Yeah, it’s nothing.
If nothing waseverything.
Chapter eight
I’ve been stuck in a funk the last few days. Thoughts of August always get worse at this time of year, though. First, the month of August, simply because it’s his name. Then September is like drifting along without a tether, knowing the worst is still to come. October hits with reminders of August’s passing and all the ways I punish myself for thinking I could have made a difference. I spend a lot of time checking in on his mum, who, every year, tries to tell me I’ve done enough. But it’ll never feel like enough.
I spend the weeks leading up to the anniversary of his death wondering what life might have looked like for us if he were still here. He liked to talk to people. August always had a story to tell and commanded the attention of anyone who listened. It suited me to just disappear into the shadows, not that August would ever let me. He’d always be there, pulling me into the light. He never let anything bother him. Words that had no weight to him would just roll off his back. But he also had a knack for finding the people who needed to be heard.
As our friendship grew, so did my comfort in opening up to him. Whether it was about the pressure I felt carrying the Heart name, or my fear of getting too close to anyone, not knowing if it was me or my family they were trying to get close to. Whenever I compared myself to my siblings, who all had these ambitious goals and a strong sense of their purpose in life, August wouldremind me of the value in being myself. That it was okay to want something simple. Real.
I was grateful that my family never expected anything from me other than my happiness and safety. While some people who run in our social circles have immense pressure from their families to follow in their footsteps—becoming lawyers, doctors, or even marrying into certain families just for the status—it’s a relief to know our parents couldn’t care less about that shit.
A heavy hand lands on my knee to stop the bouncing. I look over at Tuck, where he sits beside me, working through his own grief, and he squeezes my knee in solidarity.
Tuck deals with the same emotions of feeling like you could have done something to change the outcome. That coulda, woulda, shoulda mentality.
“You okay?” Tuck whispers.
I nod, butfuck, I miss my friend. I guess it’s stronger now with the party for Smoke and Barrel coming up in a few days.
I always imagined owning bars with August. He wanted all these different versions of places that, at the end of the day, just brought people together. Something cool and rough around the edges, where people could hang out with good music and conversation. Something smooth and fancy for quiet thoughts and exclusive poker games. Then something on the beach where you served drinks in coconuts, and no one wore shoes.
Our group leader wraps up the session after the last person shares their story, and we all help to pack up the chairs. It’s after seven when Tuck and I walk out of Life Vine to the car park, and the sun is just falling under the horizon.
Tuck slaps my shoulder, then heads to his car. “You gonna be okay tonight? I know this time of year is rough for you.”
“Yeah, Tiny’s waiting for me.” I nod, thinking of my Great Dane, likely passed out on his back in the middle of my bed, blatantly ignoring the three-hundred-dollar bed I bought him that sits on the floor beside it.
“Call me if you need me.”
“Same to you.” I hold my hand up in a wave, then lift myself into the cab of my ute.
I make the nearly thirty-minute drive from the city back home, and the night has fully taken over by the time I pull into the long, winding driveway of my acreage property. Sitting at the top of Nowra Hills, I can see the whole city lit up beneath me. Between the stars and the street lights, Heart City has never looked better.
I pull into the garage, then make my way inside, glancing at my garden beds as I pass them. I must remember to head to Thistle Theory soon to grab some stakes for my snapdragons before they grow too high.
Tossing my keys in the bowl beside the door, I wait for the sound of Tiny’s big paws, but it’s quiet.
I walk down the hallway, one side full of floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the view, and into my open bedroom door. Tiny’s passed out on his back, limbs bent up in every direction. He doesn’t even flinch when I walk through the door.
I walk over to him, scratching the top of his head. “Hey, boy.” He pops open one eye to stare up at me, but doesn’t give me anything other than that.
Pulling my T-shirt over my head, I toss it into the laundry hamper. My boots come off next, and I place them back in the neat line with my other shoes. I finish getting undressed, then pull on some workout shorts and a pair of sneakers. When I sit on the edge of the bed to put on my shoes, Tiny finally takes notice and rolls off his back, looking back at me as he heads over to the door.
“Oh, can you fit me into your busy schedule and join me?” I ask. He answers by stretching into downward dog, pointing his arse right at me. That’s true love, right there.
We head outside to my home gym. There are all kinds of weight machines and a treadmill, but the punching bag is calling my name tonight.
Tiny runs past me to jump onto the couch, circling a few times on the cushion before plopping down with a dramatic sigh.
I scratch his head as I pass, then toss my phone onto an overhead shelf and grab my hand wraps. I put them on while I stretch out my neck, bouncing from foot to foot to warm up, and then I circle the bag.
I start off easy with a jab-jab-cross. I control my breathing and switch it up, adding a left hook, then a right uppercut. I let the frustrations that I bottle up day-to-day build up and unleash through my punches. The crushing weight of failure that comes with missing my friend. The fighting feeling of trying to make amends and never believing I’m making a difference. The fear of never feeling okay again. I just want to breathe. I want this anchor off my chest that pins me to the floor. Part of me feels like I belong down here, when other parts of me just want to stand up again and start living. And I’m so tired. Tired of giving myself permission to move on, then hating myself for the fact that August never had that chance.
I know he wouldn’t want this for me. His mum doesn’t want this for me. My family wouldn’t, if they knew how deep the pain still ran through my veins.
Sweat mingles with tears as I unleash against the bag, my fists punishing the leather. I don’t know how long I go like that for, but my body and mind feel exhausted when my phone beeps on the shelf and I let myself stop and inhale.
