Page 84 of Almost Him

It is fun.

I swing the bat at one of the hanging coffee mugs and it flies off, slamming against the wall and exploding. Oh, I’m going to spend too much money here.

After glancing at each other, we both set to it. Oliver tosses a glass bottle in the air for me to hit, then I do the same for him. Screaming and cursing, we demolish everything. It’s the most satisfying feeling. To let loose without a care in the world.

Glass and debris crunch under our shoes. Sweat starts to line my skin, and my heart races. When I pause to catch my breath, I watch Oliver beat the hell out of a keyboard. We’re almost out of items.

Oliver smashes his way through an old stereo while I grab one of the available markers and head for the biggest thing in the room. An old office copy printer. It’s the last thing, and I know what I need to do. I scrawl their names across the top. Connor and Dean Warren.

The men who took everything from us.

Oliver approaches, still breathing hard. He looks at what I’ve written and then locks eyes with me. Silently, he switches his crowbar to a sledgehammer, and I do the same, choosing a lighter one that I can swing better.

I nod at him, then jump when he roars, “Fuck you!” and swings the hammer over his head. It slams into the copier, shattering the top window. He pulls it back again in a split second to deliver another strike, and I join in.

All I can think about when the hammer crashes down on the names is how much we lost because of two men we don’t even know. What did we do to deserve this?

Tears fill my eyes, but I keep going. I’m not sure what I’m yelling, the thoughts in my head are screaming too loud. Why? Why my Alden? Why me? Why us? What did we do to deserve to suffer like this? We were happy. We were going to get married, be together forever. It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.

Oliver’s cries of rage compete with mine while we take turns pulverizing the machine. His face is red and tears stream down his cheeks too. Once I wear myself out, I toss the sledgehammer aside and stand back while Oliver finishes.

“How do you fucking like this, bitch!” he shouts, and brings the hammer down again. He must hit just the right spot because a huge glut of black ink jets out, spraying both of us.

He freezes and looks over at me. Ink runs down his facemask and drips onto his overalls. Despite my current mood, it strikes me as funny. “Maybe it did like it. I think it came,” I announce.

We stare at each other for a long moment before both of us burst out laughing. “I was pounding it pretty hard,” he says.

We go from rage tears to laughing tears. This might be the best therapy I’ve ever had.

We’re still chuckling over it after we’ve shucked off all the protective equipment and returned to my car.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Good. Really good. That was cathartic. And fun.”

“We definitely need to do it again. It was worth the ink on my shoes.”

“Where are we headed now?” he asks as I start the car.

“Do you want to go see a movie?”

He grins at me and fastens his seatbelt. “Let’s do it.”

It’s great to see him happy. I think I’ve seen him smile more this week than I have since he woke up from the coma. When we get to the theater, he’s like a giant kid, loading up on candy and popcorn before we find a seat.

The comedy movie he chose is entertaining and has both of us laughing aloud. I was a little concerned the noise and the bright screen might trigger one of his headaches, but he’s fine. After it’s over, we decide to have dinner before going back home.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that the restaurant we’re going to was one of his favorites. He’s taking a break from that pressure, from trying to remember. “This place has great lasagna,” I remark, as he opens the door for me, and follows me inside.

“Yeah? Something sure smells good.”

The hostess stand is empty but bears a sign telling us to wait to be seated. The place isn’t too busy yet. We’ve probably beat the dinner rush by half an hour.

The hostess comes around the corner, grabs two menus and says, “Booth or table?” She stops in her tracks, her mouth falling open a little.

I’m half a second away from addressing her when Oliver blurts out, “Breanna.”

Breanna kept in contact with me in the very beginning. She and Oliver had been broken up for around a year when he got shot. They didn’t end on good terms, and she never visited him. The last time I heard from her was when I told her Oliver had amnesia and was going to the rehabilitation center.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com