Then he pauses in the middle of his demonstration, turning his beautiful head with the loveliest smile. His whole frame drops back to the August I adore—easy, relaxed. He makes his way over to… Oh my god. They’rekids. They’re just little kids. I hadn’t even noticed the whole time I’d been staring at him.
He walks over to this little girl, a mess of unbrushed hair in her red face, and I can see she’s crying.
He drops down to his knees, leans in and says something. What I’d give to be able to lip read right now. But she eventually nods, says something back, then he holds out his hand. She reaches her arm out, and he closes her fingers into a fist. His other hand presses into her elbow to loosen her stance a little. He holds up his hand, nods, and she lands a punch against his palm.
A raise of his chin, and she does it again. Again. Again. Faster, faster, until she’s flinging punches at his palm with ridiculous speed, smiles on both their faces, then he catches her underarm with a tickle, and her laugh is so loud it makes its way across the street to me.
August climbs to his feet, recommences the movements he was demonstrating for the class before, but this time he does it next to the girl, commanding the entire group from there, like he’s one of them. When she gets caught up again, he barely breaks his stance, reaches over casually and rearranges her arms, then carries on. No more tears. She’s focused now, determined, and throwing decent punches too.
It’s only then it occurs to me he’s had full care of about twenty kids for the whole class. And for every other class, all day, by himself, on very little sleep. And even now, at almost two o’clock, he’s so patient.
My heart feels like it’s gone twenty rounds with him in the short time I’ve been here. What I’d have given for someone like him growing up. Some caring adult who’d shown up for me, no matter how tired they were feeling. Someone who’d have taught me how to make a fist, and not given up on me when things got hard.
Maybe if I’d had someone like him in my life, things would have turned out differently.
I must be mad to break it off with him.
But it’s not as though I have a choice.
The thought of it roils in my gut as I wait for the class to end. They eventually start some kind of ballgame, and that’s around the time parents start wandering in to pick their kids up. August says his goodbyes, notably making extra time for that little girl to go over those punches again.
It’s nauseating to think how my words could affect his confidence. It’s already rock bottom, and it’s awful. He’s the perfect catch, and his ex knows that. That’s exactly why he’s spent years running him down. Anyone can see that from a mile away. Anyone but August. If August had any idea how incredible he is, he wouldn’t waste two minutes on that guy.
Or on me.
All the more reason to end this.
The door clangs shut, August clicks the lock, and this is it. My chance to end it decently, respectfully, and with as much heart as I can manage.
I push myself forward, turn the corner, then gasp in a sharp breath as the butt of the gun lands directly between my ribs.
Ski mask. Sunglasses. Black hoodie.
It’s him.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a gun, yet something primal takes over with the press of it. I’m frozen, looking at my reflection in the black glass covering his eyes, wondering who the hell is behind it.
I can barely even make a full sentence, panic scrambling my words and my thoughts. “There are kids. Not here.”
He hasn’t shot me yet, hasn’t splattered me all over this wall for their young eyes to relive again and again late at night. Perhaps there’s some humanity in there after all.
“Why are you doing this?”
The metal digs into my skin as he directs me with a shove. I guess I’m supposed to turn around and… go to a second location.
Not a good idea.
No one ever comes back from the second location.
But I can hardly disobey.
I turn around and start a slow walk, scanning for an escape route. It’s clear he doesn’t want to shoot me here in front of everyone. Yet the memory of the shots rings in my ears from last night. He didn’t hit anyone, as far as I know. Would they have made a sound if he did, frozen like that?
There was zero news about it this morning. A few reviews online said the band was late, that they walked off abruptly after the encore, but that by all accounts they were incredible. No talk of bullet holes in doors, of amps being blown up. Nothingabout a gunman. Certainly nothing about a frozen audience and a night of sheer terror.
I had assumed, like August suggested, that it was somehow our fault—some shift in stability caused by me kissing him. But now I’m not so sure.
“Did you do that? Pause those people last night?”
