“What about?”
“Flowers, weirdly enough.”
“Nothing wrong with flowers,” he says. “I have to go.”
“Thanks for carrying those.”
He nods and stands there. Not leaving. Not even a little. And there’s this energy between us. This awareness of each other that I haven’t felt in forever. Then he asks, “Talk to you later?”
My smile is as wide as can be. “Okay.”
“Keep your hands up,” says Mateo, throwing another jab at me.
The previous owners used the separate garage for storage and an office. I use it for something else. There’s a punching bag for me to practice hitting and kicking. Some hand weights, a skipping rope, mats and such. Mateo teaches mixed martial arts. How to throw a punch, guard myself, and get out of a hold. There’s a lot of focus on eyes, throat, groin. He comes overregularly to train me in private. Wednesday night suited him this week.
I started training with him not long after my ex got arrested. Some online forums theorized that I helped him. Others went even farther, claiming that the evidence pointed to me as the killer. Which is the truth. But there’s no getting around the fact that I had an airtight alibi. Then came the death threats from strangers. People yelling in my face in front of my apartment. And then some guy grabbed me and shook the shit out of me. His niece had gone missing the year before.
Mateo is about my height with more muscles than I can count, a buzz cut, and olive skin. We’re both wearing shin and foot guards, sparring gloves, and mouth guards to spare ourselves from the brunt of the attack. He blocks a particularly devastating roundhouse kick from me. Then says, “That was half-assed.”
“Harsh.”
“Go again.”
I assume the stance—my fighter’s kamae. Feet shoulder width apart with my kicking leg at the back. Twist my hips and bring my rear foot forward and straighten the leg.
He grunts as he blocks the hit. “Better. Keep your hands up.”
I throw a jab, which he dodges.
“Come on, Sidney. Show me who’s boss.”
I sway backwards, avoiding an uppercut.
“That’s it. Good work.”
Now I’m in the zone. Which is when I hear the rumble of an engine coming down the street. For a moment I think it might be Noah returning home early, but then the vehicle drives straight past. This second of lost focus is all it takes. Mateo’s right hook really is a thing of beauty. His gloved hand sails through the air and his fist slams into the side of my face, and oof.
“Hey,” says Noah as he climbs out of his car.
It’s Thursday night and the street is otherwise empty. Midnight is a quiet time when this place becomes a safe space for me to show my face and take a walk. There’s usually just me, the streetlights, and neat rows of houses sitting in silence. I didn’t account for him arriving home from work so late.
The smile falls off his face as he steps closer. “What the fuck? Sid, who hurt you?”
“It was an accident.” I touch my swollen and bruised cheek. “I got distracted during training.”
“What sort of training?”
“Self-defense.”
“You do boxing or something?”
“Mixed martial arts.”
He gives me a long look. “And you’re sure it was an accident?”
“Yes. Mateo has been training me for years. He felt awful about it. Though it sort of balances out the time I split his eyebrow, and he had to get it glued.”
“What distracted you?”
