She opens the door to Fight Club, but my eyes catch on the For Sale sign still taped to the unoccupied side of the building.
“You go in, I’ll be right there.”
At the window, I cup my hands around my eyes and look inside. It’s one big room, much like Fight Club, but it’s completely empty. The ceilings are high, the floors are concrete, and there’s dust everywhere. It’s nothing that could be anything. I linger a minute, imagining what it could be. It reminds me of the A-frame, a potential diamond in the rough.
In the gym, Wren’s already with Ford, him introducing her to his sweaty group of boys on a mat between hitting bags. I watch them, smiling together, the boys doing the same. Wren mock punches Ford in the gut and he reacts dramatically, doubling over with a grin.
One man changing the lives of seven, over and over.
“Why you crying?” the meatball behind the counter asks.
“Because it smells like crusty balls in here,” I snap, thumbing moisture from my eyes.
He grunts as the phone rings, delivering a rough, “Fight Club.”
Across the gym, Ford’s eyes hook with mine. He lifts his chin; I mirror the movement. His gaze on mine holds like a Chinese finger trap: The more I fight it, the tighter it grabs.
Even with all the stress fractures on our lives and hearts and histories—even as insufferably destructive as I can be sometimes—maybe June was right. Maybe everyone was.
Jimmy, the kid whose sister died, laughs at something Ford says as he takes a gloved swing at him. Full-blown, no worries, laughing. Even with a dead sister.
Across the room, Ford mouths,I love youto me and it face-plants me into my universal truth: I want this. Him. Right now.
Forever.
Scotty
I got a new phone.
What if I stayed with Ford?
I’ve never killed anyone, you know? Maybe I’m not that bad.
And Wren doesn’t even care that I attacked Jessicunt in public.
And Ford keeps feeding my birds.
And Ilikehim feeding my birds.
Despite what Sweaty Vince says, I read December is the worst month to list a house . . .
Where are you?
Is this that thing you do where you don’t answer and let me talk myself into figuring out what you already know?
Since you’re ignoring me, I guess you won’t care that I came to an agreement with the Sellecks and I’m at House of Ink.
June
On my way.
Forty-Eight
ThehoursI’vespentin the kitchen have led me to one conclusion: Turkeys can go fuck themselves with a baster.
I push one sleeve of my green sweater up my arm as I check the bird—the last one I ever want to make for the rest of my life—and it’s still not done. Ford would laugh.
No.