Finding peace, p.6
Finding Peace, page 6
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” I say. “I just got lost. Pardon me.”
“Got lost.” He snorts. “Sure you did.”
My hands clench into fists reflexively, my heart accelerating against my will.
“How’d you like to go a few rounds? I love trying my luck on fresh faces. They’re in short supply around here lately.” He stands up straight, and I revise my assessment. He’s closer to 200 pounds. Light heavyweight, just like me when I was fighting.
“I was just going for a run,” I lie.
“But you’re a fighter,” the man says. “I can see it in your stance, in your hands. And in your eyes.”
I don’t argue. “I haven’t been in a ring in years.”
“Boxer, I bet.”
I shrug.
“You used to train here?”
“Maybe.”
“So what will it hurt to go a round or two?”
Nothing. That’s what. And it might ease the ache in my heart and the strife in my soul. “Okay, sure. You’re a boxer?”
“Started out there, yeah.” He steps toward me and holds out his hand. “Name’s Chad. Chad Greene.”
“I’m Ethan Sims,” I say out of habit. I never used my legal name boxing. No one in my real life would ever connect that name to me—to Ethan Trainor, heir to the Trainor family fortune. It felt appropriate somehow, using Phillip’s name to flush the anger he engendered out of my system. “What do you do now?”
“UFC, man. It’s almost all anyone watches anymore.”
“I don’t have gear. Can I borrow some?”
Chad nods. “Holden. Get me some gloves and a mouth guard, will you?”
A flyweight stops working on the bag in the corner and walks toward us. His nose was badly broken—recently. “You gonna fight this guy?” When he smiles, his nose looks even worse, like a smashed plum above a completely normal mouth.
“Yeah, if you ever shut up and get him some gear.”
“Fine, geez.” Holden trots toward the lockers in the back and emerges a moment later with battered black gloves. He holds them out to me.
“Thanks.” I put them on. They’re a little small, but they’ll work for a few rounds, which is all this is. “These are light.”
Chad shakes his head. “Boxers.”
“I heard that UFC gloves were thinner. I forgot.”
“You’ve done UFC?” Holden cocks his head and frowns.
“Nah, but I’ve watched some matches.” All the rings are occupied. “Where are you thinking?”
“Jared. Logan.” Chad tosses his head. “Get out.”
The huge black guy in the ring closest to me releases his rear choke on the poor guy he’s destroying and they both climb out of the ring.
“Don’t worry,” Chad says as he climbs in. “I’ll go easy on you.” When he smiles, it’s with a cockiness I didn’t notice at first. Judging by the way he orders people around, I’m guessing I’ve managed to draw the attention of one of the top dawgs here.
Just my luck lately.
Getting an epic beat down should remind me why I quit boxing in the first place.
Holden hands me a mouth guard that doesn’t look altogether clean, but I can’t really complain about a little pocket lint when I’m about to get my face slammed against a dirty canvas mat. I wipe it against my shorts surreptitiously as I climb into the ring.
“It’s clean, man, I swear,” Holden says.
“Of course,” I say. “Habit.”
“I thought you ain’t fought for years.” Holden frowns.
“Some things are embedded in the muscle memory.” I close the gap, and notice that only two of the rings still have guys fighting in them. Five or six people have gathered to watch. That’s not normal for a random match with a walk-in. Who exactly am I about to fight?
“How long has it been?” Chad asks. “You know, since the last time you punched someone?”
I act like I have to think about it. Like I haven’t missed it every single day in the last seven years, nine months, and fourteen days. “Close to eight years.”
The heavyweight black guy slouches against the same wall Chad was leaning against and whistles. “So you climbing into that ring is like Rocky or something.”
Gosh, I hope not. “Sure. I’m thirty now, but this isn’t some kind of comeback.” I laugh. “I just had a bad day, and I’m looking to blow off a little steam.”
“Right.” Chad says. “Let’s go, then.” He circles me, and I follow suit, keeping my space for now, watching how he moves.
He’s light on his feet. He’s definitely in active training and it shows. He also loves fighting, which matters more than people realize. In my experience, the very best fighters are the ones who love doing it. The only thing that beats love of the sport—in terms of sharpening someone’s skillset—is rage.
Unfettered, unadulterated rage.
At least I have that going for me, even after all these years.
Chad doesn’t wait, advancing with a jab right off. I weave to evade it pretty easily.
That’s when his half smile spreads into a full one. “Nice. You got some legs on you still, old man, huh?”
And I pop him in the jaw. He flies backward almost a foot, and flies right back up.
At least that stupid smile is gone.
UFC or not, it’s clear in the way he moves, the way he holds his shoulders, the way he feints, that Chad started as a boxer. Fine, well, I’ll treat him like one. My best move has always been my hook. Every TKO I ever got came from my left hook. I pound him with my right-left-right, and then swing with the left. He shifts enough that it connects with his shoulder instead of his face, but judging by the way he dances back, I haven’t lost all my power.
When Chad circles this time, all the friendly banter is gone. From the corner of my eye, I notice that now, no one else is fighting. Everyone is watching us. More than a dozen guys stand around the ring. My adrenaline spikes and I start pushing him around a little to see what he’ll do. Jab cross, jab cross, jab cross, shuffle. He defends, he circles, he defends and circles more.
Why’s he defending? Why isn’t he attacking?
“What’d you say your name was?” Chad asks.
“Ethan Sims,” I say. “I’m a nobody.”
“I ain’t heard of you.” Chad spits. “But that hook, man, it’s raw.” And he drops his hands. Not very much.
But enough.
I hammer his abdomen with a round of blows, and I can feel it. I’ve got this. I’ll soften him a little more, and then I’ll take him out with a real hook, full force.
But then my head dips a little too low, and he drops his arm around my neck. He locks it by grabbing his wrist with his free hand and flips me to the mat. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. Like, at all.
A moment later, the world goes black. When light comes back, I blink and blink and blink until my vision clears. I’m staring up at the slow-turning giant fans. When I swear under my breath, my voice is rough. I thought I had him.
Chad’s beaming face looms over mine, and he offers me a hand. “Not bad, old man, not bad at all.”
I drag in a breath and force myself to take his hand even though I’m not really ready to stand up. As he yanks me upward, I notice with no small amount of joy that his jaw is swollen and he’s got a black eye. He might have won, but I did some damage on the way down.
And it felt good. Maybe too good.
“Thanks,” I say. “I think I needed that.”
“Ethan Sims,” a low voice rumbles at the edge of the ring. A voice I’ll never forget, no matter how many years and months and days pass. A frog crawls up in my throat.
I haven’t seen Harrison Lunger since the night I lost.
“What are you doing in my gym?” My old trainer’s standing at the exit for the ring.
“I had a lousy day,” I say.
“I heard you was in Hawaii.” He scowls. “Surfing.”
“Surfing?” Chad laughs. “Are you kidding? That’s why you’re so tan?”
I cross my arms. “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. There’s something about surfing and boxing—they’re both all encompassing—consuming somehow.”
The guys gathered around scoff and mutter. I doubt any of them have ever touched a surfboard, much less been in the tunnel.
“You know this surfer guy, coach?” Chad asks.
“He used to train me.” I climb out of the ring, but Harrison doesn’t move, and I bump his shoulder as I walk past. “But don’t worry. I didn’t come to bother you. I happened past on a jog—I won’t be back.”
“What makes you think I don’t want you back?”
I freeze.
“I’ve been waiting eight years to see you walk back through that door.”
“I’m too old,” I say. “And I lost.”
“Thirty is too old?” He laughs. “It’s the new twenty-five.”
I turn around slowly. “I’m here for a family thing. I’m going back to Hawaii soon. To surf my life away.” I stare at him.
“Well,” Harrison says. “If you think you can just stroll in here and rough up my guys—”
“I beat him,” Chad says. “You saw that.”
“I was going to say,” Harrison nearly shouts, “that you’d always be welcome.” He smiles. “I’ve missed you and that killer left hook.”
Chad looks like he wishes he’d held that lock a little longer.
“You’re doing UFC now?” I can hardly believe it. No one was more method than Harrison. No one was a more irritating boxing purist. If he’s sold out, it’s the end of an era in Atlanta.
He shrugs. “Times change. If you don’t change, you die off. The people want UFC, so we give them UFC.”
I know a lot about giving the people what they want. In fact, it’s kind of my whole job. “Well, if I have another crappy day,” I say, “I might come back.”
Harrison smiles. “We’d love to see you again. Wouldn’t we, Chad?”
“Sure,” Chad says. “The mat has been dirty. I’d love to mop it with your face again.”
I hope I wasn’t that idiotic at his age. “I’ll remember that.” But even if I come by every now and then for a match to blow off some steam, I’m not training again. That was another life, another me. That was old Ethan—which is why I need to get this Phillip situation resolved and go home as soon as possible.
6
Anica
Setups are for total losers. Always.
Which is probably why I didn’t cancel. I mean, that’s basically me to a tee, right? Unemployed, homeless, thirty, and single.
Trudy and Geo convince me to wear my favorite sky blue dress and strappy white sandals, like I’m some fresh-faced college student. I swing into a spot as close to the back of the parking lot as I can, in case Mr. Hotel Manager insists on walking me out. Surely he’d give up on any gentlemanly resolve before we would reach my ‘nearly at the end of its life’ old car way back here at the very far side of the lot.
No self-respecting bestselling author would drive Cashew, a fifteen-year-old, banana yellow Honda. At least, no currently bestselling author would.
The best thing my new friends can tell someone about me is so far removed from the present that it’s basically a lie at this point.
I’m about to open my door when someone screeches around the corner in a blindingly shiny, royal blue Porsche.
I hate Porsches.
My ex drove one. I don’t really have any other good reasons for disliking them, but I feel like that’s enough. Back when we were dating, I thought it was amazing that he drove a Porsche. Now I see them for what they are: a cry for attention and validation.
Maybe I could include that in my book somehow, subtly, and if he reads about it, he’ll feel my jab. Not that he’d read anything I wrote. Which is totally fine.
Of course the driver of the Porsche throws his door open immediately and hops out.
And…it’s Ethan.
I should have guessed. Why else would he park way out here? To hide, or to keep his pristine car from getting dinged. I suppress a groan, because if he hears that, he’ll notice I’m here and I might not be able to text him to say I’m cancelling.
Even though not a peep escapes my lips, he still notices me. “Anica?” He taps on my window.
How?
Bionic ears? I almost can’t suppress my groan this time.
“Oh,” I say as brightly as I can manage. “Hey.”
His face registers relief, as he’s technically five minutes late. “Phew. I was worried you’d be waiting on me.”
I swallow and force myself to climb out of Cashew. This is going about as perfectly as I expected it to go. “Not at all. In fact, I should probably confess that I’m chronically about ten minutes late.”
He beams. “Me too. Well that’s a relief.”
I’m not chronically late. In fact, I hate people who are always late, and now he’s failed a second of Anica’s tests—drives a Porsche, and he’s late all the time. I’m beginning to think we have exactly zero in common.
And now I’ve officially started dating people on the basis of one single criterion: we’re both single.
“Did you want—” Ethan says at the same time as I say, “Well, should we—”
He laughs. “After you.”
Awkward. I walk toward the hotel, acutely aware that I’m overdressed compared to his dark jeans and polo shirt.
“You look nice,” he says. “Like a lily or something.”
A lily? He thinks I look like a flower? I try not to cringe. “Thanks.”
“So how do you know Geo?”
I should have expected this question. After all, it’s the reason I’m here. Somehow, I find myself singularly unprepared to answer him. Do I tell him she’s friends with my ex-brother-in-law’s new wife? And then confess that I’m currently sponging off of said ex-brother-in-law and sort of helping with things while they deal with a new baby?
It’s all too weird.
So I do something crazy. Clearly this date’s not going anywhere, so why invest in it? I just take the easiest path: a complete and total lie, one that won’t make either of us edgy or nervous.
“I’m new in town and I met her at a game night my friend threw.”
“Oh, so you barely know one another.”
“Basically.” I shrug. “Geo and Trudy are just really nice and insisted I come along for their lunch.”
“I haven’t seen her in years, but she used to be pretty particular about her friends.” Ethan’s brow furrows. “She’s never been much of a social butterfly.” We’ve reached the entrance and he motions for me to go ahead. “After you. You’ve got some strawberry salad to eat.”
“Actually, about that.”
“Yes?” Ethan smiles, and I notice that he’s got two adorable dimples. It’s too bad we have zero in common, because he’s almost painfully hot.
“Never mind.” No reason to confess that I’m more of a burger and fries girl than a spinach and fruit one, not when this clearly has no future. “Let’s go.”
Once we sit and I order the obligatory strawberry and spinach salad with grilled chicken, as well as a side of French fries because, well, French fries, I decide to go on the offensive. If I don’t want to answer awkward questions, better to push those his direction. “So you were in Hawaii, and now you’re here? What prompted that terrible step down?”
I expect him to laugh. He frowns instead. “I’m not staying.”
“Oh.” It kind of makes me feel better to know that even if we had hit it off, he’s splits-ville the second he does whatever he came here to accomplish. “Well, why did you come, then?”
“I have family here.”
Since our food isn’t here yet, there isn’t even a strawberry salad I can dive into to escape the terribly empty space that has opened up between us. I don’t want to share what a clusterous mess my life has become, and he won’t tell me why he’s here in Atlanta. This may be the worst date I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some doozies.
“What books have you written?” he finally asks.
I try my best not to frown. I know he’s just trying to make conversation, but it feels a bit like we’re both drowning on dry land. “Uh, nothing you’ve read, I’m sure. I write romantic comedies, like the kind of movie Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan would star in.”
“Ah.” He nods. “Okay.”
“When will you be heading back to Hawaii?”
“As soon as I possibly can.” He’s staring at his phone without even looking up to answer.
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Well, I’m sorry I didn’t go with my gut, for your sake as well as mine.”
“Excuse me?” Ethan drops his phone to the table and braces both his hands on the table’s edge. “I’m sorry. That was my sister. She’s just gone to meet someone I don’t want her seeing.”
“It’s cute, the protective older brother thing.” I shake my head. “What I meant was, I usually duck this kind of thing—setup attempts and the like. But you’re so good-looking and you have a respectable job, so I figured, why not?” I snort. “Lesson learned, right?”
When the waitress shows up with our meals, I stand up. “I don’t even like sugary salad. Actually, I don’t like salad that’s not sweet either.” I point at the fries. “But can I get these to go?”
Ethan stands up, too. “Did I say something that offended you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. You haven’t said a thing, really, so there’s no way you could have offended me. But when I turned thirty a few months ago, I’ve realized something, Ethan I-gotta-get-back-to-Hawaii-as-soon-as-possible.”
“You did?” He even has dimples when he half smiles.
“I realized that my most valuable commodity is time, and I should be smart enough by now to know not to waste it. Don’t you agree?”
“You’re saying lunch with me is a waste of time?”
I point at him. “You drive a Porsche.” I scrunch my nose. “Sorry, but for me, that’s strike one.” I extend a second finger. “Number two, you aren’t sticking around Atlanta, and I just moved here. I don’t want to leave any time soon, so that’s another strike.” I point at the table. “And for the last one, you’re too cute for me to be comfortable admitting that I don’t like salad. Not your fault, but that’s still strike three. I’d say three strikes in less than half an hour isn’t an auspicious start to any kind of relationship.”
