“Prove me wrong then… Tell the bag.”
“Fine.” I move back into my fighting stance and do a quick jab to the bag’s center. “This is stupid. You’re stupid.”
“And literary fuckboy?”
“Is also stupid,” I grit out, my glove thwacking against the side of the bag with a right hook.
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t see me. Not how I should be seen. He doesn’t want me how I should be wanted.” I slam my fists against the bag.
“And how should you be wanted?”
“Like the air someone breathes,” I hiss, punching my fist into the bag in a hard uppercut.
The fire once crackling quietly inside me roars awake every emotion that’s laid unspoken and ignored within me about Miles. Frustration that he doesn’t want me. Anger with myself for falling for yet another man who doesn’t deserve me. Sadness that this is just a pathetic waltz I’ll repeat the steps to again with whatever inappropriate man I fall for in the future.
“Fuck you, Miles, and your shitty taste in books. You don’t deserve me!” Rotating my hips, I put as much of that fireball of emotions into each punch. “Fuck you, Everett, for making me think the only reason someone would kiss me is on a bet. Fuck you, Chase, for making me feel like I’m just a backup plan… And fuck me for choosing these men,” I shout with one last cross.
Chest heaving, muscles aching, and sweat dotting my forehead, I step back and drop my arms to my sides. A strange sense of calm folds around me. Nothing is fixed. I’m still hurt, but I don’t hurt. It’s hard to explain, but the emotions roaring inside me are quiet.
“How do you feel?” Garrett releases the bag and steps closer to me.
“Annoyed that you were right,” I pant out.
“Sounds about right.”
“Garrett, who is Jenny Wren?” I tip my head up, meeting his stare that I know, in the way my body pulses, is tethered to mine.
I could look this up myself, but right now I want him to tell me. Not just because Garrett will never lie to me, even if it means my feelings will be hurt, but out of a need to know that there is one man outside of my family whom I can trust. Even if the dull ache in my heart warns that Garrett is yet another man who will never want me the way I want to be wanted, I know he’ll never hurt me. Not in the way other men have hurt me.
“She’s a disabled woman known for being an inspirational character from Dickens,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Just as I thought.” I take a deep breath. “Hold the bag, Garrett,” I say, settling into my fighting stance.
5
MILE FIVE
MY WIFE
The burner’sclick,clickcauses me to tilt my head towards the kitchen. “Wait, I thought you were making me a PB and J?”
“I am,” Garrett says. The soft clunk of a pan hitting the burner accompanies his response.
“Since when do you use the stove for PB and J’s?” I yank on the hoodie he’s lent me and then shuffle towards the counter island separating the kitchen and living room spaces.
The heat that coursed within me during our impromptu boxing session is dissipating, leaving me cold. I’m a California girl to my core and tend to complain anytime the temps drop below seventy.
“You do when it’s a grilled PB and J.”
“I didn’t know you could grill them.” I lean against the counter. A large grin kicks across my face.
“You can grill just about anything.” He flips the sandwich.
“Ice cream. Soup. Pudding…” I sass, tapping on each finger.
“Just about anything,smartass.”
