Page 73 of Fighting

By five a.m.,I’ve polished off a pre-workout shake and I’m headed out for a run. I hit every corner of this town. The day is perfect; it’s chilly, but the air is clean and clear. The weekend should be sunny, meaning the days won’t be too cold.

The leaves are a mix of red, yellow, and brown. They fall to the ground, and as I run over them, they make a satisfying crunch. This is fucking picturesque. This is movie shit. This is it. I just need to get to the part where I show up, defeat that dipshit, and prove to Nessa this was never fake for me. I’ve seen more than my fair share of romcoms. I can be the hero in this story.

Clearly my endorphins have kicked in, washing away last Sunday’s fears.

Nessa is okay. We’ve spent every night this week together, and I’ve even managed to keep my hands to myself. Mostly. I want her to know I’m here for more than just her amazing tits or the way she sasses me.

I’m here to show her the same kind of compassion and care she shows others.

Mom promised to light a candle for me at church, and I’m trusting that everything will work out. This morning routinefeels like that pump-up scene inRocky. Maybe I should have added “Eye of the Tiger” to my workout playlist.

This is my time to shine, in the movie of life, I’m about to be the down-on-his-luck hometown jock who returns and shows them all.

I’m more than they believe I am.

I am going to defeat this nepo-baby, save the town, and win the heart of the woman I love.

This is going to be an epic weekend.

I repeat these phrases throughout the run, throughout my post-workout shake, during my shower, and as I get dressed.

I return to the town center—making it here before Nessa for our seven-a.m. pre-kick off meeting;score—and stroll all four sides of the square, assessing the work.

The town business owners have outdone themselves. Every lamp post is decorated with a scarecrow or corn stalks. The doors are flanked by flowers or pumpkins, some even have both. There are even mini apple trees in pots lining the path to The Featherweight. I pull my phone from my pocket, set on texting River a compliment, but stop mid-message when he and Lily step outside.

The front lawn has the usual eclectic mix of seating arrangements. Each is decorated by lanterns with flameless candles, fall flowers, and mini pumpkins. We wave, then they return to unloading fall-themed pillows and throw blankets onto the porch rockers and swing.

“This is making me wish there was a prize for the most festive business,” I call.

They high-five, though when River lowers his arm, his hand goes straight to her butt and his mouth goes to hers.

I turn, giving them privacy, and continue on. I’m pumped. This festival is going to be my legacy, and that legacy is entwined with that of my girl.

At Curl Up & Dye, the young Salvatore ladies add large faux scissors to their planters. In the window, there’s even a pair of gold skeletons in chairs wearing wigs. The first has its hair rollers in, and the other is wearing some sort of glittery spider clip updo.

“Amazing work, ladies!” I call out.

“Better than River?” Chiara teases me.

Inside Pages, Pippa is behind the counter. I stride up to the door and knock.

She jumps, but when she catches sight of me, she breaks into a smile and scurries over and unlocks the door.

We hug and catch up briefly. She mentions that they plan to bring out a few carts of books, which is why their portion of the sidewalk is sparse for now. While I’m here, I offer to help haul boxes out front, since Seth has yet to appear. While we work, she tells me about how she’s hoping to step back from the store, but mentions that Seth is trying to convince her not to.

I agree with her. He’s ready to take over. He just needs to have more faith in himself.Maybe Liam and I should include him in a guys night soon.

Next door, outside Rosie’s, a series of baskets creates a wraparound fixture to the window. They are stuffed full of fall blooms the colors of a vibrant sunrise like the one I saw during my run: wine red, fuchsia, bright red-orange, and saffron yellow. Each basket has its own big bush of blooms that doesn’t move despite the topsy-turvy design. They all lead to an enormous silk sunflower, like the sun within the sky of color.

“Whoa.” I say, letting the final sound linger.

“Right? It’s a masterpiece,” the rockabilly woman covered in patchwork tattoos says, holding a hand toward me. “Millie.”

“Mateo.” I accept the greeting. “You the new florist?”

At the scuff of the wheels from a library cart along the sidewalk, Millie beams. “Good morning, sugar.”

“Good morning, Mildred.” Seth grunts in return.

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