Page 66 of Puck Daddies
“This isn’t on you,” I say. “They’re assholes! All of them!”
“I told her she could keep the used car salesman. Luke hates being called that. Now we have less time.”
I look at the letter. New date circled in red. Twenty-one days total. I feel the heat in my chest spike. “He’s usually home by now, right?”
Oliver comes in from the hall, calm voice already loaded. “No.”
Rocco steps behind Meg and puts his hands on her shoulders. “We fight this with filings. Not fists.”
“I just need to talk to him,” I say. “If he can’t speak Boston sign language, that’s not my fault.”
“No,” Oliver repeats. “You’re on suspension already.”
Meg wipes her face. “Please don’t go. I can’t carry you getting arrested on top of everything else.”
I put both hands on the back of the chair and squeeze until the wood creaks. “I need to hit something. I’ll go downstairs.”
“Wrap your hands,” Oliver says.
“I will.” I kiss the top of Meg’s head and go to the gym.
The building’s gym is empty. I pull the wraps from the bin and sit on the bench. I loop, wrap, and tuck. I stand in front of the bag and touch it once. Then I start.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Breathe. I keep my feet under me. I keep my hands up. I throw in sets of tens and walk off the bag after each set because I know what happens if I don’t. I roll my shoulders out and go back. The sound in my head stays loud.
The reporter. Travis. The horn. The letter. The look on Meg’s face. I add knees to the bag and shoulder bumps. I imagine a net, a puck, a gate that opens for clean changes only.
Travis’s dumbass face.
My knuckles start to burn. I should stop.
I pop the bag again and again until the skin splits under the wrap. I feel the sting and keep going for one more set because the point isn’t pain. It’s noise reduction, and it hasn’t gone away yet.
When my chest finally stops buzzing, I hold the bag and count to thirty. Then I undo the wraps and see blood on the cloth.
I go to the sink and run cold water until it hurts in a clean way. I wash, dry, and press paper towels to each split, relish the burn. I sit on the bench and wait for the bleeding to slow.
My hands look stupid. I feel stupid. Because that was a stupid thing to do.
But not as stupid as kicking Luke’s ass would have been.
I toss the wraps in the bin and walk to the elevator with my fists open so I don’t crack anything else. Back upstairs, the apartment is dark. How long was I gone?
I grab the first aid kit from under the sink and set it on the counter. I clean the cuts with saline, dab antibiotic, and wrap clean gauze around each knuckle. It’s neat by the time I’m done. I catch my face in the microwave door and barely recognize the guy looking back.
Not good. Not good at all.
I turn the hall light low and walk toward Meg’s room. The door is ajar. I look in. All three are asleep on top of the comforter, as if they fell down there. Meg is tucked in the middle on her side. Oliver is on the outside with a hand on her ankle. Rocco is behind her, his arm under the pillow and his other hand on the blanket that covers her hip.
They’re breathing shallow. No one is dreaming hard. The room smells like soap and our detergent.
I stand in the doorway long enough to feel my heart slow for the first time all night. The anger drops from my neck, my shoulders. It settles into the pit of my stomach. It doesn’t vanish.
Meg is devastated, and I wasn’t here for her when she needed me, because I was too wrapped up in my own bullshit anger. That’s the worst shame I can think of. I didn’t make the right choices tonight.
I can make them now.
I wash my hands and re-wrap them because I don’t want to get blood on the sheets. I lift the corner of the blanket and slide in behind Rocco. The mattress shifts. He doesn’t wake. I find Meg’s calf with my shin and leave it there. Oliver opens his eyes for half a second, sees me, and closes them again. He exhales. I tuck the blanket higher and listen.
