Page 43 of Fight
The entire time I was with Jonathan, I felt less than. When there’s an attraction between two people, you can see it in their eyes. I saw it in other couples. I saw it in Callahan; he looked at me in ways Jonathan never did. Back when it was a constant reminder that I was never enough, even when it wasn’t his fault. After enough times of being gazed at with eyes longing for something else, it breaks a person. And that’s exactly what I am, broken.
As I pass by the decorated autumnal porches and neatly raked piles of leaves, this put-together neighborhood is such a juxtaposition to my life. Yet I want to belong so desperately, and jogging down the sidewalk lets me pretend I’m apart of their charming world in Sky Ridge, even if it’s for the brief moment it takes me to pass through.
The house I always look for—number 218, is one of the few homes left undecorated for the season, which gives me a blank slate to imagine what I’d do if I lived there. I would have pumpkins with carved faces on the porch steps and tie corn stalks around the painted posts. I’d add those fake cobwebs that the neighboring houses have. Halloween wasn’t something we could celebrate, but if I lived at 218, I’d have skeletons and ghosts in every window, and the biggest bowl of candy for trick-or-treaters.
A car pulls up front, and two laughing kids barrel out of the back seat and run into the front yard. I smile as the presumed father jumps out of the driver’s seat, chasing them. The mother exits the passenger side just as the dad catches the young daughter, who squeals when he tickles her belly. It’s so delightfully normal. I knew a happy family must live there, and it fills my heart to see my hunch confirmed.
218 Spencer always has a way of cheering me up.
I’m distracted by the antics of the lively family across the street when I approach the intersection and turn right. My joy is short-lived when I almost plow head-on with another runner.
I put my hands up defensively and stumble over my feet, attempting to get out of the way. The man grips my biceps and steadies me. I suck in a breath, ready to apologize when I glance up to see Callahan glaring back at me.
I rip my arms from his grasp. “Stay away from me,” I snap.So much for that apology.The words are the first thing that came to mind, and I suspect they came about not literally but as more of a generalized statement. I might even be projecting, but you won’t hear me admitting that to him. The near collision was one hundred percent my fault, but I can’t bring myself to say sorry. I can hardly stand to look him in the eye again. Instead, I sidestep and literally run away without another word. Like a coward.
MID-OCTOBER
“What are you doing before you start ski patrol?” King asks.
This is our last roll of the season, and we're putting finishing touches on the containment lines when a few guys start talking about their plans for the off-season.
“Probably blow all my hazard pay at the strip club. Then maybe steal a car… cook meth… rob a bank...” I count on my fingers.
“So, the usual?”
“Everybody’s got their hobbies…” I shrug. “I dunno. Probably hike Quell’s or Briarburn. Hell, might just plant my ass on a barstool at Shifty’s and get trashed. What about you?”
“Shifty’s sounds great, I think I’ll join you.”
“You could always join me on a hike?” I suggest, scanning down the line. Caleb leans on his Pulaski, and his face is pale. One of the guys swiped his lunch and swapped it for another veggie omelet MRE. I thought he would barf on the spot. I chuckle, recalling my own rookie season and all the bullshitthose guys put me through. It’s done out of love and as insurance to make sure you can handle it.
“Why would I climb a mountain in my free time,” he grunts, grabbing a large limb and tossing it in the green. “When I can just get paid to do it next year? Besides, it’s too fuckin’ cold for summits.”
“Best time to go,” I argue with a headshake. “All the tourists are gone.”
King smirks. “I thought tourists were your favorite part.”
“The hot and single ones,” I add with a wink.
He raises a brow. “I dunno, man… we’ve been prepping this line for a week, and you haven’t so much as flirted with one waitress when we go out to eat.”
I raise my shoulders. “So?”
“So, that’s unlike you. Got anything to do with Scottie?”
Talking about that woman makes my blood pressure rise. “Why the fuck would it have anything to do with her?”
“Just askin’... Xander said y’all got pretty loaded at Shifty’s a couple weeks ago, and he drove your sister home, and she mentioned y’all meeting up because you were having girl trouble.”
“I don’t havegirl trouble,” I scoff. “Scottie and I aren’t anything. Not that it matters, she’s married.”
He stands up straight. “What? She’s married?!”
“Yeah.” I huff. As if it’s no big deal. As if I didn’t ruin a marriage. As if I didn’t sleep with another man’s wife.
“Who’s she married to?”
My back teeth grind. I’d love to discuss anything else right now. “Not sure.” I gather a handful of brush, tossing it out of the way, not wanting to meet his eyes.