The Best I Could

by R. K. Ryals

  That was it.

  Okay.

  My sister was going to be okay.

  We were all going to be just fine.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Eli

  The next week passed quickly, my community service hours dwindling. One more week, and my time would be up. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  There were too many things I didn’t want to see end, one of those being the troubled youth class I was responsible for. Mentoring the students had taken on a whole new meaning because they needed the class, really needed it, and me. They needed me, too. Outside of the gym, the majority of them didn’t have guidance.

  Fuck that. They didn’t have anything at all, nothing except fear, hate, and a society they thought gave up on them.

  I listened to them, to their conversations, to the way they talked to each other. How one kid—Cade Connors—cursed the baby mama drama in his life. Sixteen, and he was a father. His words were big, but despite them, he cared. You could see it. At the last class when Deena asked him if he had a picture of his son, he pulled a wallet-sized photograph out of his gym bag, his heart in his eyes.

  He cared.

  They all did. Whatever hurts they shouldered, they cared.

  “You ready for the fight this weekend?” Ray asked me on Monday.

  “I’m good,” I promised. Slinging my bag higher on my shoulder, I gazed at the ring. “I want to keep working with the troubled youth class when my time is up. Until I leave for school.”

  Ray’s chin rose. “They got to you, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  Winking, he ran his fingers over the brim of his fedora. “You got to them, too. Don’t doubt that, capo. Speaking of, the Roger kid is going to be absent from the next class. He’s wanted in court. Looks like he’s switching homes again.”

  “What happened?”

  Ray shrugged. “They don’t tell me that stuff, but the family got reported, so I’m guessing it’s not good.”

  Jaw tensing, I clenched my fists. “He’ll survive it,” I said confidently, anger riding me. Roger didn’t deserve the hurt in his life. “That boy has some serious potential.” Shaking my head, I added, “Sometimes I wish we could choose who we put in the ring with us, trained to fight or not.”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” Ray murmured.

  The door opened, and a mom walked in, her young son clinging to her side, a smile on her face. “Mr. Clark?”

  Ray left me. “The one and only. You must be here for our young beginner’s class.”

  Their voices turned into a run-on drone behind me.

  This is what I wanted to do with my life. Naval architecture may be my first passion, but training troubled kids on the side was going to happen.

  This summer had turned into one big opportunity, and I didn’t intend to blow it.

  ***

  Between training, work, and Tansy’s insane schedule, we didn’t to see much of each other. I rarely ran into her, even at the orchard, but I knew she’d been there.

  We talked every night, some conversations longer than others. Sometimes, we just listened to each other breathe, realized we were too tired to talk, and then hung up. The breathing was enough, just knowing we’d made it through another day.

  Breathing had a new definition. Love was breathing. Love was knowing someone thought about you enough to call, to let them hear you inhale and exhale before hanging up. I’m still here, the breathing said.

  What I didn’t see of Tansy in person, I saw in spirit in the garden she was creating. I ended most of my afternoons in her garden. Every day there was something new in it, a new piece of Tansy.

  Wednesday found me lighting a cigarette, blowing smoke over the path she’d laid out, the curved trail a passageway through newly planted, colorful flowers.

  Footsteps sounded in the grass. “She’s doing a good job.”

  Turning, I found my grandfather studying me.

  “She has a way with plants,” I replied.

  He turned thoughtful. “She sat with me on the porch the last time she was here. Said life was like a plot of soil each of us owns. We plant things in our piece of soil. Sometimes they die, other times they live. Weeds choke everything. To find the good plants, the strong ones, we have to pull the weeds.”

  Smiling, I placed the cigarette against my lips, and inhaled. “That sounds like Tansy.”

  Pops blinked, his eyes bright. “This space reminds me of your grandmother. The way she nurtured us.” He glanced at me. “We make unusual friendships and fall in love at the oddest times. I’m convinced people come into our lives when we need them.” He paused, nodding to himself. “I’d returned from an especially hard tour overseas when I met your grandmother. God, I was such an angry young man back then.”

  His hands slid into his pockets, his head lifting, his eyes on the sky. “She was nineteen and beautiful. The first time I saw her she was digging up potatoes in a garden, her hair tied up in a kerchief, a smear of dirt on her cheek. She was too skinny. Those were hard times.”

  He laughed. “Which is why I let her keep the potatoes.”

  “What?”

  Pops grinned, his gaze finding mine. “When I came home, it was without warning. We’d been pulled from the mission we were on, told we’d been put on leave, and off we went. I was still in uniform. I’d walked in the door expecting to surprise my mother. Instead, I found a note telling my father she’d gone to mail a post and a petite, young woman stealing food. Your grandmother was stealing from the garden behind my parents’ house.”

  I laughed. “You’ve never told me this before.”

  “Some stories should wait until they’re ready to be heard.”

  “Did you fall in love with her then?” I asked.

  “Hell no. She saw me, panicked, and walloped me upside the noggin with the bag of potatoes she’d collected.” Pops rubbed his head, remembering. “The goose egg that formed didn’t let me forget her though. That’s for sure.”

  Our laughter mingled, floating over the garden.

  My gaze rose, catching a shadow in the window. “How’s Mom?” I asked suddenly.

  Pops frowned. “I don’t know. She finally talked to the therapist. Her panic and anxiety attacks have gotten worse. When she’s good, she’s great. When she’s low, she’s bad.”

  My lips pressed together, my chest tightening.

  “This isn’t your fight, Eli,” Pops assured me, catching my expression. “Your’s or Jonathan’s. You said some really honest things to her, and she needed to hear them. I shouldn’t have forced you to stay quiet for as long as you did. You, Heather, and Jonathan need to live without that constant shadow over your heads.”

  “I’m here … if you need me.” The words slipped out, heavy and real, between us.

  “Go,” Pops prompted. “Go talk to that girl of yours.”

  I walked away picturing Grams hitting Pops with a sack of potatoes, a smile on my lips.

  ***

  Friday afternoon, Tansy walked into the gym, surprising me.

  “Hey, you!” I called from the ring, the words mangled by a mouthpiece.

  Darren—the guy I was sparring with—got a hit in, and my back fell against the ropes.

  “Concentrate on what you’re doing,” Tansy called back, laughing. “I just came to watch.”

  Pulling my hands up, I bounced on the balls of my feet opposite my opponent, ignoring the way his mouthpiece flashed as he laughed, his gaze flicking to Tansy and back again.

  Punches flew, feet danced, the round ending with Darren on the floor tapping out, his eyes laughing at me.

  Spitting his mouthpiece out, he said, “I couldn’t let you lose in front of your girl.”

  “You wish,” I replied, tugging off my gloves to offer him a hand up.

  He took it. “You’ve got this fight tomorrow, Lockston. I’ll be betting on you. Win or lose, it’s a good cause.”

  Tansy approached the ring, and I went to the ropes, sweat dripping. “You’re a sight fo
r sore eyes,” I said, breathing hard.

  “You’re a sweaty mess.”

  “Sexy, isn’t it?” I winked.

  She flashed me a smile. “Maybe … just a little.”

  Leaning down, I caressed her cheek, my fingers cupping her face. It was still warm from the sun. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Work. My third day with Sunny’s Landscaping. I have one more yard I have to go to, but it brought me by here, so …” She shrugged.

  “I’m glad you stopped.” Jumping down from the ring, I pulled her into a hug, releasing her quicker than I wanted to because of the sweat.

  “I brought something for you,” she said, shoving her fingers into her pocket.

  Drawing them out, she took my hand, dropped pea-like seeds into my palm, and closed my fist around them.

  “They’re sweet pea seeds,” she informed me. “Not good for growing here because the flowers like cooler regions, but,” she gave me a sheepish smile, “one of the homeowners gave them to us and Lila, the lady I’m working with, told me they’re considered good luck. Supposedly, they give you courage and promote physical strength. With your fight tomorrow, I thought it wouldn’t hurt for you to have them. For anytime really. Not just tomorrow.”

  She babbled until I stopped her, my finger—on the hand not holding the seeds—pressing against her lips.

  “I have to admit this is the first time a girl has ever given me seeds.”

  “I’ll take that to mean I make a lasting impression.”

  I kissed her, drawing her close again despite the workout, my free hand sliding into her hair. “Thank you,” I murmured, releasing her.

  Hooking her thumbs in her belt loops, she brought her shoulders up. “It made me think of you.” Her gaze slid to the clock on the gym wall. “I better go.”

  She was at the door when I called out to her. “You don’t ever work with potatoes, do you?”

  “Um … not really.”

  I grinned. “Just wondering.”

  That night, I put the sweet pea seeds in a Ziploc bag and tucked them into my gym bag.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Tansy

  The gym was full when Deena and I arrived Saturday night, and we skirted the yelling crowd. Sweat and body odor mingled with deodorant and new mat smell.

  Two women fought in the ring, and Deena stared at them, her face full of awe. “This is awesome!” she cried.

  “Wonderful,” I muttered under my breath, my nose scrunching.

  I tugged on Deena, urging her forward, apologizing each time we rammed into someone.

  Jonathan found us first, his red hair weaving through the crowd toward us. “Looking for Eli?” he yelled.

  I nodded. Taking my arm gently, he led us toward a locker room at the back of the gym. A man stood outside of it, arms folded, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Ray really was leading some kind of boxing mafia ring right under everyone’s noses.

  The man was tall and broad, and he stared down at me, unsmiling.

  “This is Eli’s girlfriend!” Jonathan shouted.

  His words struck me hard, blindsiding me. It was weird hearing him call me that, weird knowing Eli and I had somehow slid into those roles without realizing it.

  The man shifted, still unsmiling, and let us pass.

  “They did say this was an amateur match for charity, right?” I asked, glancing back at the man, eyes wide. “Seems awful hardcore for charity.”

  “This is incredible!” Deena gushed, eyes glazed.

  Something told me she’d be using every version of the word great tonight.

  We found Eli sitting on a bench, his white tank top pulled up to keep himself cool in the warm locker room, his six pack abs on display, Ray standing in front of him, wrapping his hand.

  “This is so cool!” Deena blurted.

  Eli’s head lifted, his gaze catching mine before dropping to hers. My stomach felt funny, filling with excited butterflies at the sight of him.

  “It is pretty cool,” he told her, winking, “and painful if you don’t play your cards right.”

  Ray grunted. “Don’t scare off one of our motivated students.”

  Deena ignored them, her gaze taking it all in—the crowd yelling beyond the door, the men standing against the wall in the locker room, Ray’s meticulous wrapping, and Eli’s calm demeanor.

  “Duncan has a mean left hook,” a guy, the same one Eli had been sparring with the day before, offered.

  Eli glanced at him. “I’ll watch for that.”

  Finished wrapping, Ray slid a glove onto Eli’s hand and started lacing. Silence fell over the room, as if lacing a glove was a religious practice. The way Deena stared at them, I didn’t doubt it was for her.

  “Give me a minute,” Eli said once Ray was done.

  Everyone backed out of the room, me included.

  “Not you, roof girl,” he called, amused.

  Sauntering to the bench, I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “They’re kind of making a big deal out this, huh?”

  He laughed. “Not really. Ray just likes to look big, and Duncan and I are the main event. He wants to get as much money out of us for the troubled youth program as he can based on that.”

  “Why you? For the main event, I mean.”

  Crossing his gloved hands behind my back, he looked up at me. “Because we’re the only two fighters here who’ve fought in professional matches. I’ve been in two. Duncan was in three before he vanished from the scene.”

  “Which technically makes him more experienced,” I pointed out, worried.

  “Come here,” he ordered.

  Leaning down, I kissed him, our lips parting, tongues sliding together, my hands framing his face. Pulling back, I rested my forehead against his.

  “This isn’t anything to worry about,” he promised. “Duncan’s good, and I’ll probably hurt like hell tomorrow, but this match isn’t anything compared to the ones I’ve been in. Duncan and I have been out of the scene for too long, and neither of us have had much time to prepare. Translation: Ray threw this at us out of nowhere, and we’re both rusty as fuck. We’re also wearing amateur gear, so technically this is a match, not a fight.”

  My gaze tracing his face, I caressed his jaw, stubble stabbing my palm. “I love you.”

  His arms tightened around me. “I love you, too.”

  The noise outside grew in volume, deafening even in the locker room.

  “That’s your cue,” Ray said, coming into the room.

  I backed away.

  Eli stood, rolled his neck, and nodded. “Let’s do this.” Jonathan and Deena came in behind Ray, and Eli threw my sister a look. “This shit will pay for great gear for you guys. Trips to tournaments, too.”

  “Guy and girls,” Deena corrected, grinning.

  “Get your ass out there,” Ray admonished, lips twitching.

  I kept meeting new Eli’s. The man was made up of layers, and even though I knew Eli boxed before his decision to go to school and before his trouble with the law, seeing him this way was strangely exhilarating.

  “Come on,” Jonathan told me, gesturing, “you don’t want to miss this.”

  I followed him into the gym, my gaze tracking Eli’s trek through the crowd. Cheers chased him into the ring.

  He met Duncan in the middle, their gloves bumping. The men had similar statures, although Duncan was paler, his hair a shocking mass of bleached blond. Tattoos crossed his back.

  Eli said something to him, and they smiled at each other, backing to their respective corners, trainers from the gym waiting on them.

  Someone popped a mouthpiece into Eli’s mouth, and shoved headgear on his head.

  Jonathan leaned toward me. “If this was a professional match, they wouldn’t take all of these precautions. There’d be no headgear. That said, because Duncan and Eli have fought professional before, they’re more knowledgeable than most of the fighters who’ve been in the ring. Which means they’ll get less direction from the ref.”

&
nbsp; I glanced at him. “So your brother was pretty serious about this once, huh?”

  Jonathan grinned. “Not just serious. Damn good at it. That’s the thing about Eli, though. He’s always been good at fighting, but being good at something doesn’t mean you love it. He liked it, even considered it as a career, but like my grandfather says, the sea is a seductive mistress. Once the sirens sing, it’s hard to ignore them. Eli will always box when he gets the chance. He loves the sport. He just loves the water more.”

  The fight had gotten underway while we were talking, and I inched forward, my eyes on Eli.

  His chin was down, his right hand tucked against the side of his head.

  Deena and Jonathan flanked me.

  “He’s protecting himself against a left hook,” Deena explained, smiling up at me. “We’ve been learning that stuff recently.”

  My sister glowed.

  The screaming was so loud I couldn’t hear anything else, but I didn’t care. I didn’t need to know all of the rules, the stances, or the punches.

  Watching Eli was enough. He knew exactly what he was doing, his feet magic in the ring.

  Punches were thrown, each of the men taking hits.

  The fight was so exciting, the noise so loud, that no one noticed the two uniformed men edging through the crowd.

  Deena’s hand suddenly gripped mine, her face bleaching of color.

  Looking up, I found two police officers standing before us, their somber gazes on Jonathan.

  “Jonathan Blackledge?” they yelled.

  The crowd had begun to notice the disruption, the people around us growing silent.

  One of the officers, a balding, portly man leaned forward, his voice lowering. “It’s about your mother.”

  Deena’s fingers dug into my skin. For two reasons. One, for Jonathan. Two, we’d been the recipient of those words, the officer giving them to us standing at the door when we opened it the day our mother died.

  My gaze shot to the ring, to Eli.

  FIFTY-EIGHT