Page 59 of 4th Degree

“Do you know that’s the thing I feel most guilty about? That one year when I was so angry with her, and every day I wished she would just grow up. I was thirteen, and acting like a parent to two kids. Every time I sent in a rent check, or cooked dinner, or forged her signature on Joey’s field trip slip, I hated her. And now…” She lets out a sound like a hiccup, but that could very well be a sob. I wrap both arms around her. “And now I would do anything to go back to that year and shake myself. Because on my worst days, it feels like I caused her disease.”

“Skylar, no,” I finally say, tightening my arms around her and speaking softly beside her ear. “You were a kid. What you felt was completely normal. Anyone in your shoes would have felt sad, and hurt, and angry. You didn’t ‘bring on’ anything. Sometimes, bad things just happen. It’s nobody’s fault.”

She traces the seam of my jeans for a moment, her voice defeated when she finally speaks.

“I know you’re right. It’s just hard to get rid of the feelings I internalized back then.”

I kiss her neck in answer. “That’s valid, too.”

Part of me wonders if Skylar has anyone to talk to about these things. The idea of being a support system for her—of being a safe space—has me pushing just a little more. Just enough so I can understand the whole picture.

“Skylar, what disease does your mom have?”

“Parkinson’s.” Her hand goes back to stroking Brutus’s head. “We found out a year after Dad died when she started having serious mobility issues. She’s young for the disease, which is why it took them a little while to diagnose. But when she had to quit working because her balance was off and her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, it became pretty obvious it was a neurological issue.”

Suddenly, I’m remembering how Skylar talked to Lucy when she got concussed. She said the knowledge was because she’s in nursing school and likes the brain, but…

First brain cancer, then a neurological disease.

“They’re why you’re in nursing school, aren’t they?”

She nods. “I always knew I’d end up doing something in healthcare. Nursing was the logical answer because of cost, but if I had it my way, I’d be on a straight doctorate track. I love the idea of nursing because I love helping people, but being a doctor would let me solve problems. I could actually treat the disease and help people like Mom. My dream would be to become a neurologist but…” She lets out a shaky exhale. “It’s just not really in the cards. So, I’m in nursing school.”

I think about how much of a hard worker Skylar is, and how determined she can be when she has a goal. “You’d make an incredible doctor,” I tell her. Because I think she needs to hear it. And God, I hope I’m not the first to say it.

She gives me a small, grateful smile over her shoulder.

“I think I would, too,” she says quietly, turning back toward the TV.

Then just as quickly as she launched into her life story, she ends it by changing the subject. “Did you ever consider a career outside of fighting?”

I turn my own attention back to the fight. “Not really. I got into fighting early, and I’ve been coaching for almost the same amount of time, so owning a gym was always the end goal. Of course, it helps that I still love the sport and that it makes me money.”

“Did you make good money as a fighter?”

I let out a snort at that. “Feeling a little bold, are we?”

She shrugs. “You almost just killed me with your big dick—it’s a side effect.”

My head tips back with a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time.”

From over her shoulder, I can see the way she bites into her lower lip to control her smile.

That’s right, baby. This thing between us is only starting.

I run my fingers through her hair as I answer. I could touch her all night. “It wasn’t an astronomical amount, but it was enough to let me live comfortably. A lot of fighters at that time couldn’t say the same, so I was thankful for what I had.” I hesitate before adding, “It was enough for me to support me and my ex-wife.”

That startles her enough to turn slightly in my lap so she can see my face. I let her, wanting her to see I want to be transparent with her the same way she was with me.

“You were married? When?”

“Early in my fighting career. We weren’t even that young, but I was too young for marriage. I was a terrible husband.”

Her brow furrows as her eyes search mine. “I find that hard to believe.”

I shrug. “It’s true. Not that I’d do anything differently now, beyond not getting married in the first place. I was not ready for marriage. At all.”

“Explain, please,” she says, almost sternly, as her frown deepens.

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