by Cindi Madsen
Everyone else had at least one other person to support them. I’d met friends, significant others, and parents of every other artist displaying their work tonight. Guess being forever alone at these events was my cross to bear, and I knew there were a lot worse things. Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t miraculously settle my nerves or make me feel very well-supported.
Waiters with champagne flutes wove through the room, and while I’d originally decided not to imbibe in the bubbly, now I was thinking I needed some liquid courage. I’d prefer something with a little more kick, preferably a shot of whiskey, but tonight I was a fancypants. Fake it till you make it, right?
The bubbles burned my nose, and I took back my slams on champagne—this stuff was delicious. I lifted my glass for another gulp and heard a refined male voice ask, “This is your work?”
My champagne went down the wrong tube, and I covered a cough, my eyes burning as I worked to force myself to cut off the sputtering and suck in air. “It is,” I said, turning fully toward him. Early thirties, impeccable suit that fit his lean body perfectly. He introduced himself as Chris Purcell as we shook hands, and his soft skin spoke to a career behind a desk.
“Brooklyn Roth,” I said, and he gave me a wide smile, one with interest behind it.
Shane would definitely call him soft. I wonder how he’s holding up. If Liam decided to show him my text.
What if he did and it does the opposite of encourage him? I bit my thumbnail, an old habit I thought I’d kicked long ago, as worry gnawed on my insides.
And this was exactly why I wasn’t allowed to think about Shane right now.
I tipped back the rest of my champagne, and I’m sure it was less than ladylike, but at the moment, I didn’t really care.
Chris stepped closer, breaching my bubble. “Tell me about your pieces.”
I gave him a condensed version of my process, and talked about each of the faces and what they meant to me. Then I got to the piece that made it impossible to follow through with my attempt to not think about Shane. The woman who ran the exhibition told me she’d like me to add a few extra paintings to fill my wall space if I had more, and I’d just finished my most recent piece last week. The card underneath said The Fighter in big bold letters. In my head, I’d titled it Masochism in Paint. It’d been my coping mechanism, my way to get all my emotions onto a canvas, where I hoped I’d be able to better deal with them. I’m sure a licensed therapist would call it repression and failing to move on. At one point, I thought maybe I’d burn it, like they did in TV shows and movies as a cleansing ceremony for exes. Before I’d even finished, I knew I’d never be able to bring myself to do it, though.
“Are they based on real people?” Chris gestured with his champagne flute, making a wide arc that encompassed all my works.
“Some are, some aren’t,” I said. “For the most part, I focus more on moods than certain people.”
“And this one?”
I couldn’t tell if he’d indicated the one I’d painted of Shane as a way to ask if I was single, or if he connected to it on some level that clearly wasn’t based in reality.
Now I’m being judgmental, and he’s been nothing but nice.
He put his hand on the small of my back. So maybe he had ulterior motives for the nice.
“Yes. It’s based on someone I know.” Someone who’d glower at you until you removed your hand. Or he would’ve back when we…
I took a step forward, waving my arms as I talked more about my method. It didn’t help with the ache that’d claimed my heart, but it was effective at keeping Chris from touching me again.
The guy did a double take at the door, and the way his eyes widened made me follow suit. I blinked, thinking I must be seeing things.
“Dad?”
He glanced around as he closed the distance between us, clearly feeling out of place. “I, uh…I came to see your pictures.”
So not pictures, but the fact that he’d shown up made a lump form in my throat, and I had to blink my eyes to keep from crying. Chris had backed away, instinctively giving my dad a wide berth. I looped my arm through Dad’s elbow and led him to my display wall.
“This is different than what you used to do,” he said.
“Yeah. As I went through art school, I got braver and started messing with different mediums and effects. This is the one that I do the best, and it fits what I want to convey with my art.”
“Which is…?”
Once again I thought of Shane saying it was where I threw my punches, and the dam holding back my tears shivered with the pressure. I shrugged. “I want them to make people feel. It’ll be different for everyone depending on who they are, and what they’ve experienced, but I hope my paintings evoke some kind of strong, visceral emotion.”
Dad nodded, his forehead creasing and smoothing, and it was okay if he didn’t understand, because he was here. There was a huge fight going on in another city, and he’d shown up. Earlier today, I would’ve bet thousands of dollars he’d never come to a single showing.
“Pride,” he said, and then he smiled down at me. “I feel pride.”
The dam broke, and I hugged him, hoping he didn’t mind a few teardrops on his shirt.
“That one…” He jerked his chin at the one of Shane. “I’m assuming it’s—”
“Yeah,” I said, afraid hearing his name would hurt. But the can of worms had already been opened. Might as well let them wiggle free. “Any idea how he was before the fight?”
“Pissed off and mouthy.”
Of all the things Dad could’ve said, those were certainly unexpected. Worrisome, too. “Did he try to fight Conrad in the hallway or something? Did he get in trouble? Is he okay?”
Dad held up a hand, like whoa, and I pressed my lips closed so the questions would stop bubbling out. “At me. He was pissed off at me for showing up in the locker room. Told me he didn’t need me there, and added that if I didn’t want to lose you, I needed to get to your art show.”
Everything inside me twisted, organs moving in ways they never should. It felt like they’d been wrung out and shoved back inside in the wrong order. Why would he do that? Send one of his coaches away before one of his biggest fights? Most fighters had three in their corner, and Dad had the most experience of all of them. And Shane had insisted Dad come to my show instead…
He chose me. My heart swelled and swelled, until it could hardly fit in its cage. Tonight, even though he had his own huge event going on, Shane had put me and my art first in the best way he could.
“Don’t get me wrong, it pissed me off. If Liam wasn’t there…” Dad shook his head and I flinched, worried for the past version of Shane who’d stood up to my dad like that. “But he was right. I should’ve made the decision to come before he pushed me to it, and I’m glad I’m here now.”
More tears were coming, and this time Dad pulled me in for a hug. I couldn’t believe Shane had pushed him to leave a fight that big, and even more surprising, that it’d worked. Dad had…yeah, he’d actually changed, and while it might seem like a small change to someone else, it felt huge to me. It made me want to believe that maybe, just maybe anything was possible.
It also showed that Shane was thinking of me, and that he still cared, and obviously I cared about him right back. Hope rose, that foolish bitch I couldn’t fully rid myself of. Maybe he forgave me for leaving, and maybe we weren’t as totally doomed as I thought, even though I still had no idea how we could possibly make an already-complicated long-distance relationship work.
“That picture makes me think you’re in love with him,” Dad said.
I sniffed and nodded. “Probably because I am.”
He exhaled, his conflicted expression saying he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “He sounded real regretful about losing you. Even said I should learn from his mistakes. Pretty sure that means he loves you, too.”
My throat tightened to the painful point. “Even if he does, I’m not sure that means we can work things out
.”
“Now I guess it’s time to talk about my mistakes, and how you should learn from them. Winning all those fights made me brash and way too arrogant, and I got caught up in the fame. I didn’t hold on to the things that were really important, like the people who truly knew me and loved me anyway. Like your mom. I’m a big enough person to admit I screwed up, but my stubborn pride kept me from saying so for too long. My life started to feel empty. That’s why I wanted you back home. I thought you being there would just somehow fix it…”
Dad gave my shoulder a light squeeze. “But I screwed that up, too, the way I always tend to do, and I’m sorry.”
“I didn’t exactly make it easy on you.” I’d been so sure he couldn’t change that I’d thrown up my shields and taken offense to everything he’d said. Hardly the fair shot my brother asked me to give him.
“No, you didn’t,” he said, a light, teasing note in the words. “That’s because you’re my child, and I think stubborn runs in the family.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” I joked.
“You’re strong, Brooklyn. You’re a fighter through and through, make no mistake about that. If you want something, I have no doubt you’ll find a way to get it.”
His belief in me had me standing straighter and thinking about what I wanted—who I wanted—all over again.
“I promise I’ll never ask you to give up your art again, and I’m not saying that you need to come back home, but I sure do miss having you around, even with all the extra fireworks.” He punctuated his statement with a full smile, one that made his eyes crinkle.
Explosive seemed like a good way to describe our relationship, and I missed him, too, even if he made me feel like I was going to have an aneurism half the time.
“I meant what I said about you visiting more,” Dad said, “and I’ll visit, too. I want to have a better relationship with you, and I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I’m asking for one anyway.”
Love flooded my chest and helped smooth over old scars. “I’d like that. I think most everyone could use another chance at things they’ve messed up.” I sure could. More and more I was realizing how badly I’d messed up with Shane. I should’ve had more faith in him—he deserved that and then some. I leaned closer to my Dad and kept my voice low. “I need to go circulate, but could you find out if Shane’s fight has started yet, and how it’s going, and just…I’m going crazy wondering, and I’m not going to be able to focus very well until I know.”
Dad pulled out his phone, his eyes lighting up. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Fifty
Shane
The smack of wood signaled ten seconds to go, and I blinked at the blood pouring down into my eye. Damn, he got me with that elbow. I was on my back, and he was doing his damnedest to pass my guard.
Movement caught my attention, and I lifted my fists just in time for Conrad’s glove to hit mine instead of landing another head shot. I grabbed him by the back of the neck and jerked his head down onto my chest to prevent more blows. Just had to hold him for a few more seconds.
The bell rang out, ending the second round, and the ref broke us apart. My forehead throbbed, pain radiating from the still-bleeding cut on my eyebrow as I followed the sound of my coaches’ voices to my corner. Immediately Liam went to work on the gash, pushing the ice-cold eye-iron to relieve the swelling and following up with a cotton-swab soaked in epinephrine and a glob of Vaseline.
The first round I’d come out strong, swinging and landing several jabs and a big hook that might’ve ended in a win if the bell hadn’t rung and given him time to rest up.
Last round, he’d had a good takedown there at the end, one I should’ve seen coming since it was his go-to move. Then he’d thrown that elbow that split open my eyebrow. Not a great way to go into the third round, but I’d work it out.
Finn talked strategy as I sucked in what water I could and the doctor came over to check on my eye.
“It’s fine,” I said. Which I’d say even if it wasn’t. With the blood wiped away and my vision mostly clear again, I could make it through one more round. Not just make it through—I planned on winning this fight.
Brooklyn believed in me, and no way in hell was I letting her down. Knowing her, she’d take the blame and decide her message had hurt instead of helped, when it was my main reason for giving everything I had. At the end of the third and final round, I didn’t want to look back and think I could’ve done more.
Once the doctor declared me good enough to continue, my corner gave their last advice, rapid-fire style, and then I was walking to the center of the cage.
We didn’t bother to touch gloves—Conrad’s decision, not mine, although there was no love lost on this end. He started up with the trash talk right away as we circled each other, his eye slightly swollen from the punches I’d landed first round. “Couldn’t help but notice Brooklyn’s not over there cheering for you. Don’t take it too hard. That’s her thing, not showing up and then crying about it.”
I let the rage flow through my veins, a natural shot of adrenaline I’d use the instant I found the right opening. Conrad attempted to shoot on me and wrap up my legs, but unlike last round, I sprawled in time. Which also set him up for a solid knee to the face. He stumbled back, and I stepped forward and threw my left hook, putting everything I had behind it.
It was one of those punches you felt the connection and how it’d landed just right. Conrad went down hard, his body smacking the mat, limbs limp. The ref leaned over his prone form, but I wasn’t going to swing again, and Conrad wasn’t going to be getting up for several seconds.
TKO—the perfect way to end my first fight back in the cage. The crowd erupted, or more likely, the cheering finally registered. Fans were always happy about the fights with clear winners, no split decision or confusion over who won. I headed to my corner, where my coaches slapped my back and shouted their congrats, and I saw my mom coming through the crowd. I asked the boys to let her in, and she threw her arms around me.
“I knew you could do it,” she squealed.
“Wouldn’t be here without you,” I said, and she squeezed me again.
One moment blurred into the next, and then a guy shoved a microphone in my face. He asked me some basic questions, and of course the fact that I’d taken a break after “several big losses” got thrown into the mix. “How’d you come back from that?”
“Those losses were right after my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I fought some tough opponents, so I’m not taking anything away from them, but I needed to take a break. Once she kicked Cancer’s ass, I asked Team Domination to get me into fighting shape, and I have to thank them for doing exactly that so quickly, and for arranging this fight for me.”
I looked toward my corner. Brooklyn was here in spirit and all—not to mention the person responsible for putting me in the cage tonight—but I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss her and tell her that I loved her. Instead of throwing up my walls and letting her walk out of my life, I should’ve fought harder to show her that we could make it work. That together we could take on anything and everything.
The microphone was shoved in my face again, and I had no earthly idea what had been asked.
I wiped my forearm across my forehead. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to repeat that.”
“You’ve said before that Cyclone Jones is one of your idols, and now you’re fighting the same night, in the same cage. Are you looking forward to watching him take on the current belt holder?”
My gaze returned to my team. I tapped my wrist, asking for the time. After a few exchanged mime impressions, Liam figured out what I was asking and mouthed the time. I turned back to the guy with the mic. “I’m excited, and I’ll be cheering for him to win that belt tonight. But honestly, I’m going to have to catch the replay, because right now, I’ve gotta go win back my girl.”
“Did you want to give her a shout-out?” he asked with a chuckle. “Maybe that’ll help.�
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“Sure,” I said, even though she probably wasn’t listening, and it’d take more than a shout-out to win her over. It might take me weeks or even months, but I’d prove to her that the odds didn’t apply to us and that she could put her faith in me, however long it took. When you cared about someone, you stuck around and worked it out, regardless of the ups and downs, and even if that meant taking big risks and altering your definition of sticking around. So the world might as well know that she was as good as mine, and I was hers. “Brooklyn, you and I aren’t through, not by a long shot. I’m coming for you, and I’m not gonna rest until you’re mine.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Brooklyn
Thirty more minutes.
My heels echoed against the shiny hardwood floor as I paced the room. I’d sold two paintings, and someone almost bought the one of Shane, and instead of silently pleading for the woman to buy it, I’d been inwardly begging her not to. Obviously I had issues.
When Dad interrupted my conversation with her to let me know that Shane had knocked out Conrad halfway through the third round, my loud outburst of joy had drawn a lot of attention and scrunched eyebrows—some of the women had too much Botox in their foreheads to really see the scrunch, but their expressions made it clear their foreheads would scrunch if they had the ability.
Further demonstrating my point about having issues, I’d taken that as an omen that not selling the painting of Shane had brought good luck. To him and my brothers and my dad and the gym.
I stole another peek at the clock on the far wall and decided it was broken. How could only three minutes have passed since I’d last checked it? The second the long hand hit the top of the clock, I was sprinting out of here and buzzing down to San Jose. There was no way I’d get there in time for any of the fights. In fact, I’d probably get there as everyone else was racing away from the place. But I had to see Shane.
