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I regarded Red carefully. He’d been hesitant answering my question before, about what initially inspired him to get into UFC. When he didn’t elaborate, I figured it was because he wasn’t the talkative sort. Now I was starting to realize there was so much to unpack here, so much more to discover.
“Pops,” Red tried again. “I need you to take your vitamins, please.”
“Did he ever tell you about the time he gave me a black eye?” his father went on.
I shook my head. “No, he’s never told me this story.”
“Ah, this kid was a troublemaker. It was an accident, of course, but damn if it didn’t smart for weeks after. He must have been no older than nine or ten. Begged me for months to let him come along to see me train. I finally let him. Brought him into the ring, got a pair of gloves on him, taught him how to throw his first punch.”
I smiled, trying to picture Red as a boy. It was difficult, imagining this hulking, silent mountain of a man as some scrawny, eager child who looked up to his father. “And then what happened?”
“Wham!” Mr. Smithson exclaimed, rocking in his wheelchair to punctuate the word. “Kid socks me right in the eye with the strength of a runaway bull. I knew in an instant he was meant to hold that championship belt. Hmm…” He paused. “Let’s see. What other stories can I tell you?”
“Lay it on me. I can definitely use it in the article I’m writing about him.”
Red sighed. “She doesn’t need to hear it, Pops. Take your vitamins.”
“I don’t need no stinkin’ vitamins, Paul.”
“Paul?” I asked.
Mr. Smithson’s entire demeanor changed within a few seconds. Whatever warmth and familiarity he had toward his son vanished into thin air, replaced with an almost bitter and resentful glare. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Paul, I’m not going to let you poison me!”
“Pops—”
“Why are you calling me that? Don’t call me that!”
My heart twisted in my chest when I realized what was going on.
Oh, no.
“Just leave me alone,” Mr. Smithson snapped. “Get out of my room. I’m going to call my son and he’s going to deal with all of you!”
Red’s face was impassive . “Yes, sir. We’ll be on our way.”
“Red…”
He rose to his feet, gently placing a hand on my back. “Let’s go.”
When we got back to the car, the silence was so thick it was stifling. We sat in the car, rain pelting the roof without remorse. His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, Red’s breathing controlled but shallow.
“Are you okay?” I whispered.
“Fine. I’m sorry you had to see that. They normally only message me when he’s coherent.”
He tilted his head back against the headrest. “Alzheimer’s,” he explained. “He started showing signs about five years ago. I thought this was the best place to keep him so he’d get the help he needed.”
I dared to reach out, gingerly placing my hand on the back of his. “I’m so sorry, Red. I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult it’s been. If you ever need to talk…”
“I appreciate that, Julia, but I’d rather not. It’s… hard.”
“I understand. There’s no pressure, and I promise not to push. Just know that I’m here.”
Red swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He looked me straight in the eye, nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes. There was an unspoken understanding now where there hadn’t been before.
“I’ll take you home,” he said.
“Actually, I have a better idea. Let me drive. I want to take you somewhere.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Please?”
Red held my gaze for a moment longer. “Alright. But if you see Dylan out on the road, try not to aim for him.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”
He laughed. I’d never heard a more wonderful sound.
