“Luke, your Uncle Alex, and I have been talking to Andi.” My dad’s genial tone instantly told me how much he enjoyed the conversation. “And she told us all about what you’re doing at the gym. How hard your training is. How well you did in your first fight with your new trainer. How dedicated you are to it. I just want you to know, son, how proud I am of you for sticking with it. I believe in you, Luke, and I want you to know I understand now why you want this.”
I was literally speechless.
My Uncle Alex picked up the conversation. “Yeah, Luke. Andi explained what it's like to step into the ring and what it takes to even get ready to do something like that. I’m impressed with you, Luke. I can’t wait to see you make it big.” Uncle Alex’s sincerity was palpable. Being Uncle Alex, he couldn’t help but add, “I’ll tell everyone I taught you everything you know.”
I laughed at that, looked between the two brothers, and still didn't know what to say. “Thanks, both of you. I appreciate your support. It means a lot to me. I’ll even let you get away with taking the credit, Uncle Alex,” I added with a wink. They carried a plate of food to the table, and each clapped me on the shoulder in another show of support as they passed by.
Throughout the party, more people came up to me to congratulate me on my boxing career, express their admiration, and offer encouragement. Each of them had talked to Andi, and with each conversation, Andi had apparently been singing my praises. No one has ever done that for me before, and I've lost count of how many times this girl has saved me. That only reinforces my belief that I do not deserve her. At all.
Still, she deserved to know what she'd done. So when I found her alone in the backyard, I intended only to walk up to her and thank her. But somehow my arms automatically went around her waist, and I pulled herfirmly against me, melting into her. She looked so small and alone, staring off into the yard, so I asked what she was thinking.
I don't think her answer was at all what she was thinking, but I let it go. When she told me how proud my family was of me, I finally remembered why I had walked out on her. I turned her around in my arms and told her it was only because of her and what she’d said to them. The way she was looking at me left me completely tongue-tied. She wanted to say something, I was sure of it, but she held back. I was trying, however unsuccessfully, to tell her how important she was to me when Brandon had to interrupt with his question.
Inside my apartment, I toss my keys onto the counter and move through the living room without turning on the lights. The silence isn’t dramatic or heavy. It’s just… empty. Hollow. No music drifts from her phone. No sarcastic comment about my posture. No argument about whether I’m icing properly after training.
The place feels bigger without her, and that realization tightens something in my chest. Brandon’s words replay whether I want them to or not. He was angry, but not because he wanted to needle me.
“She’s not Megan.”
He thinks I don’t know that. I know Andi isn’t Megan. I know she’s stronger, smarter, and fiercer in her own way.
That’s not what scares me.
What scares me is how easily she’s worked her way into my life. Into my routines. Into my head. Into the quiet spaces I used to guard like a fortress. The last time I let someone matter this much, I ruined all our lives and wondered how I missed the signs.
You don’t walk away from something like that unchanged.
So when Brandon pushed me to admit what she and I are, something inside me shut down. Not because I don’t feel it, but because I do. I feel it too much. And if I say it out loud—if I give it a name —it becomes something I could lose.
I run a hand over my face and let out a slow breath. The irony isn’t lost on me. I can step into a ring and take punches without blinking, but I can’t seem to step into the conversation that matters most.
I don’t want to lose her.
But tonight, for the first time, I felt her slip just a little. And I don’t think I could survive it twice.
My phone is in my hand before I fully decide to reach for it.
I stare at her name for a few seconds, my thumb hovering over the screen. Calling would be easier. I could hear her voice. I could tell from the way she answers whether she’s still upset.
But calling means she could hear it in mine too. And I don’t know if I’m ready for that. So I type instead.
Still awake, beautiful?
The message goes before I can overthink it. I toss the phone onto the couch beside me, then pace, and immediately grab it again.
No response.
Of course, she might be asleep. It’s late, and she had a long day. She probably doesn’t want to deal with me tonight.
The thought sits heavier in my chest than I expect it to.
Just when I convince myself to put the phone down and leave it alone, it lights up again.
Yes. Are you okay?
That she asks about me twists something in my chest. She’s the one I hurt tonight, yet she’s still checking on me.
Am I okay? I lean back against the kitchen counter, typing carefully.
