“I was thinking about using the punching bag, but it kinda hurts.” He shakes out his bare hands, and his knuckles are reddened. Yeah, can’t let him go on like that.
“It definitely shouldn’t hurt. I’m happy to give you a few pointers, if you’d like that.”
I first grab the tape and the gloves that he’s missing, showing him how to get his hands ready. After that I walk through the basics with him, making sure that his stance and posture are correct. He’s nervous around me, jumping when I touch his shoulder, but he’s working hard and is focused. We correct his strike dynamics, make sure he’s punching, not pushing, and pretty soon he’s hitting the heavy bag with a series of satisfying pops.
“You got it?” I ask, swallowing my impatience to get to the tires.
He nods and goes back to hitting the bag with a determined look on his face.
Walking away from the prickly man with the weird attitude, I find the five-hundred-pound tire leaning against the wall and roll it into the runway, the area that is marked off for flipping. The tire makes a sharp whomping sound when it hits the ground, startling the dozen or so people in the gym. I snap out a quick and funny apology, which seems to be my specialty, and then I go after that tire like it had personally offended me.
I’m flipping it up and down the little runway we set aside for it, vaguely aware that my grunts are filling the space, but I don’t care. It’s my fucking gym, and I can make as much goddamn noise as I want to. I keep going until a hand grabs my shoulder, forcing me to let go. All of my limbs are shaking, and I turn around to glare at the interfering asshole, only to find out that it’s Nick. “Que mierda?” I mean seriously—what the actual fuck?
He steps back like I’d struck him. Continuing in Spanish, he asks, “Cousin, what’s going on? What are you doing? We always tell the clients they can’t use the tires without proper supervision. And why do you look like a person possessed?”
I answer him back in Spanish, because then at least half of the people in the gym won’t know what we’re saying. “What do you mean what am I doing? It’s the Corner of Heavy Things, it’s where you go to work things out. I’m not possessed, or whatever, I’m just having a fucking bad day. And yeah, we don’t want our clients using the tires without help because if they get hurt, they’ll sue us. If I get hurt it’s just on me.” It’s not like I actually fuckingmatterto anyone.
My cousin’s expression is either his thinking face or his mad face. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.
Er… he’s definitely mad.
“That’s bullshit and you know it. It’s up to us to set a good example, and when you do that it makes other people think that the rules aren’t important. Seriously, Roly—what’s going on?”
I turn around put my finger up in his face. “Look, I don’t wanna hear any shit from you. Between running the gym, and doing the books, and helping Scout out, and working on all of these goddamn charities, I’ve got plenty to do. I don’t need to answer to you for a damn thing. I’m tired of feeling like I owe you an apology all the time. Now let me shower in peace.”
I’m sweating and shaking so hard from the workout that I leave him there as I run off to the locker room. There are a few folks in there as I walk (stomp?) over to a showerhead and turn on the water, but everyone expedites whatever it was they’re doing, and within five minutes I’m alone. I make quick work of cleaning up, but when I take the time to feel the hot water on the bits that Heath rubbed raw, I lose it a little. Oh, yeah… there’s the humiliation. And the tears.
And I can’t think about my failures with Heath without thinking about Asadi.
Can’t believe he’s dead.Dead. I was so happy when I learned that Heath’s brother was in the US Marshals Service; I’d imagined this whole scenario where Asadi had taken on a new identity, and I’d had some romantic notion that I could arrange an update, some communication, maybe even a meeting. But only because I’d selfishly wanted to remove this weight of guilt from my chest.Pero no…it gets to stay there, make its home there.
It’s not like I don’t deserve it, butdamn. I wish I’d been able to tell him I was sorry one more time, and show him that I’d kept my promise to him, that I’d tried to make a better person of myself than what had brought the two of us together.
I cross my arms over my head and lean against the cold tile, letting the hot tears stream down. I don’t even know why I’m crying at this point. I’m crying because I lived, I’m crying because he died, I’m crying because everything is so goddamned hard, I’m crying because it never fucking stops, I’m crying because I’ve become this caricature of myself.Why fuck one bear when you can fuck them all?I’m the joker, the slut, the Peter Pan, the party boy, but never actually justme.
Because the idea of beingmeis fucking terrifying.
Hell, I’d hard-core judged people for falling in love, ignoring the pang of loneliness that would lance through my chest at the sight of their soft smiles and dewy eyes. Guys in the service, panting for emails from home, for the chance to get on a satellite call, or Skype, if the connection was good enough. I felt so embarrassed for them.
So fucking needy.
I’d armor up, Grindr up, and get railed until the unacknowledged disquiet in my chest went away. Then my cousin went and fell for an amazing man, and it fucked me up. That love shit looked so good I’d be afoolnot to want in on it. And now that I’m figuring out that the thing I want most is the thing I’ll never deserve, I wish I could slide back under that glamour and hide that stinging nettle, that fucking shiv of want from everybody.
But I can’t, because there’s Evie,fucking Evie who sees everything, getting me to admit I want more.
When I think of more, I think of the one guy who would rather do anything else in the world than be with me. When I think about those few seconds he’d allowed me to lean my body into his… I ache for him to surround me in that sweetness. A fresh wave of tears overwhelms me as I remember the kind but firm way he told me to get the fuck out of his house, the way he asked me to stop hurting him. I’d walked in, stripping like I owned the place, not a care in the world for his kids, and demanded that he fuck me. I fucking humiliated myself—thank godhe never wants to see me again.
I allow myself a few more minutes of self-pity, then finish up the shower and grab the backup T-shirt and sweats that Nick keeps stashed here. I look like a little kid in his dad’s clothes, which makes me miss my own father so much I almost start crying again, but… time waits for no man. I’ve got three one-on-one sessions at the gym, I need to get on a conference call and stop a mutiny from happening within the ranks of the Worthy Prosthetics Foundation, then I’m going to help Evie close up the pizza shop so that Catherine can take her midterms, and I hope that, for once, she keeps her observations to herself. Fuck, maybe if the shop is slow tonight, I can finish up the bookkeeping.
I exit the locker room feeling heavier than I did when I went in, and I don’t know where I’m going. I run straight into Nick, and before I can apologize to yet another person today, I realize that he’s been waiting for me, and that he’s joined by Elijah, Jules, Evie, Scout, and Jake. I throw up my hands and frustration. “What?”
Scout narrows her eyes at me and points to the back door. “Upstairs.Now.”
“Fine,” I say stomping off toward the back door, and then stomping up the stairs, making as much fucking noise I can. I fling open the door and let it embed the bit of extended lock into the drywall. Whatever. Fuck the door. I stomp into the living room and plop down on the couch as aggressively as possible.
I try not to think about the million things that I’m juggling right now, because this is looking like an intervention, which, spoiler alert, is not as much fun as theHow I Met Your Mothercrew made it seem.
“Stop thinking about your to-do list,” Nick says, thumping my head.
