Page 72 of No Mercy

WHEN I TOLD ROWDY I COULDN’T—wouldn’t—marry him, he took it like a man.

He didn’t cry, like I did.

He didn’t puke right afterwards, like I did.

And he sure as shit didn’t remain celibate, like I am.

It seems all the men in my life find it easy to move on. All except Cap.

He’s still pouting. It’s been two weeks since he found out I’m pregnant. He checks on me every day, offering me food, water, protein drinks, my own pack of peppermints. Yet he’s holding his forgiveness hostage. No matter how much I apologize, it doesn’t seem to be enough. I don’t have the right words, the acceptable amount of remorse, or the promises to warrant his mercy.

The sad part is, I love that he’s so upset. At least he cares enough to stick around and be mad with me. He still cares for me. It’s obvious by his daily check-ins. He’s just not ready to forgive me. And that’s okay. All I can do is ask for forgiveness. I can’t force it or expect to receive it. Some pains take time to heal. I know that all too well.

So, life goes on. Cap is mad. Rowdy is distant. And the guys at the gym treat me like a princess who can’t lift a finger without their help. That part I secretly love, though I’d never admit it to them.

Tomorrow is Gabriel’s big fight against Killer González in Las Vegas. He’s a big guy, originally from Brazil but trains in Florida. He’s evenly matched in weight and height, but the weight doesn’t sit the same on him as it does Gabriel—who’s all muscle. Killer looks more like he’s seventy-five percent fighter and twenty-five percent Pillsbury Doughboy. He didn’t always look like that. I think this past year as the reigning champ has gone to his waist. Except in the interview I saw earlier this week, he still thinks he’s hot shit and that taking down Gabriel will be a breeze.

He’s delusional. Gabriel will grind him up and eat him for a late-night snack. The guys will all be there to cheer him on too, even Cap. They’ve all gone to Vegas. I didn’t even go into work today. There’s no point. No one was even there except Rowdy, and he’s avoiding me. So, like I said—there’s no point.

Pounding on the front door has me setting down the knife I’m using to spread mayo on two slices of bread. The beginnings of a sandwich. It’s just after noon, and I’m starving. I check the living room to see where Rowdy disappeared to. He breezed in and out of the kitchen, looking for food a few minutes ago. I thought he might stick around to eat with me. Guess not.

The banging on the door begins again, and then the doorbell rings.

“Jeez, I’m comin’. Hold your horses.”

Rowdy appears at the top of the stairs, frowning at the door like that alone will make it stop.

More banging.

I reach for the deadbolt to unlock it.

“Check the peephole first,” Darkboy hisses from his roost.

When I see the meaty frame on the other side of the door, I nearly faint as my heart starts pounding like it’s responding directly to his banging on the door—like it’s a secret code only they know. My breath hitches when he lifts his oversized hand and bangs again, jolting me back a step. He doesn’t even look around. It’s like heknowswe’re home.

Backing away slowly, I glance around, trying to figure out my escape route. I can’t bring myself to open the door. I haven’t seen or heard from him in two months—since I told him goodbye at the hospital. The day I found out I was pregnant. The day my life changed forever, heading down on a road he wasn’t willing to go, its destination nowhere on his life plan.

I yelp when Rowdy touches my arm. I didn’t even notice or hear him come down the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

Shaking my head, I back up to the wall. “I can’t.” I feel like I’ve finally started to get my feet under me in the last few days. Like I can live without him.

I don’t want to, but Ican.

Him being here will only undermine any progress I’ve made. I know I said I was going to tell him about the baby after his fight, but I’d decided the best thing for me is to write him a letter—not tell him in person. Seeing him again, being rejected all over again, would be too painful, set me back too far. I have to be strong for our baby. I’m determined to set an example for our child, be good, be strong, be present. The cycle of shitty parenting stops here. The next generation will know they are loved, cherished, and most of all—wanted.

“Tell him I’m not here. Tell him I died.” I run for the living room. When I hear the click of the lock, I realize the living room is not a great hiding place. I should have gone for my room or—the garage!

I dart toward the kitchen, planning to grab my keys and make a dash for it when I hear Gabriel’s familiar voice.

“Where is she?” He’s not happy, but God, that voice. It calls to me like a homing beacon.

“She’s not here.” Rowdy sounds like he’s up for the confrontation I’m avoiding.

“No? Well, I’ll wait.” I hear movement, but I can’t tell where he’s heading, the living room or the kitchen.

I’m stuck in the doorway between the two. Nowhere to go without being seen.

“That’s not a good idea.” Rowdy’s voice meets my ears about the time I catch sight of Gabriel at the entryway across the room from me, on the threshold of stepping into the living room.

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