Page 182 of Gym Bros
The question surprises me enough that I momentarily forget how to make words. “Um…y-yes?”
“I don’t,” he says, and this time my vision goes hazy. I set the wine aside for now.
He continues. “So, Rachel came to bitch me out the other day?—”
“I’m—”
He holds up his hand, and I immediately shut up. “I let her. She’s entitled to her opinion, and I know how to take criticism. And advice. But this isn’t about what she said—it was this amateur fight rule I thought about.”
I must look as confused as I feel because he slows down to explain. “So it happens when one person is totally dominating the other person—or I guess I should say—the ref thinks that’swhat’s going on. Like one fighter might still be finding their footing, or they’re slower to warm up, but then the ref calls it—like stops the fight. No winner gets declared, it’s just done. Doesn’t count. Like it never happened.”
“That sounds really frustrating,” I say carefully.
“It’s incredibly fucking frustrating, and it’s only happened to me once, but I was totally fine to keep going.”
“What’d you do?” I ask.
“Screamed at the ref. Got screamed at back. Anyway, that’s kinda what it felt like the day you came over. Like you were calling it.”
I have to respond to that. “You said it couldn’t work.”
“I didn’t think it could.”
I’m too terrified to ask if that’s changed. Ifanythinghas changed. My heart feels like a bruise in my chest, and my throat is closing up.
“But,” he says, “It also didn’tfeelover. You know?”
I don’t know whether I nod or shake my head or some awkward combination of both.
“It still doesn’t,” he says softly.
“But you said?—”
“I know what I said, Calyx. And I know how I feel. I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do knowing what I know about my dad, but I do get why you wouldn’t want to tell me about it. I really do feel like you liked me. For the right reasons.”
“I really do,” I tell him.
“Yeah, I know. I like you, too. Not just ‘cause you’re pretty.”
I think I knew that, but hearing it matters, too.
“You’re like Beauty, you know. Like it took you a minute to feel comfortable and open up—show me all your behavioral issues and your personality, but once you did, I felt like we kinda bonded.”
“You’re comparing me to a rescue dog.”
“I mean we’re all kinda like rescue dogs, right? I could say the same thing about myself when I met you.”
I feel like it means something that the unusual metaphors he’s using to make sense of our relationship both revolve around two of the things he loves most. MMA and his dog. “You were friendlier than I was,” I say.
“Well, you don’t set a very high bar for that,” he mutters.
My lips threaten to quirk. Again, though, I can’t let them. I’m about to start feeling hopeful, and I’ve got no business feeling anything like that. Laying it all out on the table, I ask, “How did you find out?”
“I saw a couple of texts on my dad’s phone.”
“All of them?” I ask.
He’s staring at the frozen TV screen now. “No, just enough to be suspicious and ask the question.”
