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I try, and he repeatsfasterafter each jab. His hands drop to my hips and I try to keep my breathing even. On the next punch, he rotates my hips with his grip and calls, “Right.”
As he twists my hips, I shoot my right arm out with more power and force than all night. “There it is!” He claps and walks back in front of me. “Nice work, princess.”
He gives me a tight-lipped smile, and I squirm under the intensity of his focus on me. I try to shake it off and say, “Same time tomorrow?”
“See you then.” He flicks his chin with a grin. As I begin to walk away, he chuckles, “Maybe next time you’ll land a punch—”
1I’m fast and powerful, just like he taught me, spinning on my heels and throwing my fist into his cheekbone. His head whips to the side from the impact. He straightens back up, a burning heat in his eyes that makes my stomach flutter.
“That felt good, didn’t it?” His eyes darken and he takes a step toward me. “Do it again.”
I try to brush him off with a roll of my eyes and shake of my head.
“Do. It.” He repeats, a hunger in his eyes that calls to me.
“Why?” I eye him suspiciously as he continues to close in on me, corralling me up against a workbench.
“Because I deserve it. Now fucking hit me.” His words sink in, and I search his eyes for a trick or a trap. But all I see back is the same hunger as before, but this time I understand it.
I push on his chest making him take a few steps back so I’m not caged in anymore. My fist closes, achy from the first punch, and I look at the red welt already forming by his eye. He pleads with me wordlessly, and like some fucked-up version of couples therapy, I give him what he wants: A fist to the jaw. To the temple. To the cheek.
Each hit, he straightens back up and looks ready for more, like I haven’t even put a dent in the penance he thinks he deserves.
I roll my neck side to side and try to make a fist again, but I wince, my knuckles and tendons sore. He reaches for my hand and gently massages the pads of my palms. “I’ll get you a pair of gloves for next time,” he says with a weak laugh.
There’s a strange energy hanging between us, like I’ve given him a gift and he has nothing to give me in return. I swallow the uneasy feeling and try to make a joke. “Are you gonna tell people you got beat up by a girl?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head, looking down and bites his lip. His eyes roll back up to me. “I got my ass handed to me, but I had it coming.” He winks and brushes a kiss over my red and swollen knuckles.
His lips feel like satin over my hot skin, and I’m about to lean in to kiss him when he pulls away. “I won’t keep you up any longer.” He drops my hand and steps aside.
“I don’t feel so tired anymore,” I joke, but go to leave nonetheless. As I’m walking out, something on the bench catches my eye. “Is that a projector?”
I walk over and pick it up, checking it out. “Does it work?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Cool, well, good night.” I leave, already excited and thinking of how to turn the barn into a rustic home theater.
Back inside, I decide to take a shower after working up a bit of a sweat boxing and go through my minimal night routine. I was never someone with a lengthy routine, but having brought only a small toiletry bag to the farm, it’s even shorter.
By the time I’m done, Finn still isn’t inside. I hope he’s not planning on sleeping in his truck again. I know I just punched the shit out of him, but he told me to, and I think it was possibly more cathartic for him than me.
I find a bag of corn in the freezer and take it out to him, a peace offering of sorts. When I walk outside, the side of the big house is lit up in a glowing indigo. I turn the corner and feel my stomach drop at the same time my heart somersaults.
The bed of Finn’s truck is layered in quilts, knit blankets and throw pillows. There’s an old, metal camping lantern on the edge and half-lit up string of Christmas lights dangling off the side view mirror. On the top of the cab is the projector, pointed right at the broad, white side of the big house.
I look at the ramshackle set up and feel warmness spread through my body, like drinking hot cider on a winter night. “Finn?” I call out.
He pops out from deeper in the garage with an oil smudged cloth tarp in his hands. I look at him then look at the truck and everything. He half shrugs. “In case you couldn’t sleep.”
He throws the tarp over the flood light and walks toward me. “You said you weren’t tired.” He draws me to him with a hand on my hip.
I chew my cheek, not knowing what to say. “I’m speechless…And quite frankly a little concerned about that fire hazard.” I brush past him and throw the oily cloth off the flood light. “What was the point of that?” I laugh.
“I don’t know, ambience or some shit, right?”
“That explains the half-lit string of Christmas lights.”
