I nodded and took the water bottle that appeared at my side. Gulping down some much-needed hydration, I went over to the bench where my running shoes were. I pulled them on and nodded to Bo. He always ran my cool-down with me.
Every morning I got up at 5 a.m. to train with Paulie Generoli. When I had decided to come to Central, I figured that fighting would’ve to be shelved or put aside entirely. I wasn’t broken up about it. Few fighters ever made any money, although with new network television contracts, and increasing interest in pay-per-view events, the sport was making everyone richer.
Even with the influx of new money, though, the likelihood of fighters making a real living out of it was low. The goal was to get on a television fight card. You do that and you get a pretty nice payday. I played high percentage shots, like saving all my money while deployed, instead of buying new trucks, bikes, or boats. But the lure of getting paid big money for beating the shit out of someone was too enticing to pass up.
My trainer in San Diego begged me not to leave, but when it became clear that I wasn’t going to change my mind, he hooked me up with Paulie, a former Olympic wrestling coach. I was lucky to have him and even luckier not to have to pay Paulie for his training services, only for my gym membership. But if I could win something—anything—then Paulie could use me to bolster his gym’s reputation. It was a mutual back-scratching arrangement that could all go to hell if Paulie found out that I was messed up this morning because I couldn’t stop thinking about a girl.
Never a big equal rights supporter, Paulie had become increasingly angry toward females after so many colleges began eliminating their wrestling programs. He viewed women as good for only one thing, and Paulie was perpetually single because he couldn’t keep his opinions to himself.
“I’m going to talk to her after her last class today,” I told Bo as we ran along the nearly deserted downtown streets. Traffic would pick up in about fifteen minutes, but we’d be close to done by that time.
“Where?”
“Outside her classroom.”
“Sounds like a terrible idea.”
“It’s not,” I denied. I had debated this all night. It was why I couldn’t focus this morning. “Or it might be, but it’s the best I’ve got. I’ve let it fester too long. It’s time to pull the Band-Aid off.”
“What was the Band-Aid, exactly? The Dear John letter you wrote to her?”
“Was I supposed to show up at her door with my rucksack and say, ‘I’m a fucking mess. I can’t sleep. I jump at loud noises. I’m likely to strangle your cat if you have one,’” I retorted. When Bo and I separated, I’d spent three months wondering if I had made a big mistake by getting out. I wasn’t suited for anything but being a Marine, but time and multiple visits to the VA helped calm me down.
I had wanted to separate, get Grace, and start a new life together. Instead, I sent her a letter telling her she reminded me of someone’s little sister and friend-zoned her. I didn’t want to think about the anger I would’ve felt getting that kind of letter from her. The guilt wore me down sometimes, but I didn’t want to present a fucked-up version of myself. I’d spent the year putting myself back together, physically and mentally, and another year making sure I could not only get into Central, but pay for it.
If it took another year to win Grace back, I would do it. I’d hate it, but I’d do it.
Grace
When I left class, my first thought was that I was still in bed dreaming, because Noah Jackson was standing there, leaning against the interior brick wall next to my classroom with his backpack slung over one shoulder. Even slouching, he was still taller than many of the other students passing him.
I let out an involuntary cry and swallowed it back, but it was too late. His head popped up and, as he straightened and looked right at me, I got my first full view of him. I wasn’t even surprised I recognized him. I couldn’t delete his image from my memory like I could from my hard drive.
Noah was older than most of the students. He had never revealed his birthday, even though I asked repeatedly. His excuse was that I would try to do something too extravagant, and he would feel guilty. But based on his years of deployment, I knew he had to be around 23. It wasn’t just his age that set him apart from my classmates, but the way he held himself.
I drank him in, mesmerized by the sight.
Even standing silently near the wall, he had presence and an innate confidence. He didn’t shrink in on himself, but stood there comfortably, arms loose at his sides. The crowd moved around him instead of the other way around.
He was shorter than my brother, Josh, who stood at 6’ 5, but was more solid. Dressed simply in jeans and a dark gray T-shirt, his body had not lost any of the muscle he had gained while in the Marines. If anything, he looked bigger than he had in the one picture I possessed.
I could see the veins in his forearms and biceps prominently displayed under the skin. Like the arms of a drummer in the marching band. Strong. Powerful. Capable. His eyes were deep-set but in perfect symmetry to his mouth and angular nose. His cheekbones were sharp and high, reminding me of a manga character. But where those characters had rounded baby faces, Noah’s jaw and chin were squared off, as if the sands of the desert had hewn that portion of his face out of rock.
I tried to move back into the classroom, but the collective force of the exiting students continued to push me outside. We stood there for a moment, just a few feet away; the distance seemed at once yawning and stifling.
I should’ve said something witty, like “where have you been all my life” or “long time, no see” because really did he expect he could show up and I’d fall at his feet? But my actual thinking capabilities were currently somewhere on the hallway floor.
It was like fate, or life, or karma hated me. I needed to be in a men-on-their-knees outfit, not dressed in my brother’s flannel shirt, baggy boyfriend jeans, and battered canvas Chuck Taylors. I hadn’t even showered today because I overslept, spending most of the night tossing and turning.
I wanted to run away before I broke down and completely embarrassed myself in front of my classmates. I turned away from him to head out the opposite end of the building. I couldn’t hear the sounds of dozens of students going from one class to the next. Nor could I see.
Anger, resentment, and, if I was being completely honest, joy filled my head and clouded my gaze. I moved down the hall by rote memory. I could see the rear entrance of the square building. The light filtering through the doors seemed like some kind of salvation, and I hurried toward it.
“Grace.”
I heard his voice behind me. I sped up. I may have been running. People moved out of my way.
I hit the metal release bar on the back glass doors with the flat of my hand, and the metal clanked loudly, I noted with satisfaction. I wished I had five more doors to bang through, but I guess that would’ve impeded my stomp toward my apartment.
Ordinarily, I would meet Lana for lunch at the campus café. Today I was going home and hiding in my apartment until I could decide what I was going to do. Like transfer out to another college or figure out how to avoid Noah for the rest of the time he was here. Problem was, I didn’t know why he was here or for how long. Transferring might be the best option. I could go to State University where my brother Josh went. It was only three hours away.
I had reached the edge of campus and could see my house just two blocks away. I was convinced that if I reached the porch of the old Victorian, I would be safe, like when we were kids playing tag. As I stopped for traffic, I felt Noah behind me, his big body throwing a shadow that swallowed my smaller one. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his hand hover over my shoulder. My whole body tensed. I didn’t know what I would do if he touched me, but it wouldn’t be good. He sighed softly and dropped his hand away.
“Grace, you’re mad. I get it. But can we at least talk?”
I had never heard Noah’s voice before. We never exchanged voicemail messages, never Skyped. We had just written to each other—World War II-style. I thought our decision to write only was impossibly romantic. Plus, I didn’t want him to see me over the Internet and decide I wasn’t attractive enough to write to anymore. I still had those damn letters in a carefully preserved state in an archival box designed, I think, for scrapbooks. But I had imagined what he would sound like. Low, because it seemed manly, and maybe a little gruff, because of all the sand in the desert. And look, I was right. His voice was low, gravelly, and panty-dropping sexy.
Who was I kidding? The panties probably came off even if he didn’t talk to a girl. He could smile or just acknowledge her presence and she’d swoon into his arms. I needed to avoid him, if only to preserve my dignity. I was too afraid that I’d throw myself at him and beg him to take me in all the ways that a virgin could dream of and then some. I kept moving toward my apartment, trying not to race, trying not to look tragic.
Once we reached the front of my apartment, I was stymied.
I had just let Noah know where I lived. Plus, I doubted I could get behind my security door before he put his big foot in and prevented it from closing.
As if he could read my mind, he said, “I already knew where you lived. You aren’t showing me anything I didn’t already know.” I still didn’t turn around. I could feel the tears I had tried to keep away begin to well up. Any minute now, I was going to start crying, and he so did not deserve to see me cry. That asshole.
This time, I felt his hand on my arm. I wanted to shake it off, but I didn’t move. I didn’t want him to know he affected me at all. Or at least more than he already knew. His hand slid down from my elbow to my palm, and I felt a piece of paper being pressed into my hand.
His body crowded mine for a second and I thought I felt his lips touch my hair. “Read this. It’s how we’ve communicated best in the past.” With that, he let go slowly. I wanted to just let his note drop to the ground, but as his hand released mine, I felt my fingers curl up involuntarily to crush the note in my palm. He squeezed my now-closed fist and walked away. I heard his footsteps fade, felt the warmth of his body dissipate.
I didn’t look back but instead went into the house and walked up the stairs. My feet felt like they had cinder blocks attached. By the time I reached the apartment door, I was shaking. It was hot outside and even hotter on the third floor, but my internal body temperature was telling me I was freezing. Maybe I was going into shock.
I dumped my stuff right inside the front door. I vaguely heard the chirps of my phone, informing me I had unread texts. Ignoring them, I walked into my bathroom, turned on the shower and stripped. Inside the glass cube, with water as hot as I could get it shooting out of the showerhead, I let go.
I wasn’t even sure what I was crying about. My own stupidity. My years of not dating, because I was so sure that Noah was my happily ever after. My lackluster freshman year. My inability to gather up the courage to submit my portfolio to the Fine Arts school. My certainty that no one would ever love me. All of it, I guess.
I cried for what seemed like hours, not noticing anything until the water shut off. I looked up and Lana was standing there, her eyes wet and concerned. She held a towel in her hands. I stumbled forward and she hugged me, wrapping me inside the terry cloth. I allowed her to lead me to the bedroom where the shades had been pulled and a towel placed on my pillow.
She held up the covers and I crawled inside like a five-year-old. Once she pulled the covers up over my body, Lana left the room quietly, closing the door behind her. The crying jag, the darkness of the room, and the weight of the covers dragged me into a dreamless sleep.
Hunger woke me up. I glanced at the clock—I had slept for three hours and it was nearly dinnertime. My hair was mostly dry, but I wrapped it up in a towel anyway and shrugged on a robe. I heard the television in the living room. Lana was on the sofa with a textbook in her lap and the remote beside her. Two Diet Cokes were open on the table. I knew she was dying to ask me what was going on, but she managed to stay quiet for the moment, at least.
“Should we have ice cream for dinner?” Lana asked as I walked over and took a long drag from her Diet Coke. I was parched. Dried out. I had no liquid left inside me after all that crying. And I was so shook up by Noah’s appearance two thousand miles from San Diego that I actually sat on the sofa, which I ordinarily avoided since Peter and Lana seemed to spend so much time making out on it.
“No,” I put the now half-empty soda can on the table. “But I’m hungry.”
“I was thinking of ordering in.”
“Good call.” And then knowing Lana needed an explanation, I told her, “He was waiting outside my Poli Sci class.”
“Did you talk?” Lana was matter-of-fact, as if she knew I needed steadiness not sympathy.
I shook my head. “No, but he gave me a note.”
“Like you’re third graders? What did it say?”