Page 28 of Good Graces

But the thought of walking through that door, of stepping into a quiet apartment where everything is normal—where my roommates are probably stretched across the couch watching trashy TV and complaining about who forgot to buy oat milk—feels impossible.

I can’t do it. Not yet.

So instead of heading in, I climb out of the car and start walking.

It’s just a quick walk down the street. Five minutes, tops. By the time I reach the gym, my pulse is already thrumming, but not from the pace. It’s something else. Something wired and restless buzzing under my skin.

Inside, it’s louder than before. Packed to the brim with movement and noise.

The hum of bodies. The sharp sound of fists meeting pads. The deep grunts of effort. It’s a different kind of energy than the last time I was here. Not just old, worn-down lifers who’ve been coming for decades, but younger guys too. Focused. Hungry. The kind of people who have something to prove.

It makes me pause. That awkward, out-of-place feeling creeps in again. But then I remind myself—everyone starts as an outsider. You fake it until you don’t have to.

And more than anything, I want that feeling back. The one I had after that first night. After I spent an hour taking it all out on the bag, after the adrenaline left my system and my body finally went quiet. I’ve been chasing that silence ever since.

I need it now more than ever. So, I step inside.

The owner’s behind the counter again, arms crossed. He doesn’t greet me, doesn’t ask why I’m here, just tips his chin toward the lockers.

I make my way over, drop my bag onto the bench, pull my hair into a knot, and start taping up. When I finally step onto the mats, he’s already waiting.

“Good,” he says. “You came back.”

I roll my shoulders. “Yeah. Found a gap in my schedule.”

His expression stays dry. “Sure. That’s why.”

I don’t bother replying. My eyes drift past him to the ring where a pair of guys are sparring. Fast. Clean. Controlled. They move like their bodies already know exactly what to do.

I want that. I want to be good enough to let it out without overthinking every move. I want to stop holding it all in.

I want to hit something and finally feel free.

Without me asking for it, the owner steps in and taps the inside of my elbow.

“Last time, I let you go at it. Wanted you to feel it, to let it out. But if you keep throwing wild-ass punches like that, you’re gonna blow out your shoulder before you even figure out what you’re doing.”

I press my lips together. I don’t like being called out, but he’s not wrong. My body still aches in places I didn’t know existed.

He gestures toward the bag. “Hands up.”

I square my stance, lifting my fists, and he steps in again to adjust my elbow.

“Keep them tighter. You’re leaving yourself wide open.”

He moves behind me and presses two fingers to my spine.

“Straighten up. Engage your core. You’re not throwing from your arms. You’re throwing from here.”

I exhale and shift my weight. He steps back, letting me find it on my own. When I punch this time, it feels different. More controlled. More intentional.

He gives a short grunt of approval. “Better. Again.”

I throw punch after punch until my arms feel like lead, until my legs tremble with exhaustion, until the sharp edge of everything dulls just enough.

By the time I peel my gloves off, the owner has drifted back to his desk. My body hums with the same tired relief as last time. There’s a steady burn in my muscles, a dull ache in my knuckles. I welcome it.

For a minute, I lean against the wall, dragging my hands down my face.

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