect rhythm he could do in his sleep. “You good sharing space?”
“She’s nice.” I don’t mention that I started things off by being a complete prick.
“She’snice?” He stops the bag with his palm, giving me that older brother look he perfected when we were kids. The one that says he knows exactly what I’m not saying. “That’s whatyou’re going with? Half the men in this town are trying to get in her pants every Friday night, and you’re going with ‘nice’?”
“Classy, Dom.” I grab my water bottle.
“Since when do you care about classy?” He’s still giving me that look.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” I say, taking a drink. “She probably thinks I’m an arrogant dick.”
“Accurate.” He actually cracks a smile, the first real one since I got back. For a second he looks younger, like the brother who used to cover for me when Dad caught us out past curfew. “Doesn’t answer my question though. Thin walls in those cabins. Might make a man wonder.”
“Not your business, Dom.”
“Everything on this property ismybusiness.” The speed bag starts up again, aggressive now. “Just saying, she’s not one of your Seattle groupies. She was good to Mom when it mattered. The town loves her. So keep your dick in your pants.”
Groupies.There’s that word again. Like I’ve had any groupies lately. Like I haven’t been living like a monk, grading papers and eating cereal for dinner. But I don’t correct him. Let him think I’m still that guy who had women lined up at readings. It’s easier than explaining how empty all that felt.
“We’re close with the buyer,” Dominic says suddenly, switching topics like he’s throwing a combination. No warning, straight to the body. “Should close right after the memorial.”
My stomach drops. “That fast?”
“Market’s hot. Good offer.” He keeps working the bag, not looking at me. “They’re eager.”
Our childhood home, where Mom taught us to make pie crust and Dad watched fights every Friday. Where we measured our heights on the kitchen doorframe every birthday. Soon it’ll belong to strangers. But better they actually live in it than watch it die slowly, waiting for one of us to come back.
My thoughts shift to Maren. What happens to her when new owners take over? “What about Maren?” I ask.
He pauses mid-strike. “We’re trying to work her into the deal. I’m negotiating. Mom would haunt my ass if we didn’t do right by her.” He resumes hitting the bag. “I’m trying, Cal. Really.”
I nod, but something sits wrong in my gut.
“This is happening, Cal,” Dominic continues, reading my silence. “We all agreed. The house has to go.”
The garage goes quiet except for the distant sound of waves. He’s baiting me. Wants me to swing first, verbally or otherwise. It’s an old pattern. Dominic pushing buttons, me trying not to react, both of us pretending we’re not still teenagers fighting over who gets the car keys.
“One round?” He tosses me a pair of gloves, the leather cracked but serviceable.
I catch them one-handed. “Your rules or mine?”
“Can’t exactly do MMA here—much as I’d love to slam you into this concrete, Mom would be pissed.” He grins, but it’s sharp. “So just boxing. Try not to embarrass yourself, Professor.”
We circle each other in the makeshift ring, a square of faded paint Dad laid down twenty years ago. Dominic’s stance shows his MMA training, too square, but he adjusts when I tag him with a jab. I keep my feet moving, hands high, old habits coming back like they never left.
