Page 51 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I don’t look up. The tire’s all I can focus on. I rear my arm and throw another punch. The rubber protests beneath me.
“You tryin’ to punch it into next week?” He drawls, his voice low and amused.
I hear the scrape of him settling onto a nearby bow, but I don’t answer.
I can’t.
What the hell would I say?
I’m too far gone to explain, too tangled up in my own rage to make sense of it. The air between us is thick with the smell of his cigar.
“I guess Anger Alleyway is as good as any place to take out that frustration.”
My hand’s starting to throb.
Good.
Everything I fucked up is all rolling over me like a damn tsunami.
“Just leave me the hell alone, Bronx.”
I don’t want advice.
I don’t want a useless conversation.
I want to be left alone.
Bronx laughs quietly and easily, as if he knows something I don’t. “Uh-huh. Sure thing. But when you’re done beating the hell outta that tire, I’ll take a go at it.”
I don’t respond.
“I was a little slow with that guy. He got the first punch in.”
I launch my arm back and slam it ahead. This one feels like it’s deep enough to tear the whole damn world apart, but it doesn’t. Nothing ever does.
I stop.
My knuckles burn and bleed. My muscles are stiff, and that hollow ache inside me, the one I’ve been trying to outrun, still lingers. The adrenaline is burning out of me, leaving nothing but raw frustration.
I drop my hands and press my palms to my face, willing the thoughts to stop.
The guilt.
The regret.
The shit I never said, but it’s still there. No matter how hard I hit that stupid tire, none of it is ever going to change.
“It’s all yours.” I storm by him, a puff of smoke hitting my face.
Dickhead.
I don’t slow down. I shove open the door and storm inside. I am two steps from the front door, already typing out the group text to tell my brothers they have ten minutes before I leave their sorry asses behind, when something catches my eye.
Not a noise.
Not a voice.
A book.
