Page 73 of Sterling Fight

Judd closes his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs once before those blue-sky eyes look at me again, suddenly stormy and tight.

“Then what?” I softly prompt.

“Then my parents might not have kept having babies, and the girl they eventually had wouldn’t have killed our mother.”

I gasp. “He couldn’t have meant that.” How does a father say such a thing to a child? Poor Knox, Ford, and Sebastian who came after Judd. Poor Vale, to have such blame thrust upon her.

“Oh, he did. And he’d say it often enough to me. To Vale.” Judd looks away again. “He’d insult me in every way he could, implying maybe I was a girl. Too soft. Too emotional.”

Judd swallows hard again. “And I swore after that night—” He pauses, and I know which night he means. Our prom night.

“I swore, he’d never hurt me again. I’d learn to fight back. I’d learn to fight.” Judd’s hands are fisted on his thick thighs and his gaze is pointedly on me, but unfocused, like he’s looking back on the past instead of at me. “And now, it’s just who I am.”

Judd is more of a lover than a fighter, Vale had said. Was Judd trying to convince himself he was the opposite? He was more fighter than lover, as if being a loving human being somehow made him less.

“But you don’t need to fight,” I remind him quietly. “Your father isn’t here.”

“And now it’s no longer about him.” Judd’s comment is the first real lie he’s told me.

“Do you have a temper?” The question tastes acidic. It’s like asking an alcoholic if he has a drinking problem. Judd might not be able to admit the truth.

He shakes his head. “It’s not about controlling a violent side of myself. It’s about controlling the narrative. I never want to feel weak again.”

He never wants to be that helpless little boy, but he doesn’t see how very capable he is as a man. How strong he is, in body and heart. Maybe his spirit isn’t as full as I think.

In some ways, I know the feeling. I can’t seem to fight my mother. Word to word might not be the same as fist to fist, but there’s still a will in me to counteract my mother. Her negative attitude. Her toxic opinion. Even with age, I tell myself I can handle her better, but can I really?

Have I found the strength I need?

“You don’t look weak to me,” I attempt to tease him, eyeing his body. The sweat along his collar and down the sides of his tee. The thickness of his thighs as he sits back like he is. The sureness of his hands.

But no playfulness rests in Judd’s eyes. He huffs, quiet and closed off, and returns to pressing at the dirt, a little more forcefully than necessary.

In some ways, I want him to ask me to attend his fight like he did last weekend. But deep down, I know I’ll refuse the invitation, and Judd doesn’t need that kind of rejection.

He’s already rejecting himself when he’s so wrong. He is a lover more than a fighter. He can even be both, but not if he’s fighting demons that no longer exist.

His father is gone, and Judd should live in the relief of his absence. He should live in the present, not the past.

Too bad I don’t always take my own advice.

After a quiet dinner with Judd, I take a long, warm bath. Sleep won’t come easily tonight despite my aching body. Gardening is the most physical exercise I’ve had in months. With his garden in mind, I consider how I won’t be present when the flowers bloom or the vegetables are harvested. A week has already come and gone, with only two days remaining in our arrangement. The clock is winding down.

I don’t know if I’m ready to go home yet.

I also hide out in the bathtub because I don’t want to be present when Judd leaves. I could not be a well-wishing fan for something I struggle to understand.

While I’d told him a week ago I respected his choice to fight, I’d also told him I respectfully disagreed with the concept of fighting. I stand by my opinion.

His fights shouldn’t be my concern. But I am concerned because I care about Judd, and I don’t want to see him hurting, physically or mentally.

After my bath, where I’ve re-evaluated all my life choices including Greetings Ambassador and the sale of my company, I enter the guest room and curl up on the bed which suddenly feels unfamiliar after only two nights sleeping with Judd. My position reminds me I’m a guest here, not his lover. Not his fiancée.

The thought makes my stomach ache, and I wonder if our chicken dinner wasn’t cooked thoroughly enough. Food poisoning might be the explanation for this pain in my gut.

Definitely the chicken.

But the truth is I’m going to miss Judd. Missing someone is what hurts the most, which is another reason not to get overly involved with someone. Absence is definitely another hindrance to marriage.