Dealing With Trouble

CHAPTER 9?

The bracelet is out of the box and over my wrist in a second. The gold color catches the light and glows as gently finger the Jcharm. It's beautiful. I send Jamie a picture of it on my wrist, tell him I love it, and promise to call him after dinner.

Not as beautiful as you, he texts back.

"Where's my mom?" I ask.

"She's having a power nap," layla says, and I can tell from the way she quickly looks at Taky that there's something on her mind. "I'm a little worried about her-about both of you. I can't imagine how hard this split must have been, but therapy is a big thing here. If you want-"

"No." The word comes out quickly, and Layla comes to a halt. I know how my mother prefers to shut out the world, and forcing her to do something she doesn't want to do only pushes her further away. Already, she appears to be slipping through my fingers and fading away before my eyes.

"Everything is fine," I say. "Or, at least, we will be once we've settled in. She simply requires some time."

Layla opens her mouth to say more, but Taky puts a hand on her shoulder, looks at her, and my aunt backs down.

"Would you like to watch something with us?" he inquires. "Perhaps a third vote will help us decide on something."

I tell them I'll see them later and go upstairs. I walk past my mother's room on the left, where she is curled up on her side. I'm hit with the scent of Dad's aftershave, as if she spritzed it on the pillows. My first thought is to curl up behind her and wrap an arm around her waist.

"Hello," I say quietly. "How are things going?"

I think she's asleep at first, but then she wraps her hand around my arm and squeezes me tightly. "I should have asked you that. How did you find your first day of school?"

"It was all right. Come on, Mom, it's just the two of us now. How are things going for you?"

Her chest tightens beneath my grip. "I spent the morning working on my résumé, thinking I was fine, then out of nowhere I"—she pauses as if trying to find the right words—"just started missing him," she says quietly.

This invisible thread snaps, and her body collapses in on itself. "I know I shouldn't," she sobs, "but I can't help myself. I'm having trouble breathing."

With my eyes closed, I pull her in closer, biting back tears. Jamie has been my anchor since our first date, the one person I know I can be vulnerable around, but for my mother, it's me; it's why! must be strong, "It's okay to miss him," I say, but I'm not always sure. "I miss him as well."

Mom twists in my arms until she is properly facing me. I'm always amazed at how different she appears without makeup. Growing up, it seemed like she never left the house without her bronzer, blush, or eyeshadow. She did it not because she needed it, but because she enjoyed it and it made her feel good.

Dad would never comprehend this. Makeup was a weapon Mom used to entice other men, according to him. She was never going to win with him, no matter how much she argued or tried to explain. She eventually stopped wearing makeup entirely.

"What if he gets hurt?" she muffles. "What if he requires our assistance?"

A familiar lump moves up my throat. I close my eyes and repeat in my head his words: "I love you both so much." I'd kill myself if I ever lost you.

I draw her in closer, pressing my cheek against her cheek. "Whenever you start missing him, just hold on to the bad stuff," I say, but it sounds impossible even to me. The bad memories fade away over time, leaving only the good ones.

Mom nods, and when her eyes widen, I know she's thinking about how long it took to get here. It had been difficult to save money when Dad was in charge, so we'd taken to withdrawing small amounts at a time and stuffing it all into a Ziploc bag before stashing it in a plant pot. It wasn't the best hiding place, but Dad had a habit of searching the house.

cupboards, light shades, and floorboards—and it was the one place he hadn't looked yet.

I had no idea what he was looking for. My theory is that he expected to find a male's phone number stashed in the light shade, or a secret phone beneath the floorboards, but that's just speculation. Nobody knew what was going on in my father's head, least of all him.

In my stomach, the tiniest flame ignites. I count to ten, working hard to put it out. "You can do it," I say, though I'm not convinced.

She nods and buries her face in my collarbone. I stroke her hair repeatedly, knowing that it's all I can do. This loss affects me as well, even though I've tried to ignore it. But there are times when I allow it in, when I allow myself to think, and I feel as if I'm suffocating.

Later that night, after I've showered and made a plan for the next day, I fall onto my bed sideways and stare at the photos on my nightstand. I'm taking deep breaths. I take them both in my hands, one in each. I've been wondering why these pictures stood out to me for so long, and I think I finally understand why. One is the person I aspire to be, and the other is the person I fear I will become.

When my i********: pings, I am exhausted and turn off the light in an attempt to sleep. I open it, expecting to see Jamie, but it's a message request from an account that doesn't have a picture. My skin prickles, like a warning siren. I hold my breath and click the message.

I'm sorry, but I like you.

Dad.

I think I'm having a heart attack for about a minute. I concentrate on my breathing: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. This rhythm seems to calm me, but then my breathing becomes more rapid, until all I can feel is the weight of my lungs expanding and contracting. Since we left, there's been this dark, empty space in my chest, and for a split second, his apology filled it.

When he apologizes, I can't stand it. When he frowns and expresses his love for us. It's as if we forget he hurt us, and Mom, and we forgive him again. Because we care about him. I both despise and admire him.

Another message arrives before I can respond.

I can't live without you.

After two seconds.

I'll never do anything to hurt you again. I apologize.

A single second.

You'll be sorry if you don't respond.

I jerk back as if slapped. It's terrifying how easily he switches between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Chameron. I block his account with trembling fingers. Despite his threats, a part of me wants to respond in writing. That hurts physically because I miss him so much. But there's another part of me that is enraged and despises him. Not only him, but also myself. He hurt us repeatedly; how can I want to forgive him?

That's when it hit me: I may be physically free, but I'm still emotionally attached to him. His words still hurt, his messages have the power to unravel me in an instant, and I will never be free until that stops.

I want to scream at you. I despise you, I despise you, I despise you. I grab a pillow and punch it as hard as I possibly can. In my head, I'm reliving that night, but instead of succumbing to his abuse, I'm fighting back. That's when I remember the flyer and reach for it in my drawer.

Straightening up, I smooth it out, staring at the front.

Welcome to GymCon, the flyer reads. Where fighters are made

Stability.

Awareness.

Raise money.

Take control.

Push yourself

GymConnection White Collar Boxing is a unique opportunity for people with no boxing background to experience the world of boxing in a safe and enjoyable environment. With eight weeks of one to one training, you'll be ready to face an evenly matched opponent at a glamorous event in Vegas. Raise money for charity and push yourself to lengths you have never gone before. Are you ready to be brave?

I read those words over and over, turning them around in my head. Are you ready to be brave? My heart pounds as I stare at the boxer on the front. He looks fierce, controlled, and for the briefest of moments, the anger I feel is replaced by something else: hope.