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“The term ‘like father like son’ doesn’t apply to everything. Especially something like abuse.”
“I can’t take that risk,” I say again.
My father hit my mother. And he used to come after me, too. When I was old enough to stand up to him, I did. I wanted my mom to run away with me—she couldn’t stand up to him, and I couldn’t be there to protect her against him for the rest of my life.
She wouldn’t leave him. I still don’t understand how that works. But she chose to stay with him, and one night, my dad snapped, and so did I. After that, I ran. I wasn’t as terrified of who he was as I was terrified of who I could become. I ran away from home, leaving her in that mess.
And I refuse to walk the same road he did. I know what I’m capable of when I lose control, and I can’t put myself in a position where I hurt someone I love.
“I know you, Blake,” Emma says. “You’re a kind man, you help people, you donate to charities. Not because you should, but because youwantto. You won’t hurt a fly.”
“It’s easier said than done. You know the man I am now; you don’t know the man I could be.”
“You have that choice, you know,” Emma says.
I don’t answer. I groan, pretending that I have to focus on the weight I’m lifting instead of not responding to her statement. But the truth is I don’t know that I have that choice. Again, it’s easier said than done. I cantellsomeone I’m not like my dad, but when what happens when I lose control? What happens when I’m blinded by rage? I won’t do that to anyone.
Yeah, I want to love. I yearn for a family. But will it come at too high a cost?
When my arms start shaking and I can’t lift the weight, Emma’s there. She grabs the bar and lifts it onto the clip.
“Good form,” she says. “Cardio to cool down.”
I nod. I know the drill. We always start and finish with cardio, and I’m fit as fuck. I get on the treadmill and start running. I love training. I love lifting weights and focusing on the mind-muscle connection, on form, on pushing myself to either do more reps at a lower weight or push up the weight without more reps. I like to challenge myself—the only competition that matters is myself.
But when I run, it feels like I leave all the other shit behind, too. When I do weight training, my mind can still eat me up. When I run, I stop thinking altogether.
My legs eat up the conveyor belt and my chest rises and falls as I breathe hard. I run until my legs scream at me and the oxygen burns in and out of my lungs.
I can’t date. I can’t be with someone and trust myself. I won’t let history repeat itself.
When I think that, I flash on the fortune teller at the event. Madama Dorota.
I scowl just thinking about her. What the hell does she know?
Without forgiveness, history will repeat itself.
I try to forget her words, to stop thinking about what she said. Iwon’tbecome what I abhor; that’s the whole reason I push all the women in my life away. Iknowwhat the consequences are if I don’t.
Wounds heal but scars remain.
“You’re going to write yourself off,” Emma warns, joining me on the treadmill next to mine.
“There’s only one way to get fit. You keep pushing.”
Emma laughs. “Yeah, yeah. You just don’t know when to stop punishing yourself.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I push the treadmill faster, increasing the incline, and punish myself for another half an hour.
If you run with your eyes closed, you do not know if you run away from danger… or toward it.
When we’re finally done, Madame Dorota’s words echo in my mind as if she’s still speaking to me.
She completes you.
What the hell does she know about who I am and what completes me? Her whole show was nothing more than a gimmick, a trick to get her money’s worth. But what she said won’t leave me alone, and I keep thinking about Rachel.
I can’t ask her out. But I ache to see her again. I can’t explain it.
