The Love Series Complete Box Set (179 page)

“Uh huh.” My patience is dwindling and the combination of the painkillers and alcohol is diminishing my capacity to pay much attention.

“How do you plan on getting your car back?” he laughs. The ass.

Noticing the frustration in my louder-than-necessary sigh, he answers his own question. “Chill out. I’ll take care of it tomorrow morning on the way to work. Just get some rest.” He sounds like he wants to say more, so I call him on it.

“What else, Reid?”

“It’s just . . . Make sure you call Dr. Baker, will you?” Reid’s voice is filled with concern and sincerity. The psychiatrist. I have a feeling Reid won’t let up on this, so I give in.

“Sure. Let me figure out my shoulder first, yeah?” Maybe my deflection will make him lay off. I doubt it, but it’s worth a chance.

It must be my lucky day, because when I wake up the next morning, my shoulder feels much better. It’s not one-hundred percent, but I can move it, which is a marked improvement from last night. Knowing that not taking care of it will more than likely keep me out of the gym longer than I’d like, I keep my appointment.

My concern over staying away from the gym has everything to do with me wanting to stay in shape and nothing to do with Conner.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

When I look out the window down into the parking lot, I see my car. Reid and Maddy must have moved it this morning for me. Knowing that they care for me the way they do makes me feel undeserving. Hell, that’s how I’ve felt for the last eight years. Before I get ready for the day, I shoot Reid a text saying thank you for helping me out. Not wanting to be late, I get on with my morning.

After I fill my prescription for some anti-inflammatories, I pick up a few groceries and head back to my apartment to review the files for the session Reid and I have to present next week. It’s annoying to have to flip through all the paperwork with one arm still in a sling, but I manage.

Carlo Hernandez is a sixteen-year-old junior who is new to the Calhoun High School. It’s a predominately white upper-middle class district. Carlo is
not
white nor is he upper-middle class. His parents were recently arrested for drug smuggling and Carlo had to move in with his aunt who happens to live in the Calhoun school district.

Despite his parents’ criminal activity, Carlo is a good kid. He’s determined to be more than his mom and dad are and he’s taken the move in stride. The other kids, however, are not so willing to accept him. Flipping through the files, I’m more than shocked to see that, in the six weeks since he’s been at Calhoun High, he’s been in four fights, all of which were instigated by the same group of kids.

That’s where Reid and I come in. Even though The Bridge usually works in presenting Gay-Straight Alliance seminars in middle and high schools across the area, we also specialize in bullying mediation. Sadly, Carlo’s case is most definitely one for us.

An hour or so later and my eyes are tired and blurry from reading through everything. I scribble out a few notes, which are mostly illegible, but they’re enough to get the point across to Reid.

I lean back on my couch, and my eyes fall to the shelf of pictures on my wall. Shane stares back at me. His absence is one I feel every single day, in every single inch of my body. With my one good hand, I push myself up off the couch and walk across the small room. Lifting the frame from the shelf feels as if I’m hefting a thousand pounds. The guilt over what I said to him, what I’ll never be able to take back, over what he did before I could help him, all of those things weigh on me.

Fingertips softly ghost over his framed face. It’s a picture from our weekend together in Scranton. We were on our first official date. By official I mean, that we were out in the open, not worrying in the least about who saw us. We didn’t care and we were free.

“I’m so sorry, Shane.” My throat closes and my mouth feels like it just doesn’t want to work. It was so much easier in the years before I came home. I used to drown my sorrows in alcohol and random men. I didn’t feel a damn thing. Numbness was my friend.

But when I got news that Shane’s mom died last year, I had to come back and pay my respects. Shane’s father scared me away after Shane killed himself. I was nothing more than a teenager, and I let him keep me away from saying goodbye to the only person I had ever let myself love. But I wasn’t going to let that happen when I heard about his mother.

Reconnecting with Reid at the funeral had felt like a stroke of luck, one of which I was the least deserving. Having him back in my life has helped me heal in a lot of ways. It’s made me feel like there’s hope for being able to move on. If Reid can find happiness, if he can find love and build his own family, then maybe there’s a chance for me.

I put the picture down and stare out the window, watching the afternoon sun blaze across the sky. There’s a small playground set up in the middle of my apartment complex where I see kids playing on the swings. Laughter peels through the air as they run around and chase one another.

There was a time, not all that long ago, that I wanted that: a family. Reid’s words about having to move on, about having to forgive myself replay in my head, in seeming harmony with the noises coming up from below.

It could be from the Hernandez files, or from reminiscing about Shane, or from the constant burn I feel in my wallet where Dr. Baker’s card is sitting, but a wave of motivation to finally do something about it—my emotions, my guilt, my sadness—takes over.

With thoughts of Shane and the possibilities of my future warring with one another, I dial her number and hope for the best.

Chapter Seventeen

May 23, 2015

“You have got to come see this line outside.” Rachel’s enthusiasm for tonight is infectious. She’s worked tirelessly, right alongside me, through this whole process and tonight is the culmination of all our hard work.

It’s the official grand opening of Michelson’s MMA. The line curling down the street and around the building is proof that this small community is just as excited about the gym as Rachel and I are. The cynic in me still feels like this can’t be true. “They’re probably just here because Adrian and Troy are here.” I cut down my own success, something at which Rachel is forever rolling her eyes.

“They’re here for you, Con. Every day you get twice as many sign-ups as you did the day before. Hell, we’ve only been opened a week and you’ve already got regulars.” She punches me playfully, which hurts her hand more than my arm. “Now, shut your trap, go get changed and let’s do this.” She shoots her hip to the side and starts impatiently bouncing her foot, pointing at the locker room before tapping on the face of her watch.

“You’re too much.” I push her lightly, throwing her off balance and she shoos me away. “Okay, okay. I’m going.”

With my back turned to her, I only remotely hear her grumbling. Shaking my head, I brush off her rambling list of things she’s finishing up, and my nervous jitters as well.

I have to walk through the locker room to get to my office. It isn’t exactly the perfect design, but it was part of the original building layout. When the money from my parents’ life insurance policy and the payout from my contract began to dwindle, I had to make some choices in what was necessary and what was a luxury. At the end of the day, an on-staff trainer, high-end equipment and the most up-to-date technology were more important than a fancy office.

I take a quick shower, washing away the grime of getting the space ready for a meet and greet. Rachel picked up my clothes from the dry cleaner earlier and hung them in the small closet. Dark charcoal slacks and a simple, crisp white button-down dress shirt make me look professional, but not too over the top dressy for the event. Not wanting to deal with the cuffs, I roll the sleeves up a few times.

By the time I make it back out to the front, Rachel is just about to open the doors. Adrian McIntyre and Troy Davidson, MMA middleweight champions and old sparring partners of mine, are the first to congratulate me.

“Thanks, guys. It really means a lot to me that you’re here to help.” The doors open and a crowd of people begin to fill the room. I look over my shoulder, pointing out the disproportionate amount of women to men who are walking in. “I think more people are excited to come meet you guys than they are for the gym.”

“No way, man. They’ll see us and then tell their men they
need
to come here so they can look the same. Just you wait and see. We’ll sell this place like crazy tonight.” After his words of encouragement, Troy eyes the crowd looking for an easy target. He finds one in a group of tall brunettes who are all giggling like school girls as he approaches.

Adrian claps a hand to my shoulder, shaking his head. “Some things never change, huh?” Troy is most definitely a ladies man, through and through.

“Well, when they practically claw at him, I guess I can’t say I blame him.” Adrian and I share a laugh, thinking back to our wilder days of partying with Troy.

“He’s right, though. This place will kill it. You just wait and see,” Adrian assures me.

Rachel pulls me away for some kind of water cooler emergency. She still hasn’t figured out how to work it properly, so she always thinks it’s broken. No matter how many times I show it to her, it just doesn’t stick in that pretty little head of hers.

From the far corner of the weight room, I scan the space and a huge bubble of pride fills my chest. My initial misgivings of the crowd being filled with women dying to get a chance to meet a real MMA fighter are calmed when I see that things have clearly balanced out. I even recognize a few faces from people who have been using the gym all week.

I say my hellos to those who I recognize and introduce myself to those who I don’t. Being new to the area, I extended invitations out to the local business owners, figuring it would be a great chance to network and hopefully cross-promote in the future. My plan seems to be working so far. I’ve chatted up Josie, the owner of a health food store around the block, and Ryan a boot-camp trainer who’s looking for work. Even though we’re less than halfway through the evening, I feel confident in saying that it’s been a success.

All feelings of happiness vanish as I feel a prickly sensation creep up my neck. An all-too-familiar hand grips my arm, turning me to face its owner.

“Congratulations, Conner.” Austin’s gravelly voice falls from a mouth twisted in a crooked smile.

Not wanting to make a spectacle of myself, I reign in my temper. “Austin,” I speak calmly, extending my hand more out of politeness than out of wanting to touch him. Sometimes, my manners just get the best of me.

“A handshake?” He looks down at my hand like it’s covered in insects. “After all this time . . . we shared a bed for a year, and all you offer me is a handshake?” Austin’s anger is thinly veiled, at best. Anyone close enough could hear the contempt in his words, but anyone looking on from a distance would just see two men engaged in a regular conversation. He plays this game well, always has.

“That’s all you’ll ever get from me.” I pull my hand back, shoving it into my pocket before he even has the chance to touch me. “What do you want?” My impatience is unmistakable, but he chooses to ignore it. “And what are you even doing here? Why aren’t you back in New Jersey?”

He swallows back the last sip of champagne in his glass and drops it on a waiter’s tray as he walks by. “It’s good,” he says as he takes another flute off the tray. “I always thought you preferred a beer or a whiskey though. So I guess this must be Rachel’s doing, then.”

My hands are balled into tight fists in my pockets. “What. Do. You. Want?” I grind out each word, quietly with more restraint than I thought I’d ever be capable of possessing when it comes to Austin.

He notices it and a small fracture in his perfect veneer fissures across his face. By not immediately warming up to his greeting, I’ve clearly gotten to him.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing. I don’t want to fight.” His voice softens as he reaches for my arm once again.

The stress of the last week, the last year, even, overwhelms me. Pushing my hand through my hair, I let out a sigh. “I’m doing just fine.” I tone it down and add, “Thank you for showing up,” even though I don’t really mean it.