Page 87 of Hard to Lose

“How in the world did you ever find this place?” I ask Gunner, as he adjusts his very sexy (not) goggles over his eyes.

“Someone mentioned it in the bar a while back. Some of the guys and I came here to check it out. I thought it might be a good way to let some of that bottled-up emotion out.”

Normally I’d be pissed if someone said that to me, as if they were judging me or telling me what to do, but Gunner’s words don’t elicit that reaction.

He’s lost his father.

He’s lost his friends.

He understands.

And maybe, just maybe, I want him to understand me better. In fact, I like the fact that he understands me.

“To make the most of your experience, change your weapon every few minutes,” the employee tells us as he stands at the door to the rage room. “There are bats, hammers, clubs—you name it. Also, music helps. You can change that as often as you want as well or pick a theme song and stick with it. Loud is good. Blaring is better.” His grin is infectious and implies he’s had some fun in here before. “Oh, and make sure to scream and yell and get whatever it is you’re here for, all out.”

I look around the padded square room where a row of weapons of sorts hang on one side of the wall and a table sits in the middle. The table has electronics on it, glass vases. There are metal—what looks like kegs—in another area right below the row of shelves of stacked dishes.

“Some people even prefer to write what they’re angry about in Sharpie on the plates so when they smash them, they can feel like they’re breaking it.” He steps toward the door. “I’m going to give you five minutes to get ready, and then I’ll start the music and timer for you.”

Gunner and I both nod in agreement and then the minute the door shuts, we both start laughing. “This is crazy,” I say.

“Just wait till you see how good you feel after.” He walks toward the plates. “Now I, for one, am going to write some things on the plates so I can enjoy smashing them.”

“Like what?”

“Sal is pretty much one of my go-tos.” And the way he says it, as if he’s completely okay with letting me into the struggles he still has over his asshole stepfather, makes him even more endearing to me.

“Let’s do two for him,” I say and he laughs.

But then I find myself looking at plates with a Sharpie in hand and too many things I want to write and let go of. I take the first plate and write Mom. She’s the one thing I’m most angry at. Not her, of course, but that she was taken away from me and missed out on so much of the important things in life. Then I write Finn. He is my ex—the man I first let in, who cheated on me—a man who strangely hurt me deeply. And then when the siren warns that we only have a minute left to prepare to rage, I write on two more plates. The first is “time,” because my time here with Gunner is running out when I don’t want it to be.

And for the last one, I write my name. Chase. Because I hate myself for deceiving Gunner . . . and for knowing that when I leave Destiny Falls it has to be like I was never here. Like I never existed. It’s not like I can give him my address and tell him to come and visit me. It’s not like he can ever know who I really am.

So I write my name down because I hate myself for deceiving him, and I hate myself even more for not allowing this to be anything more than it is.

“You good?” Gunner asks as he glances over at my stack of plates and probably mistakes the tears welling in my eyes to be over the loss of my mother. They’re equally for knowing I’m going to lose him too.

I nod and force a smile, still thinking this is a little silly. “I’m ready.”

The siren sounds and Gunner picks up his first plate and throws it against the wall as hard as he can. It shatters into a million fragments, the sound of it breaking just above the fray of Jagger singing about how he can’t get any satisfaction.

I take my first plate in my hand and follow suit. There’s something to be said about the crunch of glass and the exertion you’ve given to make that happen.

It’s satisfying. Cathartic. And with each item thrown, each smash of the hammer against the computer monitor, every swing of the bat against the metal barrels, I feel parts of myself unwind.

Is this going to fix the brain aneurysm that took my mom from me, the fact that she’s gone, and how she missed all the milestones in my life? No, but it feels damn good to be thinking about it and angry over it while I’m swinging the bat as hard as I can.

I lose myself in the task. In the smashing and aggression, so much so that when the buzzer rings telling us our time is up, besides being out of breath, I am completely unaware that there are tears staining both of my cheeks.

Gunner notices but only nods. In fact, he doesn’t say a word to me while we’re removing our protective equipment and gathering our personal belongings.

And I’m glad he doesn’t, because I’m a mess.

His hand on my lower back ushering me out of the place—and his absolute silence—shows me he understands the tumult of emotion I’m going through. He’s giving me time to sort through it.

And it’s only when we clear the building and we’re about to get in his truck that the tidal wave of feelings hits me and drags me under its hold. Gunner wraps his arms around me while I sob.

I’m angry that she’s gone. I hate that I haven’t had a mom for more than half of my life. I hate that my dad lost the love of his life. I loathe that I let Finn’s infidelity affect me. I’m furious that Gunner’s mom and stepdad hurt him so remorselessly. I’m crushed that I’ve met this amazing, wonderful man, and I can’t have him in my life after I leave.