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Nick
I spent two days at the boxing gym, punching things.
That was the beauty of the boxing gym: you didn’t have to be mad to punch things. You didn’t have to have a cheating girlfriend or a shitty set of parents or a brother who got something he didn’t deserve. You could be mad at those things, but you didn’t have to. While you were punching the bag, you could only be mad at yourself. And the more you did it, the more numb you became.
So I went to the gym, and I punched things. The bag. Other guys, in the sparring ring. That had the benefit of me getting punched back, which suited my mood pretty well. Even with the safety guards and the gloves, it felt good to have someone hit me.
Evie texted me. I didn’t answer her. I just went back to my life. I looked after Andrew, I looked after Scout, and I boxed. I got invited to parties like always, but I didn’t go. I wasn’t in the fucking mood.
It should have been fine. It was over anyway, me and Evie. There was nothing to begin with. There never had been. It had always been just for show.
I had just finished my last punishing workout—the gym was closing, and they were kicking me out. I showered, changed, and had grabbed my bag when my phone rang. It was Andrew.
Andrew never called. When he communicated at all, he preferred texts—usually sentiments likePick up some coffee on your way over, dipshitorWhere the fuck is the number for what’s her face that comes on Wednesdays?So when he called, I picked up right away. “What is it?” I said.
“Are you still in that shit mood?” my brother asked.
“Maybe.”
“That means yes. Just call her, man.”
I did not want to talk about Evie, and how I’d massively fucked everything up, so I said, “Did you just call to give me advice on my love life?”
“Aw, you have a love life,” Andrew said. “How sweet. And no.”
I hefted my bag on my shoulder and walked through the gym toward the door, which they were waiting to lock. Outside, the sun was setting. “So what is it?”
“I had a visitor today.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Mom.”
I was dead silent. I let the gym door swing shut behind me.
“I know,” Andrew said, as if I’d spoken.
I couldn’t remember the last time our mother had visited either of us. When had she last been at Andrew’s house? A year? More? “What the hell did she want?” I said, the words coming out harsh.
But Andrew didn’t sound pissed. He sounded calm. “She came to tell me that Mom and Dad are getting a divorce.”
I stood on the sidewalk on Norton Street, taking this in as the after-work crowd streamed past me. “What?”
“I know,” Andrew said again, and fuck, it was good to have a brother in that moment, someone who understood. “I don’t get it either. But she showed up on my doorstep today and said she wanted to talk. She said it’s been coming for years, that she’s been unhappy for a long time. She said she regrets how things have been, and she wants to change it from now on, now that they’re split.”
I started walking again. This was nuts. The thing was, our mother had always been useless, but she’d never been a liar that I knew of. Still, I couldn’t help but be wary after all this time. “So it’s all Dad’s fault?” I said. “The fact that they haven’t been around in years? Is that her story?”
“Not really. I mean, Dad is still checked out—he wants no part of this. But she didn’t lay a big Dad rant on me, if that’s what you’re wondering. This was more about her and me. About us. I think she’s been in therapy or something.”
Andrew would know. He’d seen his share of therapists after the accident. He claimed it hadn’t helped him, but he was blind to it. Or maybe he’d blocked it out. Because I remembered how bad it had been before he got help. I remembered perfectly clearly.
I had reached my car, and I opened the door and tossed my gym bag in. I found a baseball cap on the back seat, so I picked it up and put it on. “Fine,” I said to Andrew. “So they split up. It was nice of her to drop by. But don’t set your timer on seeing her again. She’ll probably chicken out after this, just like she always does.”
“She was sincere.” Andrew’s voice had softened in a way I had almost never heard it, and for some reason it made my heart twist painfully in my chest. Our parents’ abandonment had hit him harder than he let on, and the tone I heard buried deep in his words had only one name: hope. After all this time, he was hoping Mom had changed, hoping she meant it, hoping this was going to work. After all this fucking time.
And that was good, right? That was supposed to be good? Why the hell did I feel like a black hole had opened up in the pavement below me and sucked me in?
Because it’s supposed to be you he counts on. Only you, and no one else.
