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“Why?” She questions. “What’s your interest?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I ask, a slow smirk sliding across my lips.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
“Also something I already know. Try again.”
She lowers her voice conspiratorially and steps closer to me, her arm brushing against mine. “Sometimes, in my dreams,” she looks up, and her eyes lock with mine in the darkness. “ Everything is made out of tacos.”
I sigh. “Never mind.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes, I use sarcasm to push people away because I don’t know how to actually connect with anyone.”
I glance back at her. That one was true. “Why does that scare you?”
“Vulnerability doesn’t scare you?”
I shake my head. “Regret scares me.”
“I guess you’ve never regretted being vulnerable.”
The edge in her voice shakes me, and I want to break whoever made her feel that way.
“You scare me.”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’m not here for you.”
“I can change that.”
She laughs, then feeds my line back to me. “Okay, then fill in the pieces. Tell me something about you that no one else knows.”
I shake my head incredulously, digging into my pocket to retrieve a cigarette and a lighter. I slide the cigarette between my lips and light it. Pulling until it’s cherry, I knock the ash off before offering it to her. She takes it from me, her hand brushing against mine and sending an electric shiver across my skin. I watch her breathe deeply as the ember brightens against the darkened beach.
Damn, I’m in trouble.
As the smoke curls from between her lips on a sigh, I shake my head again.
Deep. Fucking. Trouble.
“For years, I’ve trained in MMA. I compete from time to time, but nothing professional. Sometimes I have to hit things to feel better. This isn’t a secret. However, the reason I started training is. When I was a kid, a guy broke into my home and beat the shit out of my Stepdad, then tossed around my sister and I. I was ten. I chased him off, but I couldn’t stop him. Night after night, I couldn’t sleep. I was waiting for him to come back and finish the job. In a way, I still feel like I’m waiting. So I learned how to fight back.” I swallow hard. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
She glances over at me. “Did they catch him?”
I shake my head. “I gave the description to police, and the sketch artist was spot on. Broad, dark hair, dark eyes. He had this tattoo on his left arm, three large skulls stacked up from his wrist, with a sword passing through all three. The end of the blade extended down to his knuckles. I thought they would find him, but nothing ever came of it. The investigation went cold. And just like that,” I snap my fingers. “Everything was different.” My eyes search hers. “You were right about the chaos in me. The balance I’m still searching for.”
“The balance is that you’re still here, fighting. And you learned how to tip the scale. When you stop fighting, you lose.”
“What are you fighting?” The question catches her off guard, and she runs a hand through her hair, looking out to sea.
“I don’t even know anymore. It keeps changing shape.”
I shrug. “Maybe you just need to tip the scale.”
She nods. “I’m trying to. Fuck if I’m not tired of fighting, though. For everything.”
I feel that. Deeper than she knows.
“It helps to hit something tangible,” I offer. “It materializes all the shit in your head into something you can hurt back.”
