by Aly Martinez
Leaning across the table that divided us, Don prodded, “So tell me about Davenport. That fight finally gonna happen or what?
I gasped and plugged my ears with my fingers. “No! Don’t say that name! It’s like Beetlejuice or that guy from Harry Potter. We never say that name!”
Garrett Davenport, while he sounded like a pretentious dick, was actually a badass boxer. Not as badass as Quarry, but then again, I couldn’t guarantee that since they hadn’t actually fought yet. Davenport was the four-time reigning world heavyweight champion, and he loathed Quarry Page something fierce.
Over a year earlier, Quarry had been given his long-awaited, highly anticipated title fight. He’d busted his ass in the gym day and night in preparation. However, three days before the match, Davenport sprained his ankle. Quarry was disappointed, but shit happens. However, two weeks later, when Garrett was photographed skiing in Vail with his girlfriend, his injury seemed a little too convenient (read: fake). Over the three months, he was “recovering,” Davenport spewed more shit than a sewage line that had sprung a leak. But he didn’t just talk about Quarry’s boxing. He attacked him personally. It was like a political campaign and he was determined to slay Quarry in the public eye. He cast slanderous shadows on Quarry’s role in Eliza’s kidnapping and, ultimately, Flint’s injury. He even went so far as to bring up Mia’s death, making outlandish accusations that suggested Quarry hadn’t acted quickly enough to save her.
That was when Quarry lost his mind. And not just like he was pissed. I mean we all thought there was a good chance Garrett was going to be found dead with Quarry standing over his bloody carcass.
When it finally came time for their fight, Quarry was still fuming. Thus, when Davenport whispered a sweet nothing in his ear during the weigh-in, he blew up. Punches weren’t just thrown—they were weaponized. By the time the men were pulled apart, Davenport was unrecognizable and Quarry’s right hand was broken. Needless to say, the fight was canceled—again. As the champion, Davenport was assigned a new opponent a few weeks later, while Quarry sucked it up and nursed his injury.
The boxing association stiffly fined them both because of the widely televised brawl at the weigh-in, but that was one check Quarry didn’t mind writing.
It pissed me off though.
I got it. He was hurt and angry. But beating the shit out of a man was no punishment when he still walked away with the belt slung over his shoulder. Quarry deserved that title; he’d more than proved that. But Davenport knew that the only way he could win that fight was if it never happened. So he weaseled into Quarry’s brain, lit the fuse, and then sat back and watched the fireworks.
That’s when “Golden” Garrett Davenport became my opponent.
Fuck with Quarry physically all day long—he could handle it. But no one screwed with his head. I didn’t care if he was six feet three and over two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle. I was protective.
So yeah, after the shit we’d been through, no one got to utter Garrett Davenport’s name. Not even clueless Don Blake.
“Okay. Okay.” He chuckled as I shook my head and pretended to shiver. “I’ll never utter his name again.”
“Good call. We should probably change the subject immediately before Quarry senses this conversation and feels the need to destroy my apartment.”
He chuckled again. “Okay. So, any other names or words I should know that are off-limits?”
“Nope. Just that one.” I returned his smile. “Tell me a little about yourself, Don?”
He reclined in the chair and regarded me humorously. “It’s an exciting story, so brace yourself.”
Clutching my chest, I exaggerated a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
“I sell cars at a dealership downtown. Relatively flexible schedule. I’m single. My wife and I divorced over a decade ago. I have a couple of kids, but they’re all grown and married now. Figure it’s as good a time as any to get out and do something in my spare time.”
“Wow. That was riveting,” I deadpanned.
“I know. I get that a lot.”
We both laughed.
“So, where’d you learn sign?” I asked.
“I was never formally taught or anything. I was raised by my grandparents, and my grandfather lost his hearing when he was eighteen. It was a necessity to communicate with him. He passed away when I was a teenager, but some things just stick with you.”
Hmmm. He looked a long way from a teenager.
I decided to test him one last time. Only signing, I asked, How have you maintained your competency all these years? You don’t seem rusty at all.
He shrugged and his eyes momentarily flashed to the ground uncomfortably. “Honestly?”
“I’d appreciate it if you were.”
He nodded absently. “I was extremely rusty a few years ago. Then I met someone, and let’s just say, I found a reason to brush up on my skills.” His smile dimmed as he dropped his hands into his lap. “So here I am now, just hoping I can use this position to keep myself polished up in case I ever get the chance to talk to her again.” He paused and released a sad sigh. “A man can dream, right?”
I offered him a sympathetic smile. “You came to the right place. I have more than enough tasks to keep you at the top of your game.”
He clapped his hands together and painted on another grin. “So, when do I start, boss?”
Me: OMG OMG OMG I finally found an assistant!!!! He’s grading papers for me tomorrow, so I’ll have the whole day off.
Quarry: Does this mean you’re good to go with me next week?
Me: Yep. I’m celebrating by getting drunk tonight!
Quarry: Thank God…but no.
Me: No what?
Quarry: You aren’t drinking. Last time you did, I ended up almost fighting an angry circus clown after you made his girlfriend cry by complimenting her Oompa Loompa costume.
Me: That was NOT the last time I drank. That was my 21st birthday. And I won’t say it again. She looked like an Oompa Loompa and you know it!
Quarry: She wasn’t in costume!
Me: Then why was she orange?!
Quarry: Who the hell knows? The better question would be why the hell her boyfriend was dressed like a clown? And why exactly he thought picking a fight with me would end well for him?
Me: Oh my God! Do you remember when Ash started begging him to make her balloon animals because she thought Flint hired him for my birthday?
Quarry: I thought someone was going to have to bail Flint out of jail when Bozo snapped at her.
Me: Ya know, for a man whose face was painted in a big, red smile, he really was a grouchy clown.
Quarry: Come on. Give the guy a break. It was probably the first time he realized he was in a relationship with a dangerous escapee from Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
Me: Lol! That was such a fun night.
Quarry: No.
Me: No. What?
Quarry: No, we aren’t going out after this charity thing tonight.
Me: Oh, Grandpa Page, I would never dream of dragging you out. I’m well aware how much you love hiding out at home. I’ll just celebrate by drinking wine and making you watch me reenact Grease 2 again.
Quarry: Dear. God. Why?
Me: You want me to grab you some beer on my way home?
Quarry: Yes and a bottle of chloroform.
Me: Hi-larious!
Quarry: Where are you anyway? Isn’t it gonna take you four days to get dressed? We have to leave in an hour.
Me: I had my hair and makeup done. I just need to put on my dress and shoes. The most time-consuming part will be yelling at you to change until you finally relent and put on the damn suit instead of whatever jeans you have on right now.
Quarry: Promise me no Grease 2 and I’ll be in the suit when you get here.
Me: Deal. See you in ten.
Quarry: Cool.
Me: Actually, make that twenty. I’m gonna stop at a Redbox and see if they have The Sound of Music.
/> Quarry: Fuck!
WHEN I WAS EIGHT YEARS old, my mom’s latest loser boyfriend found a way to steal cable from the neighbors. It was short-lived, seeing as everyone in our apartment complex had figured it out months earlier, but for that weekend, Flint and I thought we had hit the jackpot. We huddled around the TV every waking minute. The picture was shit, constantly breaking into static, but we didn’t dare give up or turn it off for fear it would disappear for good. It was only a matter of time before we were rewarded for our dedication when the screen unscrambled. And, like the dumb kids we were, we gasped with excitement, hoping those minutes of clarity would last forever.
They didn’t.
The snow once again clouded our view, leaving us longing to reclaim those stolen flashes of clarity.
Over the years, my life began to resemble those days spent staring at a half-assed TV. There were bits of entertainment breaking up the otherwise monotonous drone of static, but for the most part, my life was nothing more than a black-and-white, jumbled mess. The world around me functioned as nothing more than a noisy distraction to keep my mind occupied while I desperately waited for the bigger picture to come into focus.
The only problem was, after Mia died, I wasn’t even sure what the picture of my life looked like anymore.
My only clarity came inside the boxing ring or in the solitude of my apartment—with Liv.
It took a long time, but the wound Mia had left behind eventually scabbed over. But nothing filled the hollowness inside me. I couldn’t exactly pinpoint what was missing. I just knew that it was gone.
Every single day, I smiled.
Every single day, I lived.
Every single day, I laughed.
And, every single night, I stared at my ceiling, trying to figure out why none of those things left me feeling even an ounce of contentment.
Those feelings usually led me to pace our small apartment until I gave in, donned my hearing aids, and sat in the hall, listening to the music blaring from under the crack of Liv’s door. For a while, I thought she was on to something with the whole sleeping-with-music thing. But, after several failed attempts at sleeping while sitting up in order to keep my hearing aids in, I gave up and found myself leaning against her door again.
Nightly.
For years.
Occasionally, I’d doze off.
More often, I’d go back to my room and wait for sleep to overpower the lingering chaos consuming my mind.
But, sometimes, if I got really lucky, I’d think of an excuse to wake her up.
Those hours spent in her dimly lit room, discussing whatever random topic I could find to keep her talking, were enough to temporarily extinguish the static. And, if I hadn’t felt so fucking guilty each morning as she left for work with dark circles under her eyes, it would have become my nightly routine.
Liv never said a word about my late-night appearances in her room—not even to give me shit about them. That wasn’t who she was. She knew I needed it and she gave it freely.
That was Liv James.
It was who we were together.
On the flip side, I gave it to her too.
I never once said a word about the nights I’d wake up to find her in my bed. I wasn’t sure why she was there because she never woke me up to talk or cuddled into my back for comfort. She was just there. Headphones on. iPod on the nightstand. Long hair fanned out behind her. Black lashes fluttering in REM. There.
The next morning, she was always gone when I woke up.
But she’d been there. I knew because those were the nights I basked in the silence.
Every single time, I’d smile as I tugged the blanket over her.
Every single time, I felt alive while watching her lost in peaceful slumber.
Every single time, I’d laugh as her chest shuddered with what I assumed was a soft snore.
And, every single time, I’d stare at the ceiling as contentment washed over me, lulling me into the most amazing sleep of my life.
Those nights weren’t just the clarity—they were the blinding colors that made me wake up the next morning, put one foot in front of the other, and take on another day.
It didn’t happen frequently, but at least once a month, I’d find her at my side.
But guilt overwhelmed me.
Because, nightly, I’d selfishly wish that whatever demon had her sneaking into my room would find her and allow me a few hours with her at my side to escape my own.
I can honestly say without a single doubt that Liv James was the only reason I didn’t self-destruct over the years. I could have easily gone off the deep end, losing myself in anger at the fucking universe that seemed so hell-bent on ruining me.
Liv wouldn’t let go though. She fought for me even when I desperately wanted to throw in the towel.
We were friends—best friends. But that wasn’t where our relationship ended.
She was the little sister I never had but would’ve killed to protect. No matter the price.
She was the roommate who threatened to move out on a daily basis because I left my shoes all over the place. Half the time, I did it on purpose because I loved watching her rant in Spanish as she furiously swirled around the room, picking them up, only seconds before throwing them at me. Plus, she was fair to a fault. Despite the fact that I made more in a single fight than she would in ten years, she still insisted on paying half the bills and alternating the utilities each month.
Liv was also my chef, not because I’d asked her to be, but rather because she knew I needed a healthy diet despite being worthless in the kitchen. I was a professional heavyweight boxer; my metabolism was insane. I consumed thousands of calories when I was training up for a fight. Every morning, I’d wake up with a tote bag full of food to take to the gym with me. Good food. Healthy food. Shit no one but professional athletes would ever want to eat. And she made it for me.
Most recently, she had become my assistant. She knew me so well that it was as if she could read my mind. Liv could predict what I needed without my ever asking. And then she made sure I had it. I wasn’t exactly easy to deal with—I knew that much. But Liv was tough and didn’t pull any punches when I got out of line. Not even when I needed her to. I’d never in a million years be able to replace her.
Liv James was absolutely everything to me.
Well, almost.
She wasn’t mine.
Yet.
See, when a man is in love with a woman, he doesn’t allow himself to see the perfections in anyone else. I had been so blinded by my devotion to Mia that, while I’d seen Liv daily, I hadn’t truly recognized the insanely sexy and desirable woman she was. That is, until one night, when the scars covering my heart were finally able to close the gaping wound Mia March had left behind.
It was a Friday when it happened.
A Friday when everything I’d missed over the years came slamming into my head at a million miles an hour, rocking me back and forcing me to take notice.
A Friday I’d never forget no matter how desperately I tried to block it from my memory.
A Friday when I realized I was probably going to lose my best friend.
A Friday when I knew I was in for the biggest fight of my life to keep her.
It was a Friday when the picture of my life finally came into focus and I saw Liv James for what felt like the very first time.
“Oh my gah!” she shouted as she slammed the door and dropped her purse on the floor.
“That good, huh?” I asked, sprawled out on the chocolate-brown leather sectional Liv had picked out.
Fisting her hands on her hips, she tilted her head. “Can you please tell me what is wrong with your generation of men?”
My eyebrows popped in humor. “My generation of men?”
“Yes! Why are you all assholes?”
Sitting up, I replied, “Present company excluded?”
After pulling her heels off, she carried them to her room, calling over her shoulder, “I’m not sure. The jury is
still out on that.”
“Hey!” I started to follow her when she returned to continue her rant.
After making a brief stop at the fridge to pour a glass of wine, she cozied into her spot in the bend of the couch. “So, get this… He took me to The Roads for dinner.”
Snagging two bananas and a jar of peanut butter, I headed to the couch to join her. “What’s wrong with The Roads? Their steaks are fucking insane and definitely not cheap.”
She curled her legs underneath her. “Nothing’s wrong with it…unless your ex-girlfriend is a waitress there and you specifically ask to be seated in her section…while on a date…with someone else.” She curled her lip.
“No shit?”
“No. Shit,” she confirmed.
“What’d you do?”
She scoffed. “What I did was order a hundred-dollar bottle of wine I barely got to touch because he kept trying to hold my hand over the table, and then I ordered another hundred dollars in food, which I scarfed down in record time. Because, well…you aren’t wrong about those steaks, but he was a self-absorbed snob who made me wish his steak had bones just so he could choke on one. But then! I told him to go fuck himself and caught a cab home. I seriously don’t understand what’s wrong with men.”
Swallowing another bite of banana, I propped my feet on the ottoman and reclined into the couch. “It’s not them. There’s something wrong with you.”
“Excuse me?” she said just seconds before her fist landed hard on my thigh.
“Ow. Shit. Stop punching me. I didn’t get to finish.”
“Then by all means continue, oh wise one.” Rolling her eyes, she tipped the wine to her lips.
“You have shit taste in guys. I can’t believe you even went out with him after he showed to pick you up wearing boat shoes.”
“Hey! I like boat shoes.”
Coating the tip of my banana with peanut butter, I replied, “No. You like douchebags.” Holding her eyes, I dared her to challenge me as I took a bite.
She didn’t hesitate. “I do not!”
Since I was chewing, my only response was to quirk my eyebrow in a silent Really?