by Nikki Castle
I find Jax in the lounge area, stretched out on the couch talking to one of the assistant instructors. I immediately relax at the sight—he wouldn't look so casual, or even be here at the gym, if there was something wrong with Remy.
"Hey, sorry man," I interrupt. Their laughter is cut short, and they turn toward me expectantly.
I try for a casual look as I plop down in the office chair behind the front desk. "Some people have noticed that Remy hasn't been here in a while. Lucy seems close-lipped about it so Aiden and the others just want to make sure she's okay. Any idea what's going on with her?"
Jax is silent for a moment as he stares at me with a curious expression on his face. I squeeze the armrests to keep from fidgeting—he can probably see right through me.
"She's fine," he finally answers. "She has a big deadline coming up at work, so she's been focusing on that, working late hours. Plus, she's been busy getting settled in the new apartment." He tilts his head and stares at me for another breath, and I think to myself, he definitely knows. "You can tell Aiden and the others that she'll be back when her schedule’s not so crazy."
I swallow nervously but nod. At least now you know she's fine. And her absence at the gym has nothing to do with you, you self-centered bastard. She's probably forgotten all about you.
I try to ignore the vicious thought as it pops into my head. Because if that's true, my barely-contained heart is definitely going to disintegrate into pieces and I'll never be able to get through the rest of my day.
I take a shuddering breath and turn back to the computer to try to distract myself.
Even though I know I don’t have a chance in hell at holding another focused thought for the rest of the night.
I don't have to go to the gym the next day. Sundays are typically my days off, though I often end up scheduling private lessons in the morning for some extra cash. But my day is empty of even that today. I don't have a single thing on my schedule.
Which means I have nothing to distract myself with. Nothing to do but to yet again let my brain wander down a hazardous path of 'why' and 'what if.'
My five-mile run this morning did nothing to drive away the perpetual ache in my chest. Sometimes, when I'm exhausted enough, my body is too tired to hurt and actually lets me shut down and sleep. It's the reason I've been overtraining and running myself into the ground.
Numbness and physical exhaustion are better than soul-deep pain.
I'm just about to start calling gym people to see who wants to get an extra workout in at the gym when my phone lights up in my hand.
Mom is calling.
As always, I answer with a hesitant tone, since it's rare that she calls without a request. God forbid she calls just to say hi and to see how her son is doing.
"Hi, Mom. What's up?"
"Hi, honey. How's your Sunday?"
"Good. Relaxing. It's my off day so I don't need to be at the gym." I immediately wince when I realize I probably just walked myself straight into an invite to see the family.
"Oh, good," she chirps happily, and I can hear her clap her hands in delight. "Why don't you come over for dinner then? I thought we could spend a nice family dinner together. I'll even make your favorite dish for you."
I rub my temples tiredly. The last thing I want to do when I'm this exhausted is deal with small talk with my own family.
Then again, fighting with my dad might be the kind of distraction I need right now.
"Sure, Mom, I'll come over," I sigh. "What time?"
She claps excitedly again. "Come over at 6:00. That will give me time to throw some chicken pot pie for you. Does that work?"
"Yeah, that works. Thanks, Mom. I'll see you then."
"Bye, honey," she chirps as she hangs up.
I turn toward the front door and the running shoes I had just taken off before Mom's phone call. With a sigh, I lace them back up for another run.
20
Tristan
When I walk into my parents' house, I realize that my dad and brother aren't lounging in the sitting room the way they normally do. I hear Mom in the kitchen but otherwise the house is silent.
I make my way into the kitchen and, sure enough, I find Mom bouncing around getting dinner ready.
"Hey, Mom." She startles, not realizing I had come in.
"Oh, my goodness, you scared me," she breathes, clutching a hand to her chest. "I didn't even hear you come in. You're going to scare me to death one of these days with the way you sidle in."
A strained smile tilts the corner of my lips as I remember hearing those same words not too long ago. Only that time, it was a feisty brunette that was saying them, and I was there to punish her for daring to think anyone else could have her.
I shake the thoughts of Remy from my head. Again. It feels like all I've been doing for the past week is shaking my head.
"Sorry," I tell her, kissing her on her cheek. "I'm too graceful for my own good, I guess."
She ignores my weak joke and instead pulls back to study my face. A small frown appears on her lips.
"You look tired," she accuses. "Like you haven't been sleeping. Or eating. Is everything okay?"
I try for a big smile. "I'm fine, Mom. I just had a long week with work and I'm tired. Nothing a good Sunday dinner and ten hours of sleep can't fix."
Her frown deepens as she steps closer to me. She grips my chin and turns my head to the side. "And you have a black eye!" she exclaims accusingly.
I pull my face from her grasp, avoiding eye contact and resisting the urge to fidget under her scrutiny. I don't feel like explaining that I'm so depressed, I've been throwing myself into training and going way too hard during every session. I've been running myself into the ground, and when I'm tired, I get sloppy. I'll probably have a few more injuries until I can get my mental shit together.
I knew Mom would notice but I couldn't bring myself to care—about the injury or about her inevitable reaction, which is exploding out of her right now.
She plants her hands on her hips with a disapproving glare. "When will you be done with this insanity? How can this be fun for you? You're always hurt!"
Before I can answer back, I hear my dad's footsteps on the stairs. I wince, knowing this argument is about to get a lot worse. Dad walks into the kitchen to find Mom and I glaring at each other.
"What's going on?"
Mom throws her hands up in exasperation. "He's hurt again. Look at him! It's ridiculous!"
Dad frowns as he looks me over. I grit my teeth and endure the scrutiny, fury starting to sizzle in my veins.
It was a mistake to come here—I should've known this would happen. I'm too exhausted and emotionally unhinged to deal with them right now.
"You look horrible," he finally spits. "You look like a bully that got into a fight in a schoolyard. No better than an immature schoolboy that can only solve problems with his fists." He gives me another once-over and scoffs, his words dripping with disdain. "Your mother is right. You need to end this ridiculous caveman phase of your life. I will never understand what on earth pushed you to this idiocy."
I clench my fists so hard that I can feel my fingernails ripping into my palm. I take a deep, stuttering breath to try to keep myself from exploding at the insult.
"I'm not a caveman, I'm a professional athlete," I begin calmly. "And it's not a phase. I'm on the verge of getting into the top organization in the world."
A pained expression appears on my mom's face. "How can it be a sport when you're just beating each other up? Not only in your fights, but every single day at the gym. How is that a sport? How is getting hurt fun for you?"
I shake my head, furious that we're having this conversation again. I've lost track of the amount of times I've tried explaining this to my parents over the years. "Mom, it's the oldest sport there is. Combat is the ultimate form of competition. I know it just seems like guys beating each other up, but it's not centered around pain like you think it is. It's about skill, and strategy, and grit. Can't y
ou just accept the fact that I love this sport for reasons you don’t understand?"
"Enough," my dad snaps, just as tired of this argument as I am. He's heard all of this before. "I've heard enough of your ludicrous justifications. It's barbaric, and you need to stop this right now. I won't have you disgrace this family any longer. Do you have any idea how it feels to hear our friends at the country club talk about how their sons are doing as lawyers, doctors, investment bankers? I spend so much time steering the conversation toward Scott that I'm pretty sure a lot of them think we only have one son."
I didn’t think it was possible to hurt any more than I already am, but I’m immediately and brutally proven wrong when my already-butchered heart feels yet another slash of pain at my dad’s words. I swallow roughly to try to keep the tears at bay.
"Honey," my mom says to her husband with a wince. She touches his arm in an effort to pull back his words.
But they're already out there, finally spoken. I finally get to hear my father's true thoughts.
I knew my parents weren't proud of me, but I never thought they were actually ashamed. I thought they just didn't understand. I meant what I said to Remy that night on the couch: I really thought my mom's concerns came from a place of love, in her own fucked up way. I didn't know they hated fighting—hated me—this much.
"Well, I'm sorry I'm such a big disappointment, Dad," I choke out. "I didn't realize your wish for my life was to do the normal, boring things that everybody else does, even if it makes me miserable. I guess I was stupid to think I could pick one thing that brings me happiness and maybe, just maybe, you'd be happy that I was happy."
I look between my parents, blinking back sudden tears. "You were amazing parents when we were kids," I say hoarsely. "You loved us and raised us with morals and work ethic, and Scott and I loved you. We still do. God, I love you both so much, even right now when you're breaking my heart." I choke back the sob that threatens to rip out of me.
I clear my throat and straighten to my full height, spearing them both with a hard look. "But somehow when we became adults, your warped vision of success began to fuck us up. I need you to know that in that aspect, you guys are terrible parents. I don't know if it's because you bought into your stupid country club mentality that only certain high-paying careers count as success, or if something else drove you to think this way, but either way you completely fucked over Scott and I when it came to our outlook on careers.”
My mom looks away from me as tears start to well in her eyes. It's killing me to hurt her like this, but they've been hurting me for so long and they don't even realize it. I can’t keep dancing around the truth, hoping they’ll figure it out on their own one day.
Dad looks absolutely furious at my declaration. Rage boils in his eyes, and I think he wants to cut me off, but I don’t give him the chance. "Scott bought into your bullshit and went into the finance world, probably because you sold him on the importance of making a lot of money. He's now just as much of an asshole as any other Wall Street moron. He's so obsessed with money that he looks down on anyone that makes less than six figures. So much for the morals you raised us with, huh?" A sob tears out of my mom as she claps her hand to her mouth, but I can't stop my rant. "But me… I was smart enough to figure out that this particular view of yours is bullshit. I picked a job I love, that I wake up every morning excited to do. See, despite your bullshit parenting, I figured out that there's only two things that really matter when it comes to a person's career: it should make you happy, and it should make enough money to support your family. That’s it. Well, I make good money with this sport. Not with fighting, not yet, but with teaching, and helping others. This sport helps people. It helps them to feel strong, and confident, and brave. It's so much more than just black eyes and fist fights. Though I don't expect you to ever give a shit about that."
I look between my parents again. My dad is fuming, clenching his fists and visibly trying to keep from lashing out at me for demeaning his parenting skills. My mom is crying quietly into her hands.
It's the sight of my mom's tears that finally cools my anger and dulls my pain. Suddenly all I feel is sadness. I’m sad for them, for their warped view of the world that is keeping them from having a real relationship with their son. I might never know what made them this way, but I'm deciding not to accept their treatment of me anymore.
I let the hurt and sadness shine through my gaze, so they know that even though I'm being harsh, I'm not doing this to hurt them. I just need them to understand. "I don't need you to like fighting, or even accept it. I just need you to accept me. I need you to understand that this job makes me happy, that it makes a difference. And I'm good at it. God, I'm really fucking good at it. I'm going to be the best in the world one day, and I hope by then you'll be in my corner. But I can't take this any longer. I don't want to talk to you if all I'm going to get is condescension and disgust. I deserve better than that. As my parents you owe me more than that.”
I shake my head sadly as I walk out of the house, but pause when my hand grips the doorknob, desperate to make them understand. “So… don’t call me anymore. Don’t call me until you can stomach the idea of having a conversation with me that doesn’t involve shitting on my life or trying to convince me to take a job as a corporate snob. Just… try to be my loving parents for once."
I walk out of the house and away from my own family, at least for the foreseeable future. I ache with the hope that it's not for longer than that. Because I meant what I said: I won't come back until they accept me as I am. I refuse to be shit on any longer.
I slump into my car, willing the sadness radiating through my body to somehow diminish into a more bearable pain. I've been sliced with so much heartbreak lately that I'm not sure how much more my mind and body can take.
I exhale a shaky breath as I back out of the driveway and leave my family behind.
The next week is even emptier than the last one. Not only has Remy still not come to the gym, but I also haven't heard from my mom. I definitely won't be the first one to reopen lines of communication because I meant every word I said to them, but it still hurts that she hasn't even tried to call me. I can only hope it's because they know I was serious and are rethinking how they've been talking to me.
I throw myself into work and my training sessions even harder than before, if that's even possible. My miles increase and my workouts on the heavy bags become longer and harder. I barely make it to my bed every night before I'm passing out from exhaustion.
Jax has to practically force food down my throat. It's not that I'm not eating, but I'm definitely not eating enough. He stops by the gym during his lunch break most days and drags me out to eat some kind of calorie-dense protein meal. Being a pro athlete himself, he can tell my strength is down by looking at how I move during my workouts. Just the fact that I'm losing rounds at the gym to people that I have no business losing to is proof of the fact that my body is rundown and my head's not in the game.
But he doesn't push me to talk about anything. He just shoves food down my throat and subtly lets me know that he's there if I need him. Every day that he doesn't question me, I'm reminded again how much Jax gets me and how grateful I am to have him as a friend.
I'm attempting to refuel after a particularly grueling Saturday morning session when I first try to talk to him. It slips out of me while we're both drifting around the kitchen making food.
"I confronted my parents," I blurt out suddenly. He straightens from the fridge and turns startled eyes toward where I'm standing by the stove with a skillet.
"About fighting?" he asks, his tone gently coaxing me to continue.
I nod. "I had a black eye when I showed up to their house and Mom went off about how I could think being injured is fun, and that I should just quit. Dad took the opportunity and jumped in about what a disgrace I am and how they can't tell any of their country club buddies about me or what I do." I laugh bitterly. "He said they talk so little about me that their friends pro
bably think they only have one son."
Jax's eyes go wide. "He actually said that?" he breathes. I nod again. "Jesus Christ, that man is so messed up. What an asshole. You're his son, for fuck's sake."
I shrug tightly, trying to brush off the hurt feelings that try to envelop me at the memory. I've kept the pain to a dull ache all week, and I'm not about to drown in them now. I just want Jax to know why my head's been so fucked up.
"I told them they sucked as parents," I continue. Jax's eyes widen even further, and his jaw drops open. "I told them they need to get over themselves and get over the idea that only certain careers are socially acceptable. I tried to explain that I love this sport, and that I'm really good at it, and that they should love me enough to support me even if they don't understand that." I swallow the hurt that tries to make an appearance with the final piece of the memory. "I told them I don't want to talk to them until they can do that."
Jax winces as he puts the pieces of the puzzle together. "I assume they haven't called, then." When I nod in confirmation, he goes back to arranging his ingredients on the kitchen counter, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm glad. It's long overdue that they hear the truth about how badly they've treated you. You did the right thing." He hesitates before looking over at me. "You know that, right? You did the right thing."
I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. I know Jax is right, but the knowledge still makes my chest feel hollow. "I know," I say softly. I take a deep, stuttering breath. "It just sucks."
Jax nods in understanding. "I don't know about your dad, since he might be too far gone into his bullshit by now, but your mom will come around. She's not a bad person, Tristan. She'll figure it out. Just give them some time."
His words are so close to Remy's that the sudden, piercing reminder makes me suck in a sharp breath. I take short, shallow gulps of air as my heart rate begins to increase. I try to distract myself by returning to the eggs cooking in the skillet.