Page 62 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

I duck into the changing room, which boasts one bathroom stall, one moldy shower with no curtain, and a row of pea green lockers, half of which stand ajar and may possibly be broken. I try not to touch any of the surfaces as I change into my running shoes, leggings, and a strappy longline sports bra, wondering why I don’t have an actual tank top or t-shirt in this bag. Eventually, I give up feeling self-conscious, carefully stuff my things into one of the broken lockers, and step out into the dim lighting of the gym.

Quentin meets me, wearing a t-shirt with cut off sleeves and athletic shorts, and looking entirely different than he did in his suit and tie. The transformation makes me think of Clark Kent, or Peter Parker, or one of those comic book characters with an alter-ego. Attorney by day, sexy character out of Street Fighter by night.

Not that I think Quentin Maxwell is a superhero. Or a video game character. But there’s no denying he’s got sex appeal. And for some reason, he does appear to be attempting to rescue me.

“Okay, asshole,” I sigh, too exhausted with the day to put much of the usual bite behind it. “What now?”

Long strips of what looks to be stretchy gauze are draped over his forearms. He motions me towards him, taking my hand without question. I watch as if it’s someone else’s hand he’s holding, someone else’s knuckles he’s carefully wrapping. He winds the fabric around my wrist, across my palm, over that webby part between my thumb and forefinger, back and forth, making a pattern that seems as strategic as it is snug. Once he’s satisfied with the first one, he switches to the second. He moves with practiced precision, and in a few minutes my hands hang at my sides, stiff and slightly heavy. When he leads me towards the nearest hanging bag, I feel I should be beyond asking questions, and yet, one still seems to roll out of my mouth.

“What?” I say defensively. “You expect me to hit this thing?”

He stands behind the bag to steady it, with his feet planted wide and his hands gripping either side. I can’t help but think about the way his fingers spread across my ribcage when I was sitting on the edge of his desk.

He peers at me around the edge. “Yup.”

“We really came all the way over here for this?” I say incredulously. “C’mon, Maxwell. This is a waste of time. I have work to do.”

He reaches around the bulk of the bag to point to a spot almost even with his chest.

“Right here,” he says. “Five with your right, five with your left. Show me what you’ve got.”

I roll my eyes. God, he’s serious.

I stare up at the ceiling for a moment and honestly think about leaving. Or punching him directly in the face. Instead, I square off in what is probably poor form and launch the first half-hearted punch. The chain stretching between the bag and the ceiling jangles weakly, like an impatient dog tugging at a leash.

“This is stupid,” I grumble.

“Like you mean it,” he says.

I roll my eyes again, feeling that tight feeling creep back up my throat. I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck, stalling for time. When I finally hit the bag once more, it connects solidly enough that I feel that dull, blunt pressure against my knuckles.

“Again,” he instructs.

I heave my fist into that same spot on cue, landing it with a thud.

“Again.”

This time, I put all of my weight into it. The energy reverberates up my forearm. I follow it up with a harder hit, allowing the force of it to knock the breath out of my lungs.

“Good,” he says. “Like that. Keep going. Keep breathing.”

I do the same thing with the left, five rounds. I switch off, right, left, left, right. I lose track of how many times I’ve made contact, until I’m wailing on this bag with everything I’ve got. I punch it, I knee it, I grunt and groan with every blow. At some point, I no longer give a fuck how ridiculous I probably look or how much noise I’m making. Quentin never changes his stance, never lets go. The chain rattles like it’s attached to some wild creature that’s fighting to break free.

I pant. I jab. I kick. I scream. I have no idea how much I need this until I’m already caught up in it, giving into this feeling that’s been consuming me since Ms. Ashley Kate James sat down in my conference room – or is this feeling much bigger, much older, much deeper?

I swing again, and again. I feel the sweat beading on my skin. The ache in my muscles. The burning of my fists and knees and thighs and shins. I don’t know how long this goes on, but I know my last few hits are weak and trembling.

When I collapse my hands to my hips, heaving with the force of my breath, Quentin releases the bag and steps up in front of me. In one easy movement, he reaches up and swipes his thumbs across my cheeks. It’s only then that I realize I’ve been crying. He cradles my face in his hands as the tears continue to roll down to my chin. They’re almost cool against the way my skin is embarrassed and hot. It’s such a strangely intimate gesture, but I don’t pull away. Some part of me feels that if he let go right now, I would crumple to the floor, which is a terrifying prospect, not in the least because these grungy mats look like the preferred place for staph infection to thrive.

So I don’t fall apart. I also don’t hold anything back.

I let the tears come honest and unbidden. I let his steady hands frame my face, let his dark eyes search mine, peering through my walls. I just stand here and let him see me. For a long beat, neither of us looks away.

***

I find myself sitting on a metal bench in front of the grimy windows of Frank’s Gym, feeling like a husk of myself. Given the overflowing ashtray full of spent cigars, I figure this spot is where Frank comes to enjoy a smoke. It’s got a nice afternoon view of the block and smells like today’s thick, floral summer breeze and weeks’ worth of burnt out vanilla tobacco. The latter is enough to make me consider moving, but I can’t quite turn the inkling into action. Instead, I slouch my elbows against my knees, rubbing my hands over my face as if to make sure my eyes aren’t still sneakily giving up tears. Thankfully, that threat has passed.

After a few moments, Quentin slides in beside me.

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