“Jake, no. You can’t get involved in this.”
“I already am.”
“Jake—”
“Alana,” he breathes, his eyes boring holes into mine. “Ialreadyam.”
My eyes flicker between his, tears pooling before I can stop them. I know there’s no turning back from this, no talking him out of whatever he’s already decided. It’s written in the chestnut swirls of his hazel eyes, in the unshakable certainty in his stare. His mind is made up.
All I can do now is try to give him whatever leverage I have. He’s going to do this with or without me. I know it.
“It can’t be cops or anything suspicious,” I say quickly. “He’ll know the second he sees it. He won’t even walk in if—”
“Just…trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“But—”
“Trust me, okay? I’ve got you.” The jade rim of his eyes catches the light, steady and sure, and in that moment, I know—without a shred of doubt—he means it. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
I nod as his eyes pull me under again. I don’t say the words trapped on my tongue—that I’m not worried about whathappens to me. That I couldn’t care less because it would be far better than what I deserve.
I’m worried about what could happen tohim.
His lips twitch with the ghost of a smile before he pulls me in. He presses a kiss to my forehead, his hand cradling the back of my head, and I close my eyes, memorizing the feel of him.
Then he lets me go.
And he walks away.
I watch him in stunned silence, his hands buried in his pockets, his gaze never once turning back to find me.
I’m left standing at the intersection of pure admiration and deafening sorrow, wondering how the hell I’ve managed to make a mess of my life all over again, and hating myself for bringing him down with me.
Track 19
“Dayin, Day out” Nat King Cole, 1939
JAKE
I RUN THE full mile to the boxing gym before work.
The cool steel door swings open, a thick haze of sweat-soaked leather and bleach greeting my nostrils and landing in the back of my throat. Light shines in through the only window above, highlighting the chalk cloud and dust particles floating through the air. The satisfying thud of gloves against heavy bags fills my ears. The steady rhythm of ropes slapping against the floor, the pattering of speed bags off in the corner—its practically lyrical in my mind, and it fills my veins with instant adrenaline.
Eminem’s “Till I Collapse” blares loudly from the speakers above. I drop my bag in front of my station and look around the room as I begin to tape my hands.
The gym is nearly full today. A few men surround the ring, encouraging the two fighting in the center, trainers oneither end. The rubber soles of their shoes squeak against the mat in time with their movements, adding a harmony to the surroundings. One cracks the other with a perfect right hook. I inhale deeply, expanding my lungs to their furthest point before releasing my breath and getting into position.
I start out smooth, sending a few jabs to the top center of the bag as I build momentum. I bounce lightly on the balls of my feet, setting a rhythm and creating a flow. Once established, I send a cross punch to the same imaginary target on the heavy bag. First one. Then two. Followed by a hook. And then another.
Jab. Cross. Jab. Hook. Repeat.
Faster and faster with every switch.
I stick with my four-point combination for seven minutes straight, moving around the bag and dipping between pretend blows. I take a thirty second break before I follow the stretch with a harder ten-minute cycle, forcing all my thoughts, all my energy out through my fists as they slam against the beaten leather.
These blows used to be punishment. Revenge. A pathetic attempt to beat the humiliation out of myself—the humiliation of watching a girl choose someone else, of watching myself do nothing but walk away. I used to replay that moment like a loop I couldn’t escape, every strike a reminder of the man I wasn’t. Of the weakness I so shamefully displayed.
Now each hit lands differently than before. They’re solid. Clean. Free.
