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Reminding me of everything I can't have.
Thirty minutes until the next all level class. I warm up. Stretch. Let my mind wander past the padded floors and the bamboo screens lining the walls.
Back in high school, it took three days to realize Dean wasn't going to call. That his only interest was what was between my legs.
It killed me.
I was always cute enough, thin enough, petite enough. But I was the weird artsy girl who wore combat boots to prom. Without a date.
Back then, I had a hard time revealing myself to people. I guess that hasn't changed much.
I always pored myself into my art. And I always felt like Dean saw something in it.
Like he knew some part of me no one else did.
He knew exactly what buttons to press to get a reaction.
Before she died, Mom used to say that hate is the other side of love. They're both passions that consume you. That encourage you to throw away every bit of reason.
That keep you up at night.
But Dean…
I don't know.
Slowly, regulars file in. The woman who looks like a poetry teacher. The teenage geek who can handle himself against any jock. The newly divorced woman, finding herself after losing everything she thought she had.
The instructor joins us. Takes us through calisthenics. Strength. Technique.
Sparring exercises.
They steal my focus. Keep my thoughts from drifting to how much Dean annoys me. To how impossible it will be to survive another two years of working with him. Or living with Dad—I love him to pieces, but he drives me bonkers.
Staying at home is all I can afford.
Twenty-four and I'm restarting my life.
It's better than the alternative, but it's still frustrating.
After an hour of sparring, class ends.
It's late enough the drive home is quiet.
I park my sedan next to Dad's, flip on the kitchen light, head to the fridge to figure out dinner.
We've never been well-off—I only managed to attend our fancy high school with a scholarship—but we do okay. The little house in the valley is ours. It's decked with Ikea furniture (all black or white, but somehow it works) and adorned with family photos.
Dad works hard. I do what I can to make his life easier—grab groceries, cook dinner, clean up.
Tonight, there's no need. He's sitting on the couch with a box of delivery pizza and a beer.
He waves a hello. "How was it, Chloe?"
"Tough." I take a seat on the couch. Grab a slice of cheese, one that isn't touching any pepperonis, and take a big bite. "How was work?"
"Busy." He looks to the Seinfeld rerun on TV. "Have you seen this one?"
I've seen them all a million times—he watches sitcom reruns nonstop—but I still shake my head. "I don't think so. I'll watch it with you."
