Page 97 of Never Your Valentine

“I can still kick your ass.”

Felix gives me the smarmy grin I hated at age six and hate even more now. “Do you want to?”

“What’s your problem? What are you even⁠—”

“I’m trying to get a reaction out of you.” Felix punches my shoulder. “I’m trying to see if you’re an actual living human. You’re holding so much in, I don’t know how you’re still functioning.”

“What the fuck else am I supposed to do?” I howl.

We stare at each other. I make the first move. I shove the table out of the way, push past my brother, and go into my office. I slam the door and lean on it. No. This isn’t happening. I just got triggered when I saw that china pattern. I’m not mad at Felix. I’m not mad at all. I won’t allow it.

Felix taps on the door. “Uh uh,” he says. “Not this time.”

“Go away,” I tell him.

“Jesus, Grant, you’re so close to it. You’re almost there. It’s right on the other side of this building. A whole entire rage room, just for you.”

I crack open the door. “Get the fuck out.”

“No. You’re coming with me.” Felix’s foot is in the door, stopping me from closing it. “It’s time to take this out on something that won’t fight back.”

“I can’t.” I grip the door handle and try to retreat to my own space.

“You can and you will,” Felix insists. “Suit up. It’s time to smash.”

Emotion curls around me like smoke, choking and hot, making each breath a battle. The helmet is too tight, the gloves are uncomfortable, and the faceplate’s messing with my peripheral vision. The weight of my unspent anger bears down on me, coiling in my chest, squeezing my heart and pressing it flat. The air tastes metallic. The walls hum with judgement. Every object leers, mocking me with silent accusations, so I swing. I thrash. I strike.

The first bits of release barely scratch the surface. So I smash more, and it opens up something inside me. It feels bad. It feels bad for a very long time before it starts to feel like anything else. But I’ve released a dam, and floodwaters are rushing through. Unstoppable. Destructive.

They also feel righteous. Earned.

I reach for a Noritake teacup with a missing handle. I hurl it at the wall. That one’s for Coach Dewitt. I throw the matching saucer after it. That one’s for Triss. I empty the box I brought in here, throwing with both hands. Triss. Dewitt. Triss. Dewitt.

But I feel worse, not better. I don’t like the chokehold the past has over my emotions. I keep going, letting myself feel everything. I’m furious now, but it’s flavored with regret that I ever got involved with Triss, and plain old disgust that Dewitt is supposedly still with her, and confusion at how I could be duped.

It’s mixed with a ton of grief. I could have been a different person, one with healthy relationships and a better sense of self. Instead, I closed myself off, and missed out on so much. That’s on me.

Underneath it all is Ricky, and the shame of hurting my best friend. Old CD cases splinter under my sledgehammer. I smash a cognac bottle. It’s me, me, me. I need to be smashed. I deserve that.

Annabelle. She offered me her heart, and rather than share mine with her, I shut down. I let her walk out of my life instead of telling her I love her. I’m a selfish bastard who deserves all the misery I’m feeling right now.

I put my self-blame into a wine bottle and pitch it at the wall. It splinters into green shards. I enjoy it in a grim way, as I picture myself shattering along with it. I try another. This is me. I’m breaking.

I hurl a third bottle and a fourth. I’m heaving in short, quick breaths, like I can’t get enough air. Sweat pools under my arms and slides down my back. No matter. I have to keep going. I have so much more to do, and it’s the best. So satisfying. Why didn’t I ever try this before?

I know the answer to that question. Fear. I thought if I allowed myself to experience the anger I had at age eighteen, that I’d be angry like that all the time. I was afraid that if I didn’t lock it down tight, it would feed on itself and grow until I couldn’t contain it.

I was right. It’s growing. It’s huge. Monstrous. I can’t control it. I don’t want to. I’m letting it all out, letting it consume me. When this is over, there might not be anything of me left. That’s an outcome I’m fully prepared for. I’ll keep going until I’m finally, finally, finally done.

I’m up to my ankles in broken pieces. I have to kick them out of the way if I want to smash more. Good God, do I want to smash more. I yell for Felix to turn up the music. I yell for him to bring me more breakables. June gives me all the salad plates we have left. When those are gone, Blake and Cole are at the door, handing me empty bottles. Who called the little boys? No matter. I keep smashing.

My dad appears with a box of Precious Moments figurines. I pull out handfuls, ready to fling them at the wall, but stop short when I see my mom standing behind him. Her eyebrows are knit together and her mouth is turned down. I’ve seen that worried expression so many times. At my bedside when I broke my leg in sixth grade. That time I got lost in Green Bay. When I had my sleepwalking phase. She’s scared for me.

For a long time, I was scared for myself.

But not anymore.

It’s over.