“Always,” Isabelle says, her head resting on my other shoulder.
And I remember that, no matter how dark the days are, I’ll always have some light. A place to breathe and rest with my friends by my side.
CHAPTER 22
Rowan
Julian hates his birthday so we rarely ever celebrate it. Instead, today—December ninth—we are gathered upstairs in his gym. Christian is off grunting and punching a bag on his own with headphones in his ears and I’m punching the mitts on Julian’s hands.
In my peripheral, I see a black shadow coming at me and I duck a millisecond before it makes contact. “Hey, what the fuck! You almost punched me.”
“Wake the hell up,” Julian grits. “You’re just standing there.”
I sniff and push my fists together in the gloves, adjusting the fit. “I’m good now.”
His brow arches.
“I’m good,” I say again as I get into a proper stance. “Come on.”
“What’s going on with you?” Julian asks and holds up his hands again for me to punch as I practice different combinations again and again. “Where’s your head at?”
I’ve been noticeably in my head. Natalia teaching me how to bake the simplest of pastries, and what happened after, has been on repeat in my mind since it happened over the weekend.
Fuck, will I ever be able to get her out of my head?
She’s in my fucking dreams. Fantasies. It’s her face I look for everywhere I go. She has completely invaded my entire existence, centering it around her while she walks about freely.
“I’m fine,” I grunt and follow through with a simple one-two-three combo, releasing barely a quarter of my frustration. “All good.”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Julian pushes. “Is it Nat?”
“No,” I grunt with a hard punch.
Julian staggers back a bit but finds his footing and takes the same position. “Sure it’s not.”
“What’s going on?” he asks. “Is it the way she’s been acting lately?”
I punch again. “You noticed?”
“A bit hard not to,” he says. “We’ve known her forever. Is it bad again?”
I grunt my reply, knowing that talking about it will hurt me more because there’s nothing I can do to help her or heal her.
“It’s fine,” I grit through my teeth. “Hold them up.”
Julian rolls his eyes and we continue our combinations. I keep punching until there’s sweat on my eyelashes and my back is sticky, while Julian looks simply unbothered. Prick. He ducks and I swing. He swings and I duck. All while Christian is in his own world in the corner, grunting with every punch.
I duck with Julian’s next swing and ask, “He okay?”
“Yeah, just a bad day,” Julian says. “Come on, we’re almost done. A few more.”
I grunt my agreement and swing, my glove meeting with something much harder.
“What the fuck!”
“Shit!” I hiss. “Shit, shit, shit?—”
“Fuck, Rowan,” Julian shouts, shaking the mitts off his hands and reaching for his nose. “What the fuck?”
