Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
I spoke to Brad without taking my eyes off the man. “Brad, are you sure it’s the same Cross?”
“Uh, yeah, and he’s the one I s-saw with Sebastian—”
“Don’t start throwing names around, kid!” the man yelled, stepping forward. It had the intended effect on Brad. He whimpered and flinched away.
I glided into the man’s path. “Go get that Cross.”
“Kid, I’m only going to tell you once. Get your ass gone. You don’t want none of this.”
That night changed a lot for me. Even during the argument, I remember thinking how untidy the snake tattoo twisting up his arm was. Sometimes, after training, I’d draw pictures when my body was sore. I only did it because it emptied my mind when I was too achy from fighting. It was more like meditation, but that work was shoddy.
“You’ve told me, and I’m not gone,” I said. “Now what?”
He wasn’t aware of this, but my feet were already in a fighting stance. He was standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, like a squat, which is terrible for striking. Suddenly—but I saw it coming—he sprung at me. I slipped on the outside and torqued my entire body into a lead-left hook. I felt his jaw crunch against my two big knuckles. He stumbled, slammed his head against the doorframe, and slid to the floor. I was relieved when I heard him whining and groaning. I wouldn’t be able to train if I ended up in jail.
Leaving him there, I ducked into the apartment. People were sprawled all over the couches, smoking cigarettes and weed. There were pipes and white smears all over the glass coffee table. Somebody said something, but I just grabbed the Cross and ran for the door.
I kicked the man twice in the gut when he tried to get up, then knelt down and growled in his ear. “This is the end of it. If you try to get me back, I’m calling my uncle. You ever heard of Paulie Marino? The fucking mob, you dumbass? Have you?”
He wasn’t so tough anymore and covered his bloody face with his hands. The lie worked. They never tried to get payback on me.
I found Brad across the street, his twelve-year-old eyes wide as I handed him the Cross.
“We need to get out of here,” he said like he was lost in a dream.
I shrugged. “No more buses. Going to have to walk.”
“Walk?”
Behind us, people started yelling. I was smiling again. I’m not sure what that says about me, that I could do all that violence and then smile. “More like run,” I said. I grabbed him by the arm and hauled him away.
We sprinted down the street and then ended up walking home together. From that night on, we were best friends. Brad understood I’d never be like other people. He never tried to press me. I ate at his house for Thanksgiving, not because I needed the familial warmth, but because I’d be well-fed with plenty of chicken and protein. I was going to become a pro fighter. I needed it.
I helped Brad whenever he needed it. He was—is—the only friend I needed then and now. Nobody can take that first night away from us.
As we grew up together, we stayed close—as close as I’m capable of, anyway. I started boxing, then fighting in mixed martial arts. Brad got some land and tended to it before deciding he didn’t want to be a farmer and opened a hardware store. I was there when his mom died, waiting for him outside the hospital, then awkwardly joining them as they sat in the waiting room. Mary was nine years old and devastated, clutching onto Christopher and screaming into his chest. She was usually a bright, happy girl, but she was wrecked, her pale brown hair looking worn from where she’d been tugging it.
Soon after that, I moved away and began my career. I’d return often to visit Brad. My coach says being out there helps me get ready for a fight. “Gives you a couple of smiles. With you, that goes a long way.”
Earlier this year, I visited, and Mary was… different. I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a usual black coffee, and she rushed in, her brown hair straightened and pinned back stylishly. She was wearing a denim skirt, chunky boots, and a strappy top.
Suddenly, everything changed. Everything I’d ever known in all my life spun over, fell apart, obliterated. Mary made me feel. Run hot. My heart started beating hard as she looked across at Brad, standing at the sink.
“Is this okay for a poetry reading?”
She was wearing tights, clutching closely to her thick legs. I stared down at my black coffee for the rest of the conversation, knowing it was wrong, knowing I couldn’t let myself go there. That was this year. I was—I am—thirty-two. She’s eighteen.