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Nan would’ve killed me if I’d taken up boxing before she passed away. She wrapped me in crushed velvet and kept me close growing up. The only thing she had left of her darling son.
I moved to LA after Nan died to get away from how suffocating my life had become. It was a huge deal, the scariest thing I’ve ever done, but I did it. Didn’t take long to discover LA was just as suffocating. I needed an outlet. A coworker took me to her boxing gym, and that was it. I fell in love with the sport. I seldom get in the ring unless it’s with someone I know won’t knock my head off, but hitting a punching bag? Any day.
It helps me find space to breathe and the post-workout bliss lends clarity to life.
Not today.
Timothy’s words ring through my head and I can’t punch hard enough to knock them loose.I love you. I can’t turn it off.
All those men and women he’s dated. Slept with. He must have been able to turn it off with them.
It hurts. If I loved him the way he wants me to? I wouldn’t survive the heartbreak.
The next ten weeks are going to be hard, but all I have to do is keep an eye on him. Keep him out of trouble. Live with him. Guard my heart against him. I have five years of practice at that.
So why does it feel like I’m creeping to the edge of a cliff to see how far the drop is?
For the first time in a long time, hitting stuff doesn’t help. It tires my body, but that’s about it.
When I get back to my locker, I grab my phone.
Mina: I’ll do it.
Her response is immediate.
Celia:
So is Timothy’s, when I tell him.
Timothy: You won’t regret it!
I already do.
Chapter eleven
Mina
Ihaveneverbeento Timothy’s house, entirely by design.
I assumed it would look like the unholy love child of a frat house and a shrine to adrenaline, and I didn’t need the reminder that my best friend lived for doing dangerous things, so I declined all invitations until he stopped giving them. We hung out at my place or went out somewhere.
His house is nothing like I’d expected.
From the outside, it looks unassuming. Modern, in that boxes stacked offset on boxes style. It’s gated, with a couple of trees in the front yard giving a little extra privacy. The inside, though…wow.
It’s light and airy with an open floor plan and warm wood floors, but my eyes narrow almost immediately onto the L-shaped couch. It’s white leather.
My jaw might be on the floor. Timothy owns white furniture. And it’spristine.
“Your room is on the second floor, first door,” Celia says, closing the door behind me. She insisted I move in immediately, so I can be settled before Timothy comes home in a few days. “Bring your stuff in, have a look around while I make us some lunch. Then we’ll talk.”
The staircase is U-shaped and opens to the high-ceilinged living area. I carry my suitcases up the first flight to the landing and peer over the metal railing to the white couch below.
It’s spotless, all right. Even the decorative pillows—coral and turquoise—are perfectly placed.
I continue to the second floor, pushing open the first door.
Like the rest of the house, the room is light and airy. Floor-to-ceiling closets line the wall next to the door. The queen-size bed is simply made, the blankets matching the blue accents of the room. A comfy chair sits in the corner, a reading lamp overhanging it. A large watercolor hangs on the wall—cheery sunflowers that brighten the room—and a door next to a mirror leads into a small ensuite with a shower nicer than the one I’ve left behind.
