Page 81 of Rebound

I remember it all too well. It started small, her withdrawal from the family. From me. Little things like being too busy to come to Sunday brunch. She was there for me when I needed her, a shoulder to cry on, but I sensed she was holding back. She never talked about her own day, her own problems, her own concerns. She retreated, not only from me, but from everyone. That’s when the rot started to set in. When my dad launched his anti-love campaign. She was slipping away from me, and I had no idea what had caused it. Months later—maybe even as much as a year—I broached the issue of children with her. I asked her if she was interested in pursuing IVF or looking for a surrogate, and she dismissed me. “I’m sorry, Elijah,” she said. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for. It was supposed to be simple, wasn’t it? But I don’t see the point in prolonging our agony. Neither of those options are guaranteed to work, and really, doesn’t the world have enough babies in it already?”

At the time I was hurt, confused. When had she decided this? But she was already shutting down by then, and truthfully, I was still grieving. Still trying to hold my fractured family together. Things had gone sideways with Maddox, and my dad was losing his grip at Jamestech, and I felt like I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. Maybe part of me was relieved at not having to go down the fertility path, and that’s why I never pushed it. Of course, now I understand so much better—by that stage, she had started to convince herself that I resented her and that my family despised her. Fuck. What a god-awful mess.

“I’m sorry, Elijah,” he says, his apology heartfelt. “I’m sorry if I made things worse. I was in my own hell, and then I ran away to Chicago. I always thought you two would work it out.”

I’d be lying if I say I’m not pissed and frustrated. It’s possible we could have avoided a lot of pain and suffering. But my wife is a force of nature—she could convince a cat to bark. Convincing a grieving young man to hoard harmful information from his grieving older brother would have been a walk in the park. As angry and disappointed as I feel, I can’t let him blame himself.

“You’re right, you should have told me,” I say, nodding. “But I forgive you, Drake. There’s no telling whether it would have changed anything, and what has happened with my marriage is not your fault. Amber and I are grown-ass adults, and we made our own choices. I gave up too easily. Even now, even recently… Fuck, even today. I acted like an ass. The look on her face…” She looked so goddamn sad. Like I once again chose someone else over her. Once again didn’t have her back. Fuck! I shake my head to clear it and refocus on my brother. “That’s not on you, Drake. That’s on me.”

“Fuck. Okay.” He nods and puffs out a breath.

We finish our drinks in heavy silence before he speaks again. “Well, bro, I suppose the only question that remains is this: How shit-faced are we going to get tonight?” Despite my hurt, I force out a laugh and clink glasses with him.

“Nah. You need to go home to Amelia. That is an incredible woman you have there. As for me… I need to go find Amber.” And somehow make her understand that not only was my mom wrong about everything she said that night, but that I will never give her cause to doubt me again.

ChapterThirty-Eight

AMBER

I’m not scheduled to lead a class this evening, but I head to the center anyway. There will be company and warmth and far less temptation to drink until I hit oblivion. Sanjay drops me off a block away because I want to walk off some of my emotion. He’s his usual chatty self, and I don’t think he notices anything off about me at all, but then, I am a master at this. At hiding my pain. I’m so good I could give a damn TED Talk on the subject.

Listening to Drake go over the divorce details was hard enough, but what followed almost destroyed me. All these years, I’ve kept that night from Elijah. I needed to protect him from the awful things his mother said to me, no matter how dearly it cost me. The way he stared at me, rejecting what I was saying after he forced me to confide in him—it was a heavy blow. Part of me understands his disbelief, but I’m so sick of being second best. Sick of knowing that his instincts will always keep him loyal to his family and not to me—his wife.

Well, I won’t be his wife for much longer, I remind myself as I walk toward the community center. Tonight is the first time I’ve believed, without a doubt, that the divorce is the right choice, and the heaviness of that breaks my heart. Elijah and I still love each other, but we’re doomed. It’s time to accept that.

I blink back tears and tell myself to concentrate on the here and now. The welcoming lights of LOJ welcome me. In this working-class neighborhood, I feel more alive than I ever did in Manhattan. There are threats and dangers, but at least you know what they are. You can see them coming.

I walk through the big metal gate at the entrance and immediately see a group of young men. That’s not unusual or cause for concern. Sissie is quick to point out that a lot of young men in this area feel the need to look and act tougher than they are to survive. But something about this group sets off alarm bells in my admittedly inexperienced mind.

They’re clumped together at the side of the building, out of line of sight of the street where kids sometimes go to sneak a cigarette. I’m sure many of them wish for something stronger but none are willing to break Sissie’s zero-tolerance policy on drugs of any kind.

The gathering is maybe five or six strong, and they’re circled around something—or someone. It’s probably nothing, but I should get help. There are two big bikes parked in front, so a couple of Misfits are here, and Sissie herself keeps a baseball bat in her office. I don’t even have to walk inside. I could just get out my phone and call. Yes. I should definitely do that.

I stare at the little group, see the way it moves, and hear someone crying. I don’t want to get help—I want tobethe help. I stride toward them, my heels clicking on the concrete.

“Hey!” I yell as I get close. They whirl around in surprise, and it takes them about two seconds to go from surprise to suspicion and all the way through to certainty that I’m no threat at all. Shawn, the talented dancer from my class, cowers in the middle of the circle.

His lip is bleeding, and he’s holding his hands in front of his face. “I’m okay, Miss Amber,” he says desperately. “These are my friends. Please don’t get involved.”

Oh, hell no—the kid is getting the snot beaten out of him, and he’s trying to protect me? No fucking way.

I push my way into the circle, and they assemble around me like vultures. I must look like easy pickings. Maybe I am.

“They don’t look very friendly, Shawn,” I say, putting as much confidence into my voice as I can. The leader breaks rank and gets right in my face. “What the fuck you know, lady? Shawn here is one of us.”

“No, he’s not, you asshole. Now get out of my way. I am not in the mood for this bullshit. I’ve had a very bad day, and you don’t want to mess with me.”

His eyes widen, and I realize how big of a mistake I’ve made by calling him out in front of his group. Now he looks weak, and the only way he can stop looking weak is by showing them who’s boss. “Shawn,” I say quickly. “Leave now. I’m fine.”

I’m not fine, I know, but all of this will be for nothing if Shawn is hurt even more. I meet his frightened eyes, see how brave he is trying to be. “Now, Shawn—get inside.”

One of them tries to grab him on his way past, but those dance skills of his come in handy. Shawn ducks and dodges and scurries away between his legs. Quick as a flash, he runs toward the community center.

I gulp down air and swallow my fear along with it. I am not prey, and I will not show fear.

“You got some balls, bitch. Who the fuck you think you are?”

“I’m nobody special, but I’m not going to let you touch that boy, you hear me?”

---