Page 2 of Whiskey Kisses

Yeah.

And then, because I don’t want to sound sulky, I follow up with

I’ll come by around 12.

And then, because no one knows me like my big brother, he follows up with

You ok? Want to come over? Nola made shepherd’s pie.

The heaviness hovering over me clears a little. Bria, my sister-in-law, keeps reminding me that connection is key. I know this. Family has always,always,come first. And, since I got hurt, it’s more than that—my family is my lifeline.

Because honestly, it’s hard to muster the motivation to do … well, anything. My life used to be full to bursting. I trained hard every day, taught up-and-comers to fight at Callaghan’s, and competed locally all the time, occasionally traveling for a fight. I spent quality time with my parents and sister and handled business with Lucky. I hung with my friends most nights, hitting the bars and playing pool, hooking up with cute girls.

Life looks a lot different these days.

I still train every day at Callaghan’s, but it’s a far cry from what it used to be. I haven’t been officially cleared to fight yet, so I don’t spar with anyone besides my coach. I go to physical therapy twice a week and work out at home. My social life consists of hanging at my brother’s, family dinners, and Mass because Mom wants so desperately for me tobe there. Otherwise, it’s food delivery and binging Netflix until I fall asleep.

Bria says this shrinking of my life, this reclusiveness, is a trauma response. She can’t help herself—she’s a therapist-in-training. She’s not wrong, though. She was injured pretty bad the same night I was, so she gets me in a way that no one else does—not even Lucky. Being alone too muchdoeseat away at me. Without sparring and winning matches and teaching folks to fight, I feel purposeless. Empty.

I text Lucky back.

I’m great

After dinner, I head for the guest room, aka my training room. I start with some of the gentle yoga moves my physical therapist, Mia, prescribed back when we first started. Taking a long, deep breath, I try to calm the mess of emotions within.Focus. Another breath.

The exercise regimen I’ve designed for myself is grueling, designed not just to test the limits of my endurance, but to shatter them. Push-ups come first, my form decent despite the tremors quaking through my impaired arm. I push through the discomfort, one punishing repetition after another. Crunches. Burpees. A few more stretches, deeper, not so easy this time, until I feel ready to throw a few punches.

I shadowbox for a half hour before moving onto the punching bag, alternating slow and steady with rapid-fire combos. “Come on,” I grit out, ignoring the itchy pull of scar tissue. Because it’s not enough to dojust enough. It wasn’t when I was healthy and whole, and it sure as shit isn’t now. With each jab, each hook, each uppercut, I fight against the creeping doubts that try to take root in my mind every fucking day.

Eventually, like every time I train, my movements become less about technique and more about catharsis. I go hard, reclaiming myself with every smack of the bag until I fold to the floor, panting, muscles trembling from exertion. I’m tired. And my arm hurts so bad I could puke.

“Easy, Tristan. You're no good to anyone if you push too hard and bust yourself up even more.”Coach Abioye’s words run through my brain, the same shit he says every time we train.“Healing is just as much a part of the fight as throwing punches.”

Yeah, yeah. But today I win. I win againstme.

A couple of feet away, my phone vibrates against the hardwood floor. With a groan, I roll over and pick it up. It’s Mia.

WYD?

Just finished working out

You should come work out over here ;)

I flop onto my back, considering. Let’s just say that Mia’s good atallkinds of physical therapy. We have fun together, no strings attached. That’s the only thing that works for me these days. My last real relationship crashed and burned ages ago, before I got shot, and I haven’t had the emotional bandwidth to try again.

Or you could come here ;)

OMW.

I letmyself in through the back door, poking my head into Lucky’s kitchen.

"Hey, Tristan." Bria looks up from the kitchen table, which is covered in textbooks, notes, highlighters, and coffee cups. She’s in grad school at Boston University, taking forensic psychology classes while Liam is in school. It’s only been a few months since she went from being my nephew’s nanny to his stepmom, but the transition’s been smooth as butter.

“Bria the Cheese.” Stepping inside, I kick off my Nikes and shut the door. “How’s it hangin’?”

“You do realize I’ve got nothing to hang,” she deadpans, eyeing me as I swipe a cookie from the glass jar on the countertop. She’s always baking cookies, and they’re always fantastic.

“I don’t know about that. You’ve got more cojones than most guys I know.” I pop the cookie into my mouth. “Um, hmm. Is that … matcha?”

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