Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
We walk into the gym, and he jerks his chin toward the clothes that have been neatly folded in my cubby. The gym is set up closer to a commercial gym than a home one. I don’t know if it was always this way, or if it was changed once Da and Dad came to live here with my mother. They certainly use it enough, even now.
“I don’t want to spar.”
Dad rolls his shoulders and steps onto the mat. “You may not want to. But you need to.”
If Mom is good at teatime and giving me the space to feel my feelings, and Da is good at hugs and positive self-talk, then Dad is good at this. He’s been dragging me onto the mat since I turned eleven and puberty hit me like a freight train. There were too many hormones and too much change, and my mental health took a wild free fall. Mom’s words couldn’t get through to me. Da’s hugs didn’t solve anything.
And then one day Dad hauled me onto the mat and started teaching me how to fight. On this mat, I learned to move with limbs that had stopped feeling like mine. I don’t remember learning to walk, but Mom says it happened much the same way. Dad has endless patience, and it didn’t matter how shitty my attitude was, he would meet me on the mat and put me through my paces until whatever repressed emotion was rattling around my chest burst free.
And once the pain was lanced, Mom or Da would magically show up not too much later and be available for me to spew my angsty young feelings at them.
I’d like to say I have better control of myself these days, but that doesn’t stop me from ducking into the changing room and pulling on my workout gear. It doesn’t alter the fact that, no matter how worried and stressed I am about my current situation, I know I’ll feel better after this. I step out of the changing room and glare. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Then you know it will help.”
I step onto the mat, and it’s the most natural thing in the world to fall into the rhythm of our customary warm-up. Stretching and then shadowboxing. Only once a light sweat covers my body does Dad return to me with a slight smile. “All right. Let’s see how rusty you are.”
I hesitate, testing him. “I really don’t want—”
Just as I expected, Dad strikes out, intending to catch me unawares. I duck and attempt to sweep his legs out from beneath him. It doesn’t work, but I honestly didn’t expect it to. We circle each other slowly. Even when I was practicing several times a week with him, I only beat him one time out of twenty. He’s always pulled the force of his punches with me, but he’s never dialed back the intensity of his attacks. As much as I hate the bruises I end up with, I can’t deny that I’ve never fought anyone as good as Dad.
I’m not in peak physical condition currently, and it’s been months since we sparred together.
Within ten seconds, I land flat on my back, and my air whooshes out of my lungs. I blink dazedly up to see him leaning over me, his brows drawn together. “I knew you were out of practice, but you should’ve seen that coming a mile away.”
I take his offered hand and allow him to pull me to my feet. “I’ve been a little busy.”
“I know.” Just that. No judgment.
We circle each other again, and as much as I want to be irritated that I’m doing this, it does feel good. This, at least, I understand. It starts to feel less good after Dad knocks me on my ass five times. The last time, I’m breathing so hard that I feel a little dizzy. I hold up my hand, panting. “I’m done.”
He crouches in front of me, running a critical eye over my body. “Anything worse than bruises?”
“Only my pride.” I wipe the back of my hand over my sweaty forehead. “I know I’ve been a giant shit, but thank you. I guess I did need this.”
He drops onto the mat next to me. “Your mom and Da were born and raised in Carver city. I wasn’t.”
“I know the story.” I’ve heard it enough times. About how he fought his way onto my grandfather’s force and how he and Da worked the ranks to become top enforcers. About how they both dated my mother separately before both calling it quits. And about how she managed to bring them both back into the fold of the territory—and her life. It’s the stuff of legends in Carver City.
“I never once lied about who I was.”
There it is. The moral judgment. I open my mouth to snap back but force myself to be silent. To consider what he’s saying. My mother’s words ring in my ears: You want to be treated like an adult? Start acting like one.