Page 73 of Meant to be Falling
I nod and then shove my feet into my work boots and walk outside.
Beck stares at me from the driveway, arms crossed and looking every bit the part he’s trying to play.
Dropping the water bottles into the grass, I kneel down and tie one boot and then the other, not bothering to brush the dirt from my knees as I walk out into the road.
“Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
Pointing to the tree about fifty yards ahead, I look at him. “There. Ten pushups. Run back here. Ten burpees. Run back, ten squats.”
“I’m not doing that,” he huffs.
“Yes, you are. For two reasons,” I say, squaring off with him but giving him space so I’m not crowding him. “There’s no substitute for hard work, and if you want to make the football team then every day is a day to improve and make yourself better,”—I pause—“physically and mentally. But more importantly, you’re not going to talk to her or anyone else like that,” I say, pointing at the house.
“You don’t get it,” he practically spits at me.
“No? Then you can explain it to me after we run.” I nod toward the invisible start. “Line up.”
Beck stands next to me and I count down, pushing off hard and beating him to the tree. “Let’s go,” I command, dropping to the ground and counting off our ten pushups before popping back up to my feet. “Again.”
And we do.
Again and again.
We race hard, feet pounding on the pavement, our breath coming in pants. He’s fast but I’m faster, and even if I can’t walk tomorrow, I won’t let him win. Not tonight.
“Get some water,” I tell him as he pulls up his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.
He reaches for the bottle, his hand shaking a little at the movement but pride still a chip on his shoulder as I line up.
“Again.” My tone leaves no room for argument, and I watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs. He’s starting to break, but he’s not there.
Not yet.
So I count us down, and we run.
The second set is brutal, and my legs burn as we finish it out, my thighs not appreciating the way the denim chafes with each squat.
Beck braces his hands on his knees before standing straight and lacing his fingers behind his head and staring up at the evening sky.
“How many more do we need to do?” I ask, downing the last of my water as Beck’s gaze snaps to mine. We stare at each other for a beat before his arms drop down to his sides and his shoulders slump.
Beck shakes his head, but I’m not convinced, so I back up and stand on our invisible line.
“You sure? Because it doesn’t look like it.” I make a show of stretching my arm across my body. “I got plenty of juice left and nowhere to be.”
It’s a half-truth because I really don’t want to run anymore, but it’s not my decision. I took control and now I’m giving it back, letting him tell me what he needs.
“I didn’t mean to yell at her,” he says quietly, his eyes full of tears, and I nod, becauseI know.“She just always took care of stuff when we lived with Dad, but it’s different now. The camp is a lot of money, and I didn’t want to ask her to pay for it.” He pauses like he’s a little bit uncomfortable or even ashamed to admit it. “Dad has the money and he’s trying to buy our love anyway.”
The words are very adult, but Beck is still a child. He’s a little boy trying to be a man, andI remember those days.
He swipes at a rogue tear as it trails down his face.
“When I was your age, I was really angry all the time. I lost a lot when I was young, and as I got older, I couldn’t control the rage. Life hadn’t been kind to me. So I leaned into the feeling and let it consume me. Ilikedit.” I let the admission hang between us, our breathing returning to normal, and wait for his question.
“But you’re not like that now.”
