by L.J. Shen
Do I really have a choice? I don't think I do. And even if I had a choice, a part of me is dying to see Ty's mother. It might sound pathetic, but she is a piece of him. Who knows? Maybe I can actually get these two to get back in touch. Wouldn't that be something? The fact that I'm not even thinking this through is enough to tell me how much I love him, still.
“I'll need her number.” I shift on my stool.
Jesse makes a face. "I think you're better off driving to her place. A face-to-face meeting will have more impact."
This sounds like a recipe for disaster, but I have to man up. I want this. I want to help Ty.
I want a chance to see him again.
***
Mary Wilder lives in Redwood, NorCal in the kind of neighborhood that would make even an MMA champion fear for his life. I don’t know what drove her here, but I sure know it couldn’t have been a real-estate upgrade. The house is small and wooden, and desperately needs a coat of paint and a new roof. The yard hasn’t been mowed in months—or years—and all the plants, trees and weeds are either yellow, orange or covered in mud. Random junk clutters the yard—children’s bicycles, empty carton boxes, rusty pieces of metal, rotting wooden pallets. Man, this place looks rough.
How could Ty let his mom live this way?
I make sure my Mini Cooper is locked and push open the rusty gate, cursing as I stumble my way past stacks of moldy newspapers and crates of empty cans and climb the porch stairs to her front door. The door has a dirty, yellowing window with a torn curtain. I bang twice and sneeze when dust wisps into the air.
No one answers, but I think I hear a muffled cough inside the house. I rap on door again, this time harder.
“Go away,” a miserable voice moans.
“Open the door, Mrs. Wilder,” I yell. I hope I convey some kind of authority, because she may be my only chance to get Ty out of the head-deep shit he sank into.
The porch shakes as her footfalls approach. I hear her grunting, rustling the chain lock.
She thinks the better of it at the last minute and opts to peek through the curtain.
“Who the hell are you?” she demands.
I steal a glimpse of mother Wilder. She looks nothing like her son. He is tall, lean, athletic and has the facial features of a deity. She looks like a tired, overweight, unemployed mother of eight.
“It’s about your son.” I push my Wayfarers up my nose.
The curtain drops back in place.
“I ain’t got the bail money to help him out. Go away.”
Jesus Christ. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. So much for maternal instincts. I kick an ugly frog ornament next to her door. Big, throbbing mistake. It’s made of cast iron.
“He doesn’t need money, Mary. He needs help. He’s all busted up inside, and I don’t know who to turn to.” I bang her door with my fist. I wait impatiently and rub my wounded toes as she opens the door and stands in front of me, her eyes hollow with disinterest.
“He hasn’t spoken to me in three years, how the hell can I help him?” She leans on the doorframe and folds her arms on her chest.
I allow myself a second to take in the sight of her. She looks a mess. Father Wilder must have been an Abercrombie model, otherwise I can’t see how Ty and this woman are genetically linked.
She takes out a soft pack of Camel Lights from the back of her stained sweatpants and lights a cigarette, motioning with her hand to ask me if I want one. I shake my head, and she shrugs, covering the Zippo lighter with her hand.
“You his girl?” She sounds amused and billows a trail of smoke directly at my face.
“Why is this funny?” I dodge the question.
“There’s always a girl trying to save Tyler. And all of you think you can. You girls are dumber than I was when I married his father.”
“No point in asking how that one worked out, huh?” I push her away from the door, inviting myself in.
If her house looks like a mess from the outside, the inside could accurately be described as hell. She is a hoarder of some kind, and the place is crammed with shit I didn’t even know still exists. And there is this rancid, awful smell of a stale fart and bad canned food.
“Nice place.” I don’t bat an eye, taking a tour around the house. I can't believe Ty used to live in this place. I know he moved around. Martinez to Redwood, Redwood to Concord. I can see why he ran away. Living in this place looks like a nightmare.
Mary plops down into a recliner and puffs on her cigarette. It was a bitch to find her place and it’s going to be a bitch to get her to drag her sorry ass to Concord to be there for her son, and I know it.
When I started dating Ty, I imagined my first encounter with his mother would involve me asking her what the hell she was thinking when she decided to give him a name that rhythms. Tyler Wilder. Now I'm beginning to see that there's a lot of more pressing issues than Ty's name.
“How do you want me to help Tyler?” she repeats. “And what makes you think that I can?”
“I want you to come with me to Concord and take care of him until he comes around. He's been drinking and not eating and..." I trail off, fighting the urge to nibble on a fingernail. "He is not well."
“Tyler made it very clear that he doesn’t consider me his mother.”
“Ty says shit so you won’t pick up on his pain. You’re his freaking mom. Get your ass to Concord and live up to your role, because your son has a drinking problem that would put an Irish sailor to shame.”
Mary offers me a shrewd smile. And that’s when I see them. Those dimples. Ty’s dimples. I take a good look at her, photoshopping off years of poverty and misery. She was definitely a hottie before life hit her with a giant shovel and junk food did the rest of the damage.
“You’re not one of the stupid bimbos. Guess Tyler has changed a little since I last saw him.”
“Yeah.” I take a few steps forward, making eye contact. “Now it’s your turn. Get into the shower. I’ll wait here. We’re going to Concord.”
Mary Wilder is her son’s mother, alright. Just like him, she presents the demand list of an angry IRA terrorist before she’ll agree to cooperate. She wants me to take her to the supermarket and buy her groceries, and also asks for a carton of smokes and a manicure before we leave Redwood.
I slam my Mini Cooper’s passenger door, cussing under my breath, and slide behind the wheel. I know my mother can be a pain, but she also cares. She wants me to be happy, even if our definitions of “happy” are very, very different. Ty's mom definitely puts things in perspective.
“What the hell did you just say?” She lights up another cigarette, not bothering to ask if it's okay to smoke in my car. I roll down my windows.
“I said I’m surprised you didn’t get any Mother of the Year awards yet.” I start the engine and follow her directions to the nearest strip mall. It’s a good thing my Wayfarers are dark enough to hide the disgust in my eyes.
I can’t believe Ty had to suffer her as a mother. I just hope she’ll step up to the plate now.
"I'm also getting some beer, just so you know," she tells me when I park outside the grocery store.
"Alcohol is off limits. You're not going near his house with beer." I put my foot down.
"Yes I am. He won't notice. I’ll hide it from him." She flashes me a dimpled smile. Damn it.
"That's cheating," I point out.
"If it ain't worth cheating on, it ain't worth winning."
Yes. Ty has clearly inherited some traits from his mom. All she seems to care about is how to get her way while screwing people over.
I just wish her son wasn't so literal about following in her footsteps.
When it’s all done and dealt with, and Mary walks out with two huge bags, and has new, glossy red nails, I finally drive to Ty’s house. She’s sitting next to me, completely consumed by the content of her new bags. She looks like a kid who just raided Toys R Us and asks zero questions about Ty. It's becoming more and more difficult for me not to disl
ike her. I'm convinced that she'll bail on me at the last minute.
“So what happens now?” She tears open a bag of corn chips and tosses one into her mouth, munching loudly.
“Ty’s drinking too much. He needs someone to drag him to the shower, put some food in him and give him a hug. You think you can do that?” I flick my gaze to watch her briefly before turning back to the road.
She shrugs. “What set him off?”
“I dumped him.”
Mary finds this so amusing she literally laughs until she cries. The smell of greasy chips on her hot, moist breath makes me want to throw the bag—and its owner—out of my car.
“Seriously, why’s he depressed?” she finally asks, wiping her eyes. “Lost a fight again or somethin’?”
“He’s depressed because we broke up,” I repeat through gritted teeth.
“Look, Blake, you might be a cutie, but Ty doesn’t get attached. Especially not to women. Look at me, I’m his mom and he won’t even call me on my birthday. You think he’s going to be heartbroken over some cute little thing?”
“Guess you’ll just have to ask him for yourself.” I feign a sugary smile and press the accelerator to the floor. That’s enough bonding time for me with Mama Wilder.
I parallel park in front of Ty’s house and immediately regret it. Why am I parking if I don’t want to go inside? But I do want to go inside. I want to see him. I dragged his mom here so he’d have someone near him, so he wouldn’t be alone. But frankly, I’m the one who should be helping him.
I glance at his fence. It’s totally full of a new collection of souvenirs, courtesy of his female fans. Honest to God, if we ever get back together, the first thing I’m doing is tearing that fence down.
The Harley is off the porch and lying on its side in the yard. Judging by the high grass, the bike had been lying there for weeks. The curtains are drawn and everything is locked and dim, inside and out. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he took off and abandoned the place.
Mary studies his house from the car window. She scowls at the fence. “Some girls just make it goddamned hard not to hate ’em.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Men are worse.”
I bully her out of the car after a five-minute pep talk. Yes, he’ll want to see you, I assure her. No matter what happened between you two, blood is thicker than water. Honestly, I have no idea how Ty is going to react when he sees his mom. If I were him, I would be very suspicious of her. After all, she only agreed to see him after I bribed her with groceries and a manicure. But I so desperately don’t want him to be alone right now, I’m taking a chance on her.
Mary finally sighs and opens her door. “Fine, time for us to go in.”
“Us?” I raise an eyebrow. “This is where my journey ends. I’m not coming in with you.”
“Like hell you aren’t. I’m not going in there by myself. What if he throws me out? I'll need a ride home. Come inside with me and then leave.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I’m starting to see why women have such a hard time with their mothers-in-law.
“Fuck, you’re so stubborn!” I rub my forehead, thumping one hand on the steering wheel.
“Ty never went for the wallflower type, but you really are a ballbuster, aren’t you?” She smirks to herself. “I’m guessing by now you know that the Wilders are a stubborn bunch. Let's go.”
“Yeah, okay,” I finally say, killing the engine and reluctantly getting out of the car. The walk to his front door is agonizing. I’m happy and excited and sad and frustrated all at the same time. I’m the one who knocks on the door three times while Mary hides behind my back. No one answers, and there’s no sound coming from inside. I knock again, harder.
Nothing.
I ring the bell multiple times, and finally walk around to one of the side windows, rapping against the glass with the side of my fist. I peek inside to his living room. The lights are turned off, and the place looks like it’s been raided by the FBI, CIA and a pack of wolves.
“Ty!” I yell. “Open up. It’s me.”
I listen and hear a rustling noise and what sounds like an empty can rolling across the floor. I catch a glimpse of his tall figure floating toward the front door like a ghost, so I run back to the porch. Mary is standing wide-eyed, obviously expecting instructions.
“He’s coming,” I mouth. She turns to face the door, running her hand through her frizzy hair. I hear a chain clinking and jump in front of Mary so she won’t be the first face that he sees. He swings the door open and stands in front of me, shirtless.
And...well, he is definitely not the sex on legs I've gotten used to.
At his prime, Ty Wilder has out-hotted Brad Pitt and Charlie Hunnam. Combined. Yeah, he was that gorgeous. Now? Not so much. He’s gotten scary-thin, frail and looks about as lively as a corpse. His skin clings to his bones like an oversized shirt, his eyes vacant, glazed with apathy. I want to kill myself for doing this to him, and kill him for doing this to me.
“Seriously?” His eyes shoot to his mother. “What’s this, your little revenge on me?”
“Heard you were struggling—”
“So you thought, why not push him over the edge? Shit just got suicidal.”
I feel like he shoved a knife in my stomach and twisted it real slow. “I want someone to take care of you, and that’s what your mother wants to do. Tell him, Mary.” I turn to her.
She takes a step forward. “It’s true, son.” She coughs, trying to meet his eyes. He doesn’t acknowledge her existence.
Instead, he shifts his gaze back to me. “You want someone to take care of me? That seems like a first. Usually, you're the last to give a flying fuck. Now go away and take this fatty with you.” He angles backwards and is about to close the door.
Instinctively, I jam my foot in the gap. I’m floored to hear him talk like this. Even though he swears, he’d never stoop as low as fat-shaming or talked to me like this. This is not him speaking.
Ty slams the door on my foot and I wince in pain, falling sideways and stubbing my toes. This is the second time today my foot is injured on a Wilder’s porch. This family is trying to kill me.
“Fuck. You okay? That was an accident. Fuck.” He sighs, his dimples peeking through when he speaks.
“You kiss your mom with this mouth?” I feign a frown, but my lips are curving into a faint smile.
“No, I’m not. That’s the point I was trying to make.” He rests his temple on the doorframe, looking down at me. The high school sweetheart who escorted me to Dawson’s office the first time I saw him is here again. Sweet-Ty. I missed him so.
I take a step forward and put my hands on his chest. It feels so natural to touch his warm, silky skin, and his body immediately tightens and flexes, reacting to my hands instinctively.
“Actually, Jesse suggested this little reunion. And I think it's a good idea, because frankly, I'm going to become a sports journalist in less than a week, and I'd really appreciate a good headline. Something along the lines of Local MMA Fighter Wins the XWL Welterweight Championship. Think you can manage that?” I whisper the words into his chest, watching it moving up and down slowly to the rhythm of our shallow heartbeats.
He clutches one of my hands, bringing it from his chest to his lips and kissing the back of it while looking deep into my eyes. I’m sure he can see all the shit I’ve been through the past few weeks. We read each other like open books. I feel his pain pouring down on the floor in waves.
"I'm not done being mad at you," he says.
My heart sinks. "I'm not done being mad at you either," I retort.
He shifts his gaze to his mother for the first time, looking at her, but talking to me. “She kicked me out of the house and stole my money three years ago."
“And she’s your mother and wants to start fresh now.” I swallow my anger at Mary.
My body melts into his, and I need to stop this before we kiss.
I can’t take him back. Not here, not now. Plus, his mother is standing next to us, so grinding each other like rabbits seems like a fairly bad idea. I drop my forehead to his chest and feel his heart thump beneath my cheek.
"Do you want to talk?" I ask.
"Not right now," he says, and I could crack and break into a million pieces on his threshold. "I have to focus on getting better, and hopefully, on winning this fight."
I lift my head, remembering the conversation with Cameron.
Athletes are wired differently. He needs this win. He needs his space.
It was like that before the Eoghan Doherty fight, and it's like that right now.
"Okay. Good luck." I try to smile at him. "You know where to find me."
He nods wordlessly, which makes my heart split in two.
When I reach my car, I peek over my shoulder to see Ty still holding the door ajar for his mother. She limps into his place, but before she enters the house completely, stops and looks him in the eyes. I can’t read their expressions from this distance, but I hope they can work it out. I hope she can be there for him when he picks up the pieces and rebuilds himself.
And I hope Ty and I can get over ourselves and do the same one day.
Chapter Twenty
November 10th.
It’s almost time for Ty’s fight. This is the date when he’s scheduled to walk into the Vegas cage and face the biggest challenge of his career, the biggest fight of the year.
The past three months have gone by excruciatingly slowly without him. Days melded into each other, sticking together like glued chunks of paper in a new book. I offer myself the dumbest excuses for Ty not contacting me. He doesn’t have my new phone number. He’s busy preparing for his fight with Jesus Vasquez. He’s waiting for our anger to blow over. Or maybe he still hasn’t gotten out of his binge-drinking phase.
No. I know that’s not true. I know for a fact that he’s doing better.
Mary visits Ty every weekend. She takes two buses to get to his house. She cleans, cooks and yells at him that he’s an unbearable slob. (A bit rich coming from her, I know.) She rants when she washes his dishes and cusses at him when she does his laundry. But she’s taking care of him, and I know that because I talk to her whenever I can.