by Andrea Wolfe
With so much food available, I stuff myself all afternoon, eating small amounts constantly instead of having bigger meals. My mom has reminded me repeatedly about how rarely these events take place, so I seize the opportunity and indulge freely, fully aware that I'm going to have a lot of running to do to offset such gluttony.
But I'm okay with that, especially if it means I get to eat these delicious chocolate-chip walnut brownies all day long.
I speak briefly with my Great Aunt Marjorie. She's nearly ninety, and still incredibly sharp and alert, but I don’t really know her. She politely asks me about my life and I provide all of the details as gently as possible. Although she definitely looks her age, she seems very healthy too. When I learn that she still walks three miles every morning, I'm even more blown away.
I hope I can last that long.
The whole time I speak with her, I'm in awe of her knowledge, in awe of the things she experienced in her extensive lifetime. She's essentially the centerpiece of the event, the sole reason why many of these family members exist at all.
It makes me think fondly about Max, makes me think about us starting a family sometime soon and sixty years later, having an event like this that wouldn't be possible without our child-rearing efforts.
I'm a little shocked that I'm thinking this way, but it seems okay after such an unexpectedly nice familial experience. All of this feels settled and comfortable and it makes me feel warm inside. I'm tremendously conflicted, both wanting to get back to Boston as quickly as possible to see Max, as well as wanting to stay here and spend more time with family.
As stuck up as I've been about coming home, I feel like I've finally actually arrived there—and I actually kind of like it.
When darkness rolls around, the party clears out pretty fast. My dad drives us home and talks about my Uncle John constantly, a good indication that he enjoyed himself as well.
As I walk into the house, my phone vibrates from an incoming call.
Ah shit. I didn't call Max yet.
He's probably upset that I took so long to get back to him since I prefaced this whole trip by saying how miserable it was going to be and that I would be relying on him for support every step of the way.
I look at the face of the phone—it's my best friend in Boston, Angela. She's a graphic designer that I met at a work outing, a skinny, petite redhead that gets a lot of attention from men when we go out together.
Angela is very outspoken and free-spirited, and despite our disagreements sometimes, we always get along. It's fun to have someone around like that since I never really know what she'll do next.
I pick up the call as I walk toward my room. "Ange, how are you?" I say. I'm excited to talk to someone from home.
"I'm fine, Ally," she says; her voice is quieter than I would have expected.
"How are things in Boston?" I ask her.
"A little rough. But I'll make it." She pauses. "Listen, we need to talk," she says solemnly.
"Max said the same thing earlier," I say, chuckling. "Everybody needs to talk today, huh?" I stand up and close the door to my room after realizing this might be a very private sort of conversation. What has she gotten into this time? "Is everything all right?" I ask.
"I'm pregnant," she says weakly.
"Oh, shit. Do you know what you want to... do?" I tread cautiously, knowing how delicate of a situation this is. I lived through several pregnancy scares of my own in college. And based on the way she's talking, this is unexpected and serious, even if we both have good jobs and are fairly settled.
"It's not that simple," she says. "I think I want to keep the baby."
"That's great," I say. It's more of a platitude than anything else because I'm not sure what she's getting at. I want to ask her who the father is, and I'm expecting to hear that she had a one-night stand that's coming back to haunt her. But I refrain.
"There's more to it though, Ally. I can't do this anymore. I just can't keep a secret like this." She's somber, so painfully quiet that it hurts, and I feel that it's a sign of bad things to come. Angela is never like this.
"What do you mean?" I ask her pointedly. "What's the secret? What do you need to tell me?" I have a very serious premonition that something horrible is coming right toward me. It starts like an itch and then turns into a burning sensation all across my body.
"It’s Max’s," she says suddenly, instantly setting my entire world on fire, torching it, engulfing it with horrible, sweltering flames. "He didn't want me to say anything yet, but I couldn't hold it inside any longer. I'm so fucking sorry, Ally. I messed up. We messed up."
My free hand balls up into a tight, sweaty fist. "M-Max?" I stammer. "My Max?"
There is a pause that feels like an eternity. In some ways, it is an eternity. "Yes."
I count to ten before responding, a technique I learned long ago to control stress and anger. In those ten seconds, I remember where I am and how important it is that I don't cause a scene around my family. I remember the warm feelings from the reunion—and then the call from Max I couldn't take.
What did he want to tell me? Would he have said the same thing she was saying?
I try to consider every possibility, testing my body's reaction to each. Maybe they were drunk and got carried away one night. Yeah, that was probably it. No big deal since it only happened once. This wouldn't affect our plans because we were serious and we loved each other and even people in love make mistakes sometimes.
I hate how it feels, but I try to be mature and reasonable. This is my best friend and my boyfriend, so there is a lot at stake here.
Even though I am trying really fucking hard to wrap my head around this and be sensible, my walls are crumbling fast. "How long has this been going on?"
"For months," she says. "Since you went to that training session in January."
The details of that session come rushing back to me. A weekend training session in New York City. I missed Max the whole time. Apparently he didn't miss me.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way," she says. "But it is and now we all just have to deal with it. We're going to stay together. We want to keep it."
"How can you stay together if you're not together already?" I ask firmly. "He's my boyfriend." I'm not screaming and shouting yet, but I really want to. My grip is tightening around the phone.
"I don't want bad blood over this," she pleads. "I thought if I did the right thing and told you, we could still remain friends. It's not easy for me either."
"How long were you going to keep doing this behind my back if you hadn't gotten pregnant?" I stop and take several deep breaths. "Were you even using condoms?" I ask the hard questions and realize that it feels like I'm ripping off my fingernails with a pair of rusty pliers, one nail at a time.
But I have to know.
"I don't know, Ally," she says. "Something changed between us. I never... expected it." She pauses, but I don't say anything because I feel like I've entirely run out of words. "We were using condoms. It was just an accident."
I try not to gag at the thought. "Well, shit," I say, "the first good news since we began talking."
"Ally, please be mature about this. I know you guys were gonna get that place together, but you haven't signed anything yet. It won't be such a huge deal. Everything will work out."
"No, no, you're right," I say, cutting her off. "It won't be a huge deal—it'll be astronomical. It's only the guy I've been seeing for the last two years. No big deal. Right. I should just be mature and let you have him. Let you take him from me."
It was suddenly clear why Max had been dragging his feet about this apartment thing for so long. We knew we wanted it, but he always claimed there was something else that had to be done. Some other inspector that he needed to ask his dad about. Some other bank that could give us a better rate.
It was all moving in slow motion, but for some reason, I thought that was just the way these things went. I should have known better than to trust him.
"I'm sor
ry," she says, and it means literally nothing to me, especially given her choice in the matter. She's made her intentions clear, and I realize how badly I misjudged her. I assumed she was strong, that she had character. That she could do the right thing in a tough situation.
Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.
I finally notice that my cheeks are streaked with fresh tears. Everything is falling apart fast, and I don't know what the hell to do with myself. "No, I'm sorry," I say, "for trusting you guys with everything I have. I should have been more guarded."
"Max didn't even want to tell you about the pregnancy. He just wanted to break up with you and keep it a secret somehow." She blurts it out like she's been saving it for a moment like this, thinking it'll make me take her side.
Wrong again.
"What, like I wouldn't fucking notice that my best friend was pregnant?" Angela doesn't say anything and I seize the opportunity for a clean exit. "I really need to go. I've got a lot to think about."
Angela says something else, but I hang up before I hear what it is.
3
Jackson
I'm in the ring, and it's a glorious feeling. People are cheering, spirits are high. I'm also way stronger than my competitor, the Viper. It's a crazy feeling to be willingly locked inside a metal cage with someone that's trying to beat the shit out of you.
"Get him, Juggernaut!"
People are screaming at me like this is the Cold War and I'm publicly duking it out with a suspected communist in the town square. It's all for show, but that doesn't stop people from pouring their hearts and souls into the match as if their lives depended on it.
It's a ridiculous visual—a snake versus a, well, juggernaut. A huge, monstrous, powerful, generic thing versus a slithering reptile that is venomous and deadly.
But I'm not going to let him bite me.
Every time I arrive in the ring, I remember how cathartic this is for me. I imagine those that have wronged me as I pummel my opponents into oblivion, tearing their worlds apart. Anything that's ever distressed me is rung out here like a soaking wet towel. I channel my troubles into the bodies of my opponents and then overcome.
Fighting brings me stability.
I dodge a punch and land a solid kick to my opponent's thigh. He's doing his best to get through my defenses, but he's failing and I love it. I'm toying with him, like a cat with a mouse.
The sweat is pouring down my brow and I can taste it. I predict his every move before he makes it, and that ensures that I have the upper hand.
More fun is order, so I let him connect a punch to my face and stumble backward. I taste blood from the unobstructed grinding of lip against tooth. I love that raw metallic taste in the middle of a match.
The Viper believes that he can finish me off now that I'm weakened. He charges, but I'm ready to block him. My forearms receive the brunt of his pummeling. People are screaming even louder now. I block out their voices just like I block his punches. I'm definitely in charge, but that doesn't mean I don't need to be focused.
I am focused. I need to be.
I land a fierce jab to the gut and knock the wind out of him. The Viper is reeling, silently begging for mercy. I can see it in his eyes. It's the third and final round, and it's almost over.
"Oh, and Juggernaut takes control once again! A solid punch to the gut!"
"Finish him off!" A group of guys near the ring are chanting now.
Suddenly, I'm thinking about Ally, her unexpected reappearance in my life. I'm thinking about her body, about her face, about her mind. It brings my heart rate up more than anything has this entire match. I take several deep breaths, trying to bring myself back under control.
Thud!
I'm hit in the side of the head by the Viper, and the world shakes. I protect myself with my arms as I regain my bearings. Although these are only amateur leagues, people still take this sport seriously. They'll hurt you if you let them.
Fucking hell, I hiss from inside my brain. How the fuck can you let her do this to you?
I'm charged again, I'm on fire. I'm right on the Viper, and I'm rolling over him, squashing him like a cricket under a steam roller. I barrage him with a flurry of rapid punches and he can't take it. I kick, but he can't dodge it. His body absorbs the full stress of my rage.
Finally, I find a direct line to his face and land a serious uppercut to his jaw. I see him spit blood and his whole frame goes limp, becoming S-shaped. I don't even notice the crowd shrieking as I deliver my final strike and destroy the snake that never had a chance.
He falls in slow motion and adrenaline pumps through me at the same speed. I lift one hand into the air, celebrating. I know he won't be back up; I'm right.
The Viper is down and the referee counts him out. I win. A knock-out victory.
"And Juggernaut wins again! What an outstanding fight! We've witnessed history here! Monsters! Mayhem! Destruction!"
The crowd is cheering wildly, a truly beautiful noise. Even though I don't get paid shit compared to what pro real fighters make, the crowds don't seem to mind. Some of these people get more excited about the minor leagues than they do the pros. I guess it's easier to get attached to someone that is a real person, versus somebody that travels with an entourage and lives a private life of exaggerated luxury.
I stare out into the crowd, shouting gleefully and flexing my muscles. They love it. And then I just about lose it—I see Ally in the crowd.
She's cheering for me, screaming and lifting her hands into the air. My heartbeat doubles. I've just won, but now I feel antsy and nervous.
Oh my God, this is incredible. I'm so thrilled that she could witness this. And how the hell did she know I was fighting tonight? I didn't tell her anything.
Everything starts to unravel quickly. I jump up on the cage and scale the wall, trying to catch a better glance. I rub my eyes and squint; it's not actually her. The girl that I thought was her barely looks like her at all.
What the fuck, Jackson?
I'm blown away that the mere thought of her witnessing the fight puts me into overdrive. It feels like all of my mental training has been obliterated, that I've been wholly subjugated by this girl that I barely know at all.
A few seconds ago, I was thrilled about my victory, and now that I know she's not actually here, I feel like shit. I leave the ring as people cheer and flashbulbs go off—well, the more like the flashes from camera phones. And despite all of the happiness in the room, I feel like I've actually lost.
Dan grabs me as I pass by him, and it startles me. I totally forgot he was here. "Fuckin' great job, man," he says proudly. "I couldn't have done better myself."
He's grinning from ear to ear and I do my best to match his enthusiasm. "Thanks a lot, Dan. I'm just glad you could be here to see it."
I continue walking past the crowd and head to the locker room to shower. I just won the qualifying round of the biggest amateur MMA tournament in the state—and I feel like shit.
***
Dan demands that we go to a bar and have a drink. I'm not that excited about it, but I agree anyway. After coming out of the locker room, I sign autographs for the people that stuck around and waited for me. I'm not sure why they want my autograph, but I do it anyway because their faces always light up and it tugs at my heart strings to see people acting like that.
Before I can leave the venue, Todd, the guy in charge of everything, pulls me aside, just as he does after every fight now. He's short and bald with a big belly despite the fact that at these all-day events, he never stops moving until it's over. Normally, he has a goatee, but tonight he's clean-shaven.
"I'm telling you Jackson, if I manage you, we could go to the top. You've got something special. Most of them are here to see you. Remember that."
"I'll keep it in mind," I say, just as I always do. He's so insistent, almost to the point of being annoying, but I know he means well.
He always sees dollar signs for himself too, so there is always that angle to consider.
But then again, isn't this a dangerous sport one way or another? Couldn't anyone get paralyzed at any time? I'm still conflicted about the whole thing, but I don't give it much thought.
Not tonight.
Dan and I head to a bar walking distance from the mini-arena. It's the usual place we meet after fights. He talks the whole way there.
"God dammit, Jackson, that was awesome, man. I'm so glad I got to see you fight. Y'know, I thought this MMA stuff was all bullshit like wrestling, but I was wrong. That was really cool."
He's talking and talking and talking. I smile and I thank him as much as I can. Instead of being here in the moment, I wish I was talking to Ally instead. Why, I don't know.
When we get into the bar, I realize that some of the audience members have migrated this way. It's fairly packed. I recognize some of the faces and desperately wish I wasn't so big and muscular and easy to spot in a crowd.
I smile politely at the people that wave.
I down a shot of bourbon at the bar and then bring one on the rocks to an open table to sip. I want the first shot to hit me quick; it does. I shouldn't have agreed to do this, but it's too late to back out now.
Dan keeps clattering endlessly, talking about this and that. He's got a wife and kid, but he settled down too early and it's obvious he really needed a night out like this.
A night with no responsibilities.
Although I'm happy to be talking with him, I realize that I'm just kind of out of it tonight, and the two punches to the head aren't helping my attention span. It's hard to focus on anything he's saying.
Something seems off in the world. I drink more to combat the feeling. I start to lighten up. It's chemically forced, but I slowly start to see the merits of celebrating my big victory.