Page 24 of Only ever you-Ana & Byron
"You stupid little turd."
He flinched, curling in slightly.
"After all this time, you couldn't just open your mouth and tell me about your fuck up?"
"Fuck off," she said, the rage in her voice spilling over, "Just fuck off."
Her boots crunched through the gravel as she walked away. She didn't look back.
Byron stayed where he was, back against bark, throat raw, stomach aching in more ways than one.
He knew it would be bad. Now it was all gone.
***
Ana walked straight into the garage, past the half-dismantled lawnmower, her mum's forgotten yoga mat, and the old cardboard box of gloves that smelled faintly of liniment like a ticking time bomb .
Her dad was pounding the heavy punching bag in the corner, shirtless despite the chill, sweat darkening the waistband of his joggers. He was still a giant of a man, broad as a truck and shoulders heavy with muscle.
His once jet-black hair was now streaked with grey, and his jaw was dark with stubble even though Ana had seen him shave that morning. His punches were brutal, but they had a rhythm to them. They echoed like thunder off the concrete floor.
Ana hovered near the worktable. "Want me to hold it?"
He paused mid-strike, turning slightly. A crooked grin started to form on his face as he was about to make a comment about her swinging with the bag like Jane of the jungle, but it died just as quickly when he saw her expression. A strange mixture of furious and sad.
His heavy brow furrowed. He gave the bag a softer jab and nodded. She moved to hold it, her slight frame bracing against the weight.
They didn't speak for a while. The bag thudded with each blow, Ana trying to hold it steady, while her teeth clattered with every hit.
"I was thinking," she said eventually, eyes fixed somewhere past the leather. "Do you remember when you nearly lost the shop?"
He grunted. "'Course I do. Worst time of my life."
"I was what eight? You'd just opened the sports store and the dojo. We weren't doing well."
He threw one more punch, slower this time, then rested his hand on the bag and looked at her.
"It was Byron's dad, wasn't it?" she said, watching his expression. "He bailed you out. Helped with the loan. Helped keep everything going until things took off."
Her dad didn't deny it.
"You always said you owed him one."
He exhaled hard and stepped behind the bag, gripping it with his big hands to still it. Ana let go. They stood on either side now, eye to eye. Hers were green and sharp mirror images of his.
"So," she said. "Hypothetically. Let's say there's this friend. A real idiot. This person hurts you. Like properly hurts you. But if you don't help, things get worse. It is going to ruin his or her life. And that of the family."
Her voice was pensive and deliberately casual.
"Would you step back and let that person get destroyed? Or would you help anyway, knowing he or she might not deserve it?"
For a moment, he just stared at her. The bag barely shifted between them, as if suspended by the silence.
"I guess," he said finally, "It would be more satisfying to see him suffer." His voice was dry, but not cruel. "But long term? He'd suffer more if you helped him. Because he'd owe you. And some debts get under your skin worse than guilt."
Ana blinked. Slowly, her arms dropped to her sides.
"He was a little shit," her father added. "But he's one of ours, isn't he? It goes without saying that your papa will beat him to within an inch of his life if he gets the chance in a dark alley. I mean hypothetically."
