by N. Alleman
I glance over at the street signs trying to figure out where I am now. I’ve never driven this far before. I didn’t realize I’d be so tired after driving through a few states.
But emotionally I’m exhausted, and I can feel the fatigue settling into my bones. With a sigh, I wait for the light to turn green.
Raindrops ping against the window like pixies knocking at the glass. They feel as sad as I am. The sky opens up and it feels like the clouds are crying. The world is darker than usual, and I want to run away from it all.
I wipe away some of the fog forming on the windshield to clear it, and I see a playground across the street. A small family is playing there. They quickly gather their stuff and run to get out of the rain. A mother, a father, and a girl a little older than Lark.
I force my eyes away from them and back to the main road.
Pressing the accelerator I vow to keep going.
It’s been a little over three years since I was last here in this town, but everything seems so much older. I turn into the driveway of my old house, knowing that no one will look for me here.
Most importantly, Axel won’t look here. It’s best for me to be alone right now. I don’t talk about the past often, so it makes sense that people might assume I’ve moved on from it.
But I haven’t moved on from the past at all. My entire life is consumed by it.
It took a few days to get here, interrupted by stops and sleeping at rest stops. But for all the rest we’ve gotten—and by we, I mean Lark. I could hardly sleep a wink, my mind was racing the whole time, but Lark is still sleeping when we arrive.
I unfold my stiff limbs from the car, careful not to wake her. Then I open the trunk and take out our bags. We only started with one suitcase but some hurried packing at the apartment left us with a lot more.
I can’t carry them all, so I set them down on the pavement beside my feet, hoping that the rain doesn’t ruin the bottoms too much. I try to find the driest space I can, but there’s no way I can fit all those bags in my hands and close the trunk door at the same time.
Closing the trunk, I beep my keys so that the car is locked again. Lark stays asleep. She can stay in there for a second while I take some of the bags in, and then I’ll take her in next.
I walk inside and throw the bags on the floor, to the side of the entrance. I don’t look at anything else. There’s still furniture here, though, and I remember with a pang that my father paid off our debts before his death. This house belongs to us.
Desperate to escape that nagging feeling of dread that feels like it’s following me around, I run back outside to get Lark. After I unbuckle her from her car seat, I carry her into the house. She mumbles something in sleepy annoyance, but then goes right back to sleep.
That night I’m too depressed to cook. I put the food stuffs I bought away and rummage through for old take away menus we used to keep in the junk drawer. Flipping through the old, ragged papers, I finally find a Chinese takeout place I love.
And they deliver. At least, they did, when I loved them as a teenager.
I take my phone out and slide past the texts and calls there, closing my eyes so I don’t have to look at who they’re from. Then I call the restaurant, praying they’re still in business.
They are. I crumple to the floor of the kitchen, turning the lights off on my way down as I wait for the delivery boy to get here, counting every minute that passes.
Finally, after thirty minutes, I hear a ring of the doorbell. My bones cracking as I get up, and suddenly I feel one hundred years old.
I open the door and take the food from the delivery boy and give him a tip. He’s a teenager, and he doesn’t look happy either. I can relate so I give him a little more than I usually would.
Then I shut the door and call Lark down, and we dig in.
We’re moving in, trying to make the place happier. Just because I’m not cheery doesn’t mean Lark shouldn’t be, and this dusty relic is no place to raise a child—not a happy one like Lark.
“We could paint your room,” I say to Lark as she sits on the floor, trying to lift up a chair so she can dust underneath it. She’s having trouble with that, so she just takes the rag and gets to work on the chair’s legs.
She just shakes her head. She doesn’t look happy. She hasn’t in a while, but I haven’t asked her why. Part of me is afraid to.
She was delighted when I gave her my old room a few weeks ago. But the excitement has settled in, just like we have. And now no one is happy.
“Lark.” I squat down so we’re at the same height. “What’s the matter?”
She crosses her arms over her chest, ever the strong one. “Nothing.”
“Lark …” I draw her name out, waiting for her to give in and tell me, so I can comfort her, my eyes plead with hers, but she drops her gaze to the ground and breaks out in tears.
This isn’t what I was expecting, and I crawl over to her and give her a hug.
I keep asking her to tell me what’s the matter, but nothing works. When she finally speaks it’s so soft I can’t make out a word.
Minutes pass before she tries again, and I wonder if I’m doing the wrong thing teaching her how to deal with her emotions, if my heartbreak is going to bleed into her childhood and mess her up for good.
“I miss Axel,” she finally says, burying her head in my chest.
I hold her while she cries, and I feel a sob building in my chest, too. But I can’t cry. I have something that might finally make her feel better. I’ve been waiting to show her these. The first one is dated for her fourth birthday, a few months from now.
“I have something to show you,” I tell her, and then we go to the closet by the door together.
I used to keep rain boots and coats here. I will when we get into fall and winter and Lark needs those, but for now they’re still packed away. She’s getting older, growing, and she may need new ones by then. But the surprise I have for her now isn’t shoes.
It takes a while for me to find the remote to the TV, and I’m glad Dad finally decided to get a new one in my room before he passed away—or else we wouldn’t be able to watch this. I silently thank Axel’s parents for helping us out near the end, because indirectly they’re why he was able to do that, and why we’re able to watch this.
Axel left the box full of stuff under our bed in the villa, and I made sure to bring it with us.
I set the big box on the mattress next to Lark and pushed it toward her.
“Open it,” I tell her, and she looks at me in confusion before breaking out into a big smile—the kind I haven’t seen in a while.
She opens the top and stares in confusion at the envelopes and SD cards. She doesn’t know what an SD card is, so she pulls one out and starts chewing on it.
“No.” I snatch it back from her.
She gasps at me back dramatically, and asks what it is, and I explain.
I go to the TV and look for the little line to stick the card into, and then I pass the remote to Lark. I explain the buttons to her. This one is more old-fashioned than the ones she’s used to. As the menu pops up, showing all the files on there. They’re labeled, neatly.
“Introduction.”
“Stuff about me.”
“For Olive.”
When I see the one for me, my heart squeezes tight in my chest, but I bite back my emotions as best I can.
It goes on and on and Lark scrolls down through all of them, and I see that there’s a few hundred in there, at least. I wonder how he found the time to do this over the course of a few days. Lark looks at me and is about to click on one labeled “Your first Christmas.”
I shake my head at her and make her go back to the one called “introduction.”
It starts, and Axel’s beautiful face fills the screen.
He begins telling stories to Lark, and to me.
He’s looking right at us, and in that moment it’s almost like he never hurt me.
But his eyes are full of tears and his voic
e is breaking as he tries to compose himself. I try to, too, but I can’t. So I just sit by Lark and wrap my arms around her, holding her close as I cry silently.
The first video is only six minutes long. And then we click to the next one, and the next one, his voice rolling over us long into the night.
26
Axel
Just because Selena told me that Olive is gone doesn’t mean I have to accept it. I’ll look for her. I will find her. Fuck. She can’t be gone.
A rush of emotions washes over me, and I’m so conflicted.
I don’t know if it’s pain, rage, or regret flooding through me. Probably all three. And then it hits me what I’m feeling.
Heartbreak.
My heart hasn’t been broken before, not really. Not until Olive. I felt it crack the first time when she refused to see me after I left for my first match. I’d just turned eighteen, and I focused my mind on my career.
Then when I saw her that morning on the couch in her apartment and she yelled at me. My heart cracked some more. In Greece when she told me we weren’t right for each other—all those times left cracks. But now I fear the damn thing can’t take anymore.
My heart has only ever belonged to Olive. To everyone else, I put up walls. They don’t see the real me. I don’t let them.
They may catch glimpses, but they never see me the way Olive does.
I want to talk to Selena, but I don’t trust my voice right now. I wasn’t able to when I started recording those videos for Lark and Olive, and I wonder if Olive will even let her see them.
I hope she does, and I hope that she’s not upset by the way my voice sounds in them. Because that’s nothing compared to how my heart is breaking right now.
“All right,” I say, still choosing my words carefully as I step into the hallway. I need to come up with a game plan. Just because she’s not here doesn’t mean I won’t be able to find her. I need to get control of the situation. I hate not being the one with the power, but Olive takes that all away from me. She always has.
Fuck.
“Where is she?”
Selena looks past me as she speaks. “I don’t know.”
I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t.
“Selena,” I press. “Where is Olive?”
“I don’t know, Axel,” she says, finally looking at me. Her eyes are so sad, and I know she’s telling the truth.
But I accuse her of lying anyway, and I turn my back as the “I don’t believe you” spills out of my mouth so she doesn’t know I’m the one lying.
I feel her hand on my back as she tries to comfort me, but I’m out of there.
Trying desperately to not be seen as running away. Why does it feel like I’m always fucking running away?
Because that’s what I’m best at.
Also hurting the people. Especially the woman I love. That’s something I’m pretty damn good at, too.
I search everywhere in town—her favorite coffee shop, the book shops she frequents. I’m just guessing, because she and I have never been together in this city. I don’t know much about where she would go here.
Then I receive a text from Selena with a list of places Olive might go, but then right after that another text comes through that says “Olive acted like she was leaving forever. I don’t think she’s going to be shopping.”
Since I don’t know what else to do, I look anyway.
And I find nothing.
Couples sit at the outside tables in the cafés, and I wish that was me and Olive.
I know she ran away because she thinks I don’t want to be with her. That I’m already over her and whoring around with other women. But I would never do that to her.
Fuck me!
I kick a potted plant as I walk past, scowling and hating how it can still be bright and sunny outside, and people can still be happy when I’ve never been so fucking miserable.
I keep looking for her, through the night and early into the next day. My feet hurt but I keep going. I only stop when a limo pulls up to me and Coach pulls me inside, telling me to get my shit together, that there’s another match coming up, and I can’t be running myself ragged.
I don’t care.
I fall asleep as soon as I hit the bed, though. Not my bed. Back in hotels again. But Coach is in the room next door and he snores loudly, and as soon as I know he’s sound asleep, I’m out the door, looking for her again.
I search for Olive the morning after. And the morning after that. Mornings blend into nights that turn into weeks …
A month of searching, and I still don’t find her.
But I refuse to give up.
All the time away from Olive has got me more down than I can ever recall feeling. And I deal with it the only way I know how—by putting on the gloves.
That feeling of loss I have every time I think of Olive and Lark is what I use to fuel my rage, and I take it out on the punching bag.
I push myself hard. That’s easy, because I don’t give a crap about myself. Every waking moment I devote to training. It’s either, running, lifting, sparring, or working on agility. Or punching that bag.
That’s what feels the best.
Beating the shit out of that canvas monster.
I’m ready for another fight. I’m dying to hurt somebody.
Sometimes I just start hitting. Screaming, cursing, shouting as loud as I can, I throw all my weight behind my fist and slam it against the bag.
“Fuck!”
Coach rushes in from the locker room.
“Axel!” he shouts, coming up from behind me and grabbing me. I yell again. I’ve lost control and now I’m lashing out at him.
He grabs my head, and we’re both shouting. He slams me against a wall, and I go limp, not because he’s beat me, but because I know I need to calm down.
“Sorry,” I pant, but he continues to hold my arms behind my back, clutching me like I’m a threat he needs to take care of.
And I am.
A threat to myself and to people around me. That’s probably what he thinks. I’m sure it’s what everyone thinks.
“I’ll stop.”
He lets me go. I turn around to face him, and he nods at me.
“So, kid,” he stretches his arms out to his sides, “I’ve got some news for you.”
“Yeah?” I ask, visually checking him out and making sure I didn’t hurt him. I don’t think so, and I stroll back over to the bag. I raise my hands in ready position again, and I’m about to start a new round of punishment.
“Yeah, but you need to calm down first.”
I drop my hands, wondering what the hell it is. Everyone knows I’m obsessed with Olive, how upset I’ve been over her. Could this have to do with her?
“Your house is up for sale again, Axel,” he says, turning to leave. He hasn’t been putting as much attention on me as he usually has. He knows I want to be alone. I just want to fight.
Eat. Sleep. Fuckin.’ I’m an animal. I want to behave like one. Not fucking socialize, be treated like a boy. I’m a man.
“I thought you’d want to know. Don’t you have a few things the owners let you keep in the garage? Maybe you want to take a nice break. Go get them.”
I ignore his suggestion and go back to punching the back.
After a minute, he gives up and goes back into the office. I wonder if he’s already given up on me.
My parents first sold the house when I took off to go work on being a boxer. We knew the people moving in though, and gave some of the money to Olive’s family to help them out. There were special provisions, and we were able to leave a few things stored there, since they were only planning to use it as a summer place.
Coach was right. My motorcycle was in the garage down there.
Now, with somebody new coming in, I’ll have to have my bike transported somehow.
Great. Another pain in my fucking ass.
Over the next few weeks I have a couple of bouts scheduled.
I’m too focused o
n fighting to worry about my bike. I can’t think of much besides pain and punishing my opponents in the ring.
Sweat and blood consume me.
Besides that I eat.
Sleep.
Fight.
And instead of fucking some skank, I occasionally let myself think of Olive just before my head hits the pillow, and I lose consciousness.
But I only allow myself to think of her then, right before sleep. Because if I think of her at other times of the day, my mind always goes back to the night she ran away from me for the last time. And it makes me sick.
I can’t focus on that right now.
Right now I have to focus on violence. On punishing myself for being such a fuckup. And on punishing my opponent for being stupid enough to stand in my way.
The faces of the men I fight blur together. I fight them all mechanically, with a fire in my belly that comes from the kind of pain that gnaws at your gut and never quits.
I could have been a father. Instead, I settle for being an instrument of pain.
Just as long as I can deliver that pain. I’m sick to death of receiving it.
Two more fights behind me, and all the wins I’m racking up are building me a pretty spectacular record. My only loss was at the very beginning of my career. Now Barry and Coach are talking about setting up at title fight. Maybe even a deal with one of the networks to film my training sessions beforehand.
For some reason people love to watch that shit.
In the meantime, I’ve got a short gap in my schedule.
“Go, get your fucking bike, and when you come back I’ll have your next fight all arranged,” Barry says. “We’re goin’ for the title this time!”
But I hesitate. Now that I’m back in the swing of things, I’m not sure I want the downtime. That sounds like a recipe for disaster. More time alone to start moping over Olive all over again? I don’t think so. I need to keep busy. Keep training. That’s how I’ve always done it, and it’s served me well.”
