Grace for Drowning

by Maya Cross

  "You know we can't guarantee— hold on a sec." He glanced over at me. "Hey, Grace. I need you to do me a favor. There's some food bagged up in the kitchen. I need you to take it over to Logan. He's a couple of doors down at Parker's Gym."

  My brow furrowed. "I didn't realize we did delivery."

  "We don't, but Logan's a special case. He prepays his meals a week in advance and gives us a little extra to run them down to him. Saves him having to shower and change and all that. I normally do the runs myself, but I've kind of got my hands full here."

  A nervous energy flared in my chest at the thought of talking to Logan again. I didn't know why he had that effect on me. Sure, I was willing to admit that there was something attractive about him, in a wild, feral kind of way. But after what I'd been through, the thought of anything even remotely romantic made everything inside me knot up.

  "Sure," I said, throwing up a smile. "I'd be happy to."

  "Thanks." He returned to his phone call.

  I nabbed the bag from Rafi and wandered out into the Vegas heat. Parker's was just a few buildings away on the corner, but even those thirty seconds outside left my throat parched and my skin sticky.

  The gym wasn't what I was expecting. I'd walked past it before but never been inside. I assumed when Charlie said "gym" he meant treadmills and barbells and roided-up frat boys whose vocabulary mostly consisted of the word "bro." But Parker's wasn't like that at all. It had a few cardio machines nestled in the corner, but most of the room was open, with big blue mats spread out across the floor and punching bags dangling from the ceiling.

  And then I spotted Logan.

  He was working one of the big punching bags at the far end of the room, and he was wearing nothing except a light pair of shorts. It was as though all of the moisture in my body evaporated in an instant. It had been obvious from day one that he was built, but imagination and reality are two very different things. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him. Every muscle, every tendon, was perfectly accentuated, rippling and flexing beneath his skin as though trying to escape. He looked like a poster, like a piece of perfectly manipulated advertising material. Even the slick sheen of sweat that coated him seemed somehow Photoshopped on. I had no idea how someone could appear so powerful and yet so lean, but he embodied both of those words perfectly.

  Then there were the tattoos. I say tattoos, plural, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly where one ended and the next began. His entire upper body was a vicious splash of color that burst out from his chest and ran down his arms. I caught snatches of imagery between the eruptions of violence; a skull, a flower, a clenched fist grasping a handful of dog tags. I'd never seen anyone with so much ink before in person. He was a work of art, in more ways than one. The scars I'd seen earlier weren't confined to his arms either. Several more marred the skin on his torso, including a particularly ragged slash across his right side, but even that didn't detract from his appeal. If anything, it made him seem rougher somehow. Fiercer.

  There was another man holding the bag while Logan kicked it. He wasn't exactly small himself, and he had his knees bent in a brace position to absorb the impact, but nonetheless he was being driven steadily backward under the relentless assault. It was such a primal display of strength. The crack of the bag, the guttural grunts that spiked from Logan's throat, the blaze of his eyes, it strummed something deep inside me. Heat surged beneath my skin.

  It was only when the other man yelled, "Take two," and dropped the bag that I realized I had just been standing and staring. Guilt rose in my stomach, and I looked away, closing my eyes momentarily. What the hell is wrong with you?

  "Grace?" It was Logan's voice. I opened my eyes to find him just a few steps in front of me. He was panting, although there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

  I swallowed heavily. "Hey. Charlie asked me to bring you this."

  He nodded and stepped toward me to take the food, and I couldn't help but draw in the scent of him. It wasn't what I was expecting. Despite the sweat, he smelled clean, earthy, sweet; perfectly masculine. My lungs hitched, suddenly struggling to draw breath. My cells were rioting.

  "Thanks," he said.

  Like last time, he let the silence dangle. I hated being close to him like this, hated the adrenaline rushing through my veins. I was about to excuse myself, when I happened to glance around once more, and everything clicked into place. "You're a fighter."

  His lips quirked up further. "You think?"

  Good work, Captain Obvious. "I mean, you fight at Charlie's," I said quickly. It made sense. Those rough knuckles, the dangerous aura and now the gym.

  "I do," he replied.

  "I've never seen a fight before," I said, my voice pathetically airy. Jesus, when did I turn into one of those girls?

  "Ah, a virgin. It's not as scary as it sounds."

  "I don't know. It looked pretty intense," I said, nodding to the bag he'd been kicking.

  He let out a little laugh. "Let me rephrase that. It's not as scary as it sounds if you're not in the ring."

  "I'll be sure to keep clear."

  Another few seconds passed. "I should go," I said, desperate to be anywhere but in his presence. "I'm still on the clock, you know?"

  "Sure thing. Thanks for this," he held up the bag. "I'll see you there later."

  The next few hours were an exercise in frustration. I tried to forget about my visit to the gym, but whenever my mind was idle, I found it wandering back there. I'd never seen anything so raw, so powerful before. It obviously wasn't a sexual act, but something about seeing him that way triggered an almost irresistible longing inside me. I didn't understand how my hormones could be so at odds with the rest of me.

  "You didn't tell me Logan is a fighter," I said to Joy, as we were cleaning up.

  "I didn't?" She grinned. "Oh, well, Logan is a fighter."

  I rolled my eyes. "Really? Thanks." I hesitated. Part of me was annoyed that I was buying into the whole dark and mysterious thing he had going on, but I had to admit I was curious now. "Is he any good?"

  She shot me a "you know nothing" look. "You could say that. He hasn't lost a single bout. He's half the reason the league is growing so fast. Fans want to see the hottest new fighter on the block, and other fighters want to test him out and see if he's as good as they say. It's a perfect combo." A twinkle appeared in her eyes. "You know what they call him?"

  I shook my head.

  "Blackjack."

  "Why?"

  "Hit, hit, hit, bust."

  I rolled my eyes. "That's terrible."

  "Indeed it is." She gave a sly smile. "Anyway, why are you so curious all of a sudden, Miss 'I'm not interested?'"

  My cheeks reddened. It was a good question, and one I wasn't sure I knew the answer to. "Just want to know my colleagues a little better."

  "If you say so," she replied, in a way that made it very clear she didn't believe me.

  "I thought you didn't approve of getting involved with coworkers?"

  "I don't. I just like watching you get all flustered."

  I laughed and threw a friendly punch at her shoulder. "Some friendship this is turning out to be."

  She rubbed the spot in mock pain. "You see, you're even starting to act like him."

  A tightness began to form in my chest. "Can we talk about something else?"

  She sighed dramatically. "Fine. So, New York, hey? What's that like?"

  I did a double take. "I never said anything about New York." I'd always thought my Manhattan accent was pretty soft, but apparently not.

  "I picked it the minute I met you. Accents are kind of my thing." She cleared her throat. "Get da fuck outta hea, da bot a' yous," she said, in a hilariously corny Sopranos-style voice.

  I laughed. "Nailed it. Especially the part about us all being gangsters."

  "What can I say? It's a gift. So, why'd you leave?"

  I licked my lips. Now we were venturing into ugly-crying territory again. My survival instincts were kicking in, telling me to turtle
up and brush her off, but there was something so refreshing about her optimism. I felt like we'd known each other a lot longer than just a week. Besides, I'd been bottling up my pain for so long, just letting it fester. There wasn't anyone else here I wanted to talk to. My social circle had been all tied to Tom, poker players and their friends. They were nice enough to me, but I always felt peripheral, like I was just visiting. Besides, I couldn't be around them anymore, much less talk to them. I'd tried, but it hurt too much. That was the world that had swallowed him, and I wanted nothing more to do with it. Maybe it was time to open up just a little. Maybe it would help.

  "I came over here with my fiancé, Tom, a bit over a year ago. He was a professional poker player, and he wanted to experience 'poker Mecca,' as he called it. I had some contacts from school that hooked me up with a job at one of the nicer restaurants on the Strip, so it seemed like a good move all around." Those words left a bitter taste in my mouth. Coming here had been the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

  "Ah, a Vegas dreamer. We get plenty of those. People watch some shmuck win a few million at the World Series of Poker, and suddenly they get delusions of grandeur because they play with their buddies once a week."

  I shrugged. "As far as I can tell he was good at it. He supported himself for two years before we moved, just playing poker online."

  She studied me for several seconds. Despite her irreverence and breezy personality, she was sharp. I knew she was putting two and two together. "I take it by the way you're talking that he's no longer in the picture," she said cautiously.

  I pushed down the retching feeling that was rising in my throat. "He killed himself four months ago."

  Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh Jesus, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you bring that up."

  "It's okay," I said woodenly. "It's good to be able to talk about it."

  I wasn't sure if that was true. It didn't feel bad exactly, but nor was it some great weight off my shoulders. I just felt hollow. Cold. But that's what you were supposed to say, right? Talking was meant to soothe the soul, ease the pain. That's what people wanted to hear. I'd had my fair share of consolation after it had happened, and everyone always said the same thing. "Let me know if there's anything I can do, or if you just want to talk." Part of me wanted to scream at them how ridiculous that idea was, that talking could do anything to stem the anguish and self-loathing that was hemorrhaging through my body. This was beyond words. Sharp and constant and permanent, like a bullet lodged in my stomach. How do you even begin to talk about that?

  Joy's brow furrowed in sympathy, and she reached out to take my hand. "Still, I can't even imagine what you're going through. If that had happened to me I think I'd still be in a ball on the floor."

  "That's actually my plan for tomorrow," I replied, only half joking.

  She flashed a tiny smile. "Nothing wrong with going fetal, occasionally. It's cathartic."

  We cleaned in silence for a while, the weight of my revelation suddenly feeling impossibly tangible. I could tell Joy felt the same way. That was another thing I hated; being the person that killed the conversation. The one that made people feel intensely awkward, like they weren't allowed to have fun in my presence. To make matters worse, in some ways they were right. Part of me resented their happiness when all I could do was sit there and wonder if I'd ever have that feeling again. It was illogical and petty and completely unfair, but it was how I felt. I didn't want to be that person, but I didn't know how to stop. Of course, now all of this was probably running through Joy's head, sabotaging whatever chance at a friendship we might have had. Who wants to go to the effort of befriending someone who is clearly working through some serious shit?

  But then she surprised me. "You know what we need?" she said, after a few minutes. "Pie!"

  The complete ridiculousness of the suggestion took me be surprise, and I actually found myself laughing. "Pie?"

  "Pie!" Her trademark grin was back. "There's this fantastic shop called Pie Tin just a few blocks away. They have every kind of pie you can imagine, and they're open until three AM."

  "I don't know," I replied, "I'm not sure I'm in the mood to go out, right now. Besides, there's still stuff to do here."

  She took the cloth from my hand and threw it dramatically into the sink. "That's exactly why you need pie. Nothing cheers me up like a huge slice of blueberry pie and a big pile of cream." She punctuated this with an excellent impersonation of Homer Simpson drooling. "Cleaning can wait."

  I felt my stomach rumble, reminding me exactly how long it had been since I'd eaten. "I'm more of an apple and ice cream kind of girl."

  "Sacrilege! But because we're trying to cheer you up, I'll make an exception. You may eat your pie however you wish."

  "That's so generous of you." What was the worst that could happen? I raised my hands in defeat. "Fine, fine, as long as you stop saying the word 'pie' so much!"

  "I make no such promises."

  Chapter Three

  Grace

  The next day was my first day off, and it was one I'd been dreading. Time alone is the biggest enemy after you've experienced a tragic loss. In the months after it happened, I still had my cheffing job, and it was the only thing that kept me even remotely sane. The pain didn't dissipate, but with something to focus on, it at least faded into the background a little. My days off, on the other hand, were another matter entirely. Tom's schedule was as flexible as he wanted, so those days used to be our time. When he died, I had nothing to fill them except loneliness and self-loathing. Soon, that turned to alcohol, because it was the only thing that numbed me enough to feel like I might actually make it through the day. Of course drinking on my days off led to poor performance in the kitchen, and eventually, all my days were days off.

  My pie date with Joy had buoyed my mood a little, and so I tried to maintain that momentum and set about doing something positive. Menial tasks had felt so pointless over the last few months, and as a result, my place currently resembled something you might see on Hoarders; another quality TV show, if I do say so myself. To put it bluntly, there was shit everywhere.

  After ducking out to the store, I came back armed with trash bags, rubber gloves and enough Lysol to kill the bubonic plague. It was a daunting task, but over the next few hours, I gradually transformed my apartment from a hovel into something vaguely respectable. It felt wonderful to actually be taking charge of my life, even if it was only in the relatively trivial area of hygiene. I began telling myself that maybe there was something symbolic in that act, a fresh home for a fresh start. I should have known it was too good to last.

  The problem with depression is that it can sneak up on you. There were small periods over the last few months where I really thought I'd hit a turning point — little windows where it felt like maybe the darkness was lifting — but then I'd hit a trigger, some tiny inconsequential thing that reminded me of Tom, and everything would go cascading back into oblivion again.

  It was a book that did it this time. Fooled by Randomness, something Tom had read a few months before his death. He'd always been fascinated by the human mind. I think that's what drew him to poker. There's a strong psychological element to the game, and he spent a lot of time trying to understand the intricacies of that.

  I'd given the book to him for his birthday last year. It had been the first reward in a long series of treasure hunt clues I'd laid out around Vegas. As he solved each one, he received another gift. I'd been so goddamn proud of that surprise. It had taken me two weeks to organize, and the look of sheer adoration on his face when he found me in the restaurant after solving the last clue would stay with me forever.

  The memories came flooding back, drowning whatever good vibes I'd managed to generate. I hated how little control I had over my emotions. I knew Tom wouldn't want me to be this way. He'd want me to let go, to move on and be happy, but his death held such power over me and, try as I might, I couldn't escape it.

  I fled to the bedroom.

 
When things first fell apart, I spent days pouring over my keepsake box; everything that remained of Tom condensed into a single fourteen by ten inch container. It was intensely painful, but I couldn't make myself stop. I wanted to hold onto those memories as tightly as possible, lest they float away and vanish.

  At some point I realized how damaging it was, and I stashed them in the bottom of my wardrobe. I hadn't looked at them since, but without really thinking about what I was doing, I found myself fishing through them again.

  Tom had been big on writing notes. He'd leave them on the kitchen bench for when I got home late, or on his pillow for when I woke. They rarely said anything meaningful, stupid little jokes or sweet nothings, but I loved them nonetheless. They were personal and special and utterly mine, something he'd never shared with anyone else. I'd kept every one.

  Good morning, my love. The sun says HELLO =)

  A little bird may have left you some ice cream. He also bought some more OJ and TIVO'd a documentary about sushi. Happy Sunday!

  But there was one note in there that wasn't like the others. It was the note that broke everything apart. I danced around it for a while, wending my way through the bittersweet portions of the box, but eventually my fingers found their way to the fold.

  Dear Grace.

  I don't know how to do this. My hands are shaking so much I can barely write. I'm sitting here with this paper in front of me, thinking about what this is going to do to you, and it's just destroying me. I came so close to ending it a hundred times over the last few months, but I always wound up thinking of the moment that you find me, your beautiful face, the shock, the tears, and I couldn't go through with it. All I've ever cared about was making you happy, and now here I am, poised to break you. I fucking hate myself for it. I wish to God there was another choice, but I'm out of time.

  I owe some people a lot of money. And we're not just talking banks, we're talking bad people; the kind you never in a million years want to be in debt to. I didn't know it was them at the time, but that's neither here nor there. We're well beyond the point of excuses.