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A labor of love.
I’ve never told anyone outside my father about my darkest moment. I think back to that moment on the plane, baring my soul to her. Telling her about that day, the kayaks, the water… the smell of the salt air threatening to take me down into the waves.
I rip the gym door open, centering myself by inhaling the familiar smell of rubber mats, equipment, and sweat.
Now, she knows. She doesn’t look at me any different, like the monster that I am. She made me feel… better.
The scent, the air here, the sound of laughter, of dudes bantering with one another, the feel of the carpet beneath my feet, it grounds me.
I greet the guys with fist bumps, pull a few into hugs, slapping their backs as I release them. God, it feels good to be back.
I nod to Maurice, a new recruit who has traveled from the Parrish to be here. He was a personal trainer in a past life. “Start stretching everyone out. I gotta change. Be right back.”
I close my office door behind me and rip my shirt off my body with angst, buttons flying as I tear it off, not bothering to unbutton it.
I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Why I’m falling for her, other than, well, just her. She’s doing this to me. I need to get away from her to be able to think clearly, but even now, here I am, my first moment away and all I can think of is her.
From the moment she stepped foot on that plane, she’s just been getting more and more intertwined with my life.
I rip off my pants, throwing on some sweats from my closet.
I’ve not only allowed it—
I’ve encouraged it.
I slip off my shoes, leaving them where they land, not even bothering to clean up after myself. We’re starting the day with some simple kickboxing. I grab my favorite sneakers, the worn-out New Balances that were once white but now dulled to a gray. I hate those pricey sneakers the other guys favor.
I gave her a ring.
How can I take it back?
The thought of her hand bare of that ring makes me want to retch.
Does that mean I don’t want to take it back?
I line the guys up, each in front of their own black-and-white boxing bag, mounted to the floor on thick plastic stands. I show them a few simple moves to practice. And I go to town.
Beating the shit out of mine. Each punch, each frustrated kick I land in an effort to burn off the confusion, the emotions I hate to feel. When we’re done, I’m drenched in sweat and out of breath.
A few of the guys eye me with what looks like concern.
“Sorry,” I say. “Long day.”
I shower and change into one of the clean outfits I keep in my office. I’m the last one to leave, closing the door behind me. My phone rings as I’m jogging down the front steps of the gym, headed back to the house.
I slip it from my pocket. It’s Dr. Thomas.
“I know you were worried that he might hurt himself. The psych team evaluated him, and they think it was just that—an accident. They’re starting therapy with him, but with his depression as bad as it is, he’s going to need to go on an SSRI.”
“SSRI?” My dad’s never taken medicine in his life. “What’s that?”
“It’s a very common medication used to raise serotonin in the brain, the happy hormone. Your dad’s not producing enough on his own and therapy won’t be enough to get him out of this, to heal him.”
I think of my dad before. How tough he was, never complaining even if he was bleeding out. “He’ll never agree to that.”
“He already has,” the doctor says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
