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“So what do I do?” Noah asked, genuinely wanting to know, entirely ready to do anything. “Because I’ve lost so much, and I don’t know how to get any of it back.”
“The first thing you do is choose to live, Noah. Embrace it. Fight for it. That’s what fight club is about. And that means you have to be more responsible for your own mental health, because you can’t fix anything else in your life until you fix yourself. It all starts with you. But you don’t have to do it alone. We’re your unit now, and we’re fully invested. We’ll fight with you every step of the way,” Mack said. “You hear me?”
Noah nodded, not even embarrassed about the tears rolling down is face. Because it was entirely possible that these two men had just saved his life.
Chapter Twenty-One
Over the next nine weeks, and with Mo’s stuck-to-you-like-glue companionship, Noah threw himself into three activities—fight club, talk therapy, and finishing his mask.
He forced himself to eat three squares a day, even when he wasn’t hungry. He went to every fight club meeting, even when he wasn’t up to sparring, and worked out five days a week, often with Mack, Mo, or other guys from the club. Even though he hated talking, he forced himself to do it, seeing his psychologist at least twice a week, sometimes more back at the beginning. Maybe it was because he had other outlets now, too, but talking didn’t make things worse the way it once had. At least, not most of the time.
Noah also came clean with his family on just how bad he was doing. He’d been home from overseas for nearly ten months, but opening up made him feel like he’d actually, and finally, reunited with them for the very first time.
And he thought of Kristina—of apologizing to her, thanking her, trying to rebuild…something with her—every minute of every day.
Sitting in his classroom at the Art Factory, Noah put the finishing touches on his mask. His second one, actually.
Two weeks ago, he’d belatedly joined another session of Jarvis’s mask-making class after Noah’s therapist had asked him to make another list like the one Jarvis had him write out back in June, and Noah was surprised to see that it had changed. Not entirely, but enough to see that Noah Cortez was now a man who had hope.
And that had given Noah the idea to make a second mask based on the new list.
The paint on the new one was still wet, which meant Noah wouldn’t be taking it home with him today. But he didn’t need it for another week, and it wasn’t for him anyway.
Jarvis came up to Noah’s table, his gaze going back and forth between the two masks. “You did good work on this, Noah,” he said, looking at the new one.
It helped to be highly motivated. And for the first time in a long time, Noah was. Because this was his second chance. There were so many things he wanted, and he still had a long way to go—he had no illusions about that. “Thanks,” Noah said, a little self-conscious at the praise.
“If you had to pick one thing that most brought about the changes between these masks, what would it be?” Jarvis asked.
“Warrior Fight Club,” Noah said without hesitation. “But that actually means that the best decision I ever made was in coming to your class, because I wouldn’t have met Mo without it.”
And he had Kristina to thank for all of it, because he never even would’ve known about the class without her, but he didn’t say any of that. Jarvis wasn’t the one who needed to hear it.
His instructor grinned. “I have to say I absolutely love that you and Mo go from my art class to a mixed martial arts class every Saturday.”
Noah chuckled. “Yeah. I guess they’re two things you wouldn’t necessarily put together, huh?”
“No,” Jarvis said. “But it just goes to show why alternate therapies are so important. Come back to my class any time.”
“Mo will make sure of it, no doubt,” Noah said. And it was true. Mo didn’t let Noah get away with anything, and he’d become one of the best friends Noah ever had.
Besides, Kristina, of course.
Which had Noah looking at his masks again.
They weren’t so different that you’d describe one as night and the other as day, but if you were working on a gray scale, you might describe the first one as black and the new one as medium gray.
Baby steps, and damnit, he’d take ‘em.
Over the last couple months, so many things had improved for Noah. He was eating regularly, sleeping most of the time, coping with stress and anxiety better, and making plans for his future. He’d even met with a career counselor that one of the fight club guys had recommended to him, and had an appointment with a head hunter that worked exclusively with ex-military this coming week. He still had nightmares, panic attacks, and migraines, but they were fewer and farther between. He still had equilibrium problems, but strength training and hours and hours of MMA training had made him much more competent, controlled, and formidable in the cage.
He still didn’t have Kristina Moore.
But he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do about that.
Still, he was trying, and he believed Mack was right. He couldn’t fix anything with her until he worked to fix himself first.
It all starts with you. Words he now lived by.
