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The scream gets stuck in my throat as I sit upright in my bed. Panting, I look around the room. The dark gray bed sheets, my backpack tossed on the floor, camera sitting on the desk.
In my apartment, not back home.
I’m back in my apartment.
I let out a shaky breath and rub my palm over my face as I look around, needing to reassure myself this isn’t just another dream. My laptop is still open on the bed, although the screen has long gone black, and a few books are scattered around it. I spot my phone peeking from underneath one of the books, so I pull it out. Two fifty-three AM.
After we’d come home from Moore’s, I didn’t feel sleepy, so I decided to get some work done, but I must have fallen asleep at some point only to be woken up by a nightmare. Or is it the premonition of the future?
An uncomfortable shiver runs down my spine, making my whole body shudder.
Shaking my head, I close the laptop and books, taking them to my desk before turning my attention back to the bed. I should try and get some sleep, but there is no way I’d be able to fall asleep.
Not after the dream I just had.
My eyes fall on the photo sitting on my nightstand. Slowly, I make my way there, picking the silver frame and taking in the photo. It was taken at Christmas, Nixon’s freshman year of college. Three of us are sitting on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, big smiles on our faces. It’s one of the last photos of us together. Just a few months later, Mom’s cancer was back.
Another shiver runs through me as I skim my finger over her beautiful face—a face so similar to my own—before I put the frame back on the nightstand and open my closet. I roam around, trying to find a hoodie to slip on so I’m not cold, when I notice the box sitting on the top shelf. I pull it down, unsure of what’s inside. The heaviness of it catches me by surprise and makes me fumble back.
“What the…”
The top opens, giving me a glimpse of pink leather. My heart does a flip in my chest as I lower the box on the floor and remove the lid to find two bright pink gloves stacked inside. I pull them out, letting my fingers slide over the sleek leather.
Nixon introduced me to kickboxing when I was sixteen. In his protective, big brother way, he wanted to make sure I knew how to defend myself when he wasn’t around to do it, so I humored him, never expecting to love it as much as I did. I was never a sporty girl, but something about it called to me.
Then Mom needed me, and just like all the other things, kickboxing took a backseat to making sure my mom was taken care of.
I never even realized I brought them here.
Letting the gloves fall back into the box, I get up and take off my shirt.
Penny mentioned Emmett loved this building since it had a gym in the basement. I’ve never been there before, but how hard could it be to find?
From the corner of my eye, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I took off my bra the moment I got home, so I was met with naked skin.
My throat bobs as I see the lump under my arm has grown bigger. Just enough so it can be seen with the naked eye. I skim my fingers over it, sucking in a breath at the tender flesh.
Letting my hand drop, I turn my back to the reflection and grab a sports bra, shirt, and leggings from the closet. I slip on the stretchy material quickly and pick up the gloves.
My door creeks softly when I pull it open, making me cringe. I stop there for a heartbeat and just listen.
The apartment is clouded in darkness, with no sounds coming from any of the bedrooms. I quickly make my way to the front door, softly closing it as I slip into an equally quiet hallway.
When I reach the stairs, I weigh my options but decide to check the basement first since it seems like the most logical choice.
I take two steps at a time, my breathing accelerating as I make it all the way down. The automatic light turns on, blinding me slightly, but then I see the gym sign hanging on the wall next to the double door.
Bingo.
Pushing open the door, I enter the quiet space. The room is small, but it’s well equipped, including the bag hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room.
The door shuts behind me with a resoundingclick. I glance over my shoulder before returning my attention to the bag, my heart starting to race in excitement.
I slowly slip one hand, then the other, into my gloves. Flexing my fingers, I feel the leather tighten around my palms. There is a familiarity in the movement, in the way the leather envelopes my hands, in the weight of the gloves.
I’ve missed this, I realize.
