Page 62 of Ugly Truths
Davey stands without a word, closing his laptop and placing it on the coffee table before striding toward the door to find his wife.
“I'll see you when I get home,” Silas promises.
“Okay,” I respond. Three additional words threaten to spill out, but I refrain. I’d said them that one time in Natalie’s kitchen weeks ago, but I never want him to feel obligated to say it back. He deserves to decide if he does without pressure from me. “Thank you again.”
When Silas speaks, his voice is low, almost reverent. “Anything for you, Lena. You know that.”
The line clicks off before I can respond, and I stare down at the phone, my fingers curling around it as something warm and unsteady presses against my ribs.
I push out a slow breath and follow Natalie’s voice down the hallway.
—
Cillian snorts from the desk chair he dragged out from the basement office. It echoes through the room just as Jeff flips me over his back and slams me onto the mat. The impact steals all of my oxygen.
“You reallyare rusty,” Jeff grunts as he looms over me, hands on his hips, exposing his mouthguard with a smirk. “C’mon. Get up.”
I glare up at him, the sting of humiliation bubbling in my gut. Silas, in his ever-meticulous way, rearranged part of the gym to fit a full section of grappling mats. Of course, he couldn’t just leave me alone to be rusty in peace—he had to set the stage for my failure in high definition.
“I’ve gotta say,” Cillian begins, still grinning. “I’ve missed watching you do this.”
“I’m going to kick your ass next,” I snap, ignoring the burning in my lungs as I roll onto my knees and push myself to my feet. My body aches already, but I refuse to let them see how much this is taking out of me.
“That’s the spirit,” Jeff replies, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. He’s already circling me, eyes darting from my toes back to my face.
I square my shoulders and meet his gaze head-on. My pride won’t let me back down now, not with Cillian watching, as if this is the best show he’s seen all week.
“You got it, El,” Natalie huffs out from the treadmill Jeff stuck her on, breathless but encouraging. Sweat drips from her brow as she struggles to keep pace. After Jeff’s quick assessment of her fitness level, he decided endurance was her first priority, and she’s been pounding away on the treadmill for the last forty-five minutes.
“Don't give her too much credit,” Jeff quips, sparing Natalie a quick glance as he circles me again. “You’re lucky I’m not flipping you onto this mat, too.”
Natalie rolls her eyes, though her focus doesn’t falter from the treadmill’s unrelenting rhythm. “Please. I could take you down in five seconds if I wanted to.” She flashes a playful smirk, but the effort in her voice betrays just how hard she’s pushing herself.
“Let’s stick to jogging for now, champ,” Jeff fires back, returning his attention to me. “Alright, kid. Ready?”
“Bring it, old man,” I grit out, planting my feet firmly on the mat. The ache in my ribs is a reminder of just how out of shape I’ve become.
Jeff snorts, the corner of his mouth quirking into a grin. “Trash talk like that will only make me work you harder.”
“Good,” I retort, wiping my forehead and dropping into a defensive stance. “Maybe you'll actually break a sweat this time.”
He steps closer, the teasing light in his eyes giving way to a flicker of seriousness. “Alright then,” he mutters, his voice dropping an octave as his weight shifts forward. “Show me what you've got.”
Before I can blink, he's coming at me again. I lunge to meet him and gain ground by hooking his leg and shifting my weight to drive into him. His grip falters and I slip into position, my heart pounding as I move to trap his arm.
My lips curl into a smile just as Jeff’s low chuckle reverberates in my ear. His hand snaps to my wrist mid-movement, twisting just enough to throw me off balance.
“Close,” he murmurs, his tone half-praising, half-mocking, “but not close enough.”
In one smooth motion, he sweeps my legs out and redirects my momentum, slamming me onto my back again. The mat slaps against my shoulder blades, and the ceiling suddenly spins.
I groan. “You’re such a show-off.”
Jeff only gives me a moment of reprieve before he’s extending a helping hand. “You’re the one who called me old. What’d you expect?”
He hauls me to my feet. My legs are shaky, but a grin tugs at my lips despite it. I spit out my mouthguard into my hand, and Jeff mimics my action just as his eyes land on the scar peeking out from under my rash guard.
“Those are still fading pretty well,” he comments, nodding toward the burn.
