Page 6 of Ugly Truths
“I’m not ready,” I snap, gripping the edge of the stone counter.
The silence that follows is suffocating, but what else is there for him to say? He doesn’t understand this, not that I’ve been able to find the words to explain it to him.
Luis’s voice is gentle when he speaks again. “It’s never going to feel like the right time,” he pauses, “I know it’s hard. Scary. But it’s the path forward.”
He’s right, of course, but just because it’s true doesn’t make it easy to do. There is a decade's worth of unforgivable actions I’ve taken and selfish choices I’ve made. Nightmares that I’ve been pushing down into that well inside of me that once felt infinite but now threatens to spill over at any slight movement.
Confronting it will only make it overflow and drown me.
“Maybe one day,” I concede, the lie coming easily, “but not now.”
There’s another long pause while I stare at the countertop.
“Okay.”
His quiet acceptance feels both a relief and a disappointment. I’ve spent so long fighting against people who pushed me—Peter, Silas, even myself—that I don’t know what to do with someone who lets me set the pace.
There's a sudden pressure on the edges of my shoulders before his arms wrap around the top of mine from behind.
Luis rests his chin lightly on my shoulder. His warmth is comforting, and for a moment, I let myself lean back into it, closing my eyes and exhaling shakily.
“I just want you to feel better,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I whisper, reaching up to awkwardly pat his forearm. “I appreciate it. When I’m ready, I’ll tell you. I promise.”
He holds me for another long moment before stepping back, hands lingering briefly on my shoulders before dropping away. “I know.”
Ceramic slides against granite as Luis picks up his coffee mug and heads back to his office, giving me the space I didn’t ask for, but he knows I need. And for a while, I stand there, staring at my uneaten food, wondering if there will be a day when I feel like I can face all of the damage I’ve done.
Chapter 3
Silas
The gym doesn’t look like much from the outside; just one of many brick-front businesses in a long strip on a main road in South Side. The only discernible difference between the other businesses that surround it, apart from the faded Ironworks Training Center sign above the door, is that it occupies significantly more street-front real estate.
For a moment, I wonder if I’m wasting my time and if this is just another dead end.
I step inside anyway.
The gym door swings shut behind me with a faintclang, the sound swallowed by the low hum of activity. By some miracle, no one looks in my direction.
I’ve spent years cultivating a certain level of anonymity, but even so, I’m not exactly invisible, especially in this city. If someone recognizes me before I can get a read on things, this whole idea could blow up before it even starts.
The air carries that unmistakable mix of sweat and disinfectant. Matted, open floors stretch before me, only broken up by black grappling mats, scuffed and worn but meticulously clean. Heavy bags dangle from chains bolted to exposed beams, kettlebells and dumbbells are scattered along the edges, and a row of dented lockers lines the far wall next to a rack holding gloves and headgear.
It feels familiar in a way that reminds me of Scarlett. Or, I guess, Elena. She always spoke highly of this place and how much she learned here. We spent hours discussing her training after the alley attack and all the ways it had paid off, even with a bruised eye and a split forehead.
She was so convincing.
I wonder how smug she felt when I stepped into the role of protector without hesitation. She didn’t even have to try; that’s how far gone I already was. Still, credit where it’s due. She figured me out fast and used the soft spot for my sister like a goddamn weapon.
My jaw tightens, like it always does when I think about her. I push the thought aside and step farther into the room.
There are a few people training. A guy works the heavy bag, his punches landing in a steady rhythm. A woman curls free weights in front of a mirror, her movements slow and controlled. Two others grapple on the mats, their bodies locked in a quiet struggle. No one lingers or chats idly.
“Hey, man. Can I help you?”
A deep voice cuts through the music playing through the speakers, pulling my attention to a man walking toward me.
