Page 46 of The Way We Fell

I can’t shake this anger, the way I feel like I’m nothing to her. Like a project. Like something she used to pass the time, to get what she wanted before moving on in another direction. I know Katy, and I know in my heart of hearts she wouldn’t do that. I know shedidn’tdo that. But fuck if that wasn’t how it felt in the moment. And by the time I’d got my bearings, by the time my brain caught up to my runaway fucking mouth, she’d got up and walked out, so I couldn’t even try to explain.

And I made her cry.

Every single tear that rolled down her face felt like another knife to my gut. I was the one who caused them. And I was the one twisting the knife. All Katy has ever tried to do is help me—seeme. She’s always seen me for me, right from the start. From Ruth’s birthday at Pacifica, when she slid closer and distracted me at the exact moment the walls began to close in, to Ruth’s fajitas and whatevers day when she saw how I handled—or didn’t—the noise.

She’s the best fucking thing in my life. The biggest revelation. The one person I find myself wanting to see, to spend time with. To open up to. And I just pushed her away. Made her cry. It made me feel sick to my stomach at the sight of her tears. Fucking idiot fuckwit.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the gym. I didn’t know where else to go. There’s no one I can talk to about this—not that I would. I don’t have the words to say. I snatch a fresh roll of cloth from a basket on the desk and wrap my hands before shoving them into a round pair of gloves. I head straight for the row of bags hanging from the ceiling. I plant my feet, rear back and launch my gloved fists. The bag’s chain groans as I pummel it, and my ears fill with the sound of leather on leather and my own grunts and yells.

“Hey, man, maybe you should take a break.” A figure hovers in the edge of my periphery, shifting hesitantly from foot to foot.

“Fuck off,” I yell between hits.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself, bruh.” A second voice joins the first. I ignore them both and continue to attack the bag. Beads of sweat fly from my upper lip as I twist into the hit.

“Come on, mate, take a break for a minute, yeah? You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Leave”—hit—“me”—hit—“the fuck”—hit—“alone!” I roar. A third man joins the party, and it takes a split second before I recognise him as Rob, the gym’s owner. He’s at least my height and a solid wall of muscle. Unlike the other two men at the edge of the scene, Rob is brave enough to step onto the mat, darting left and right in sync with me for a brief moment before ducking in and wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me away from the bag.

Immediately, I twist in his hold. He’s strong, but he’s no match for me. I overpower him easily, swinging first at the bag, and then at Rob, determined to free myself. One of my gloves lands a glancing blow to his jaw and he loosens his grip just enough for me to pull myself free. And then he lands a single hit.

It’s not a hard one, but it does exactly what it’s designed to do: it pulls me out of whatever dissociative state I’m in, and it disarms me just enough for him to grab my arms, and stop me from fighting back.

Ten minutes later, we’re in his office with two of the gym’s trainers between us, and an ice pack each.

“‘Sup bro?” My sister answers the phone with a simple greeting.

“I need your help, Roo.”

“Not sure I’m qualified for that kind of help, but go on.”

“Oh, you definitely are,” I chuckle drily. “I fucked up. I need you to come and pick me up.”

“Okay,” she singsongs, drawing out the second syllable. “Where are you? Police station? Jail?”

“I’m at Power House. You know, the boxing gym on the West Cedar estate.” I pause. Ruth says nothing. “I need help, Roo.”

Fifteen minutes later, my sister storms up to the door with an expression torn between laughter and despair. If I didn’t know her micro-expressions any better, I’d swear she was enjoying herself, seeing me with an ice pack pressed to the rapidly-forming bruise on my cheek.

“What the fuck have you got yourself into, Jay-Jay?” The childhood nickname should be comforting, but it’s not. I hang my head as Ruth slips into the room and into the wooden chair beside me, resting a small hand on my arm as Rob reaches out a bloody-knuckled hand to introduce himself. One of his employees stands guard at the door to the small office.

Ruth returns the introduction and handshake, before she reaches up, stretching her upper body and neck to whisper in my ear. “I’ve got this. It’s gonna be fine.”

Between me, Rob, and his underling, we fill Ruth in on the events of the afternoon. I keep my eyes downcast, head hung low in shame as somehow, Ruth manages to talk Rob out of pressing charges. She agrees to review Rob’s employment and membership contracts pro bono, as a favour, and we all agree I’m not allowed to use the gym anymore, but I’m free to go with no police involvement. Ruth drives me home in silence.

“What’s going on, Jay?” Ruth waits for me to flick on the lights and shrug out of my hoodie before launching her interrogation.

“I don’t—I think—I’m not—”

I sit at the opposite end of the sofa, and she shuffles along to sit beside me, pressing her head into my shoulder. I have no words anymore, no fight left in me.

“I know. Talk to someone.”

“That’s what Katy said, too,” I whisper. “When we had lunch—I kind of freaked out on her once. Or twice.”

“She’s pretty clever,” Ruth says. “You probably should listen.”

“Roo… I got hurt. At work, I mean.” I sigh and drop my head to hers. “She told me to tell you that, too, but I didn’t listen to that either.”

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