by Naomi Niles
“She probably put a lot of time and work into it,” Randy pointed out.
“I realize that now. But at the time, I couldn’t see it. All I saw was the finished product, and not the hours of sweat and pain that went into it.”
“Well, I think all children eventually come to that realization about their parents: that they broke their backs every day of their life. Honestly, if we knew ahead of time what goes into having a family and raising kids, I don’t know if anyone would do it.”
I gave him a shrewd look. “Is that why you never had kids?”
Randy shook his head, wiping his mouth with a snow-white cloth. “No, Joy and I wanted kids. We wanted them desperately. I was well-enough off that we could have brought them up in comfort. But life never seems to go the way that you planned.” In a quieter voice, he added, “Can I tell you something?”
“Yes, please.”
“Today is the third anniversary of her death. She’s been gone almost as long as we were married.”
I sat there in silence for a minute, stunned by the gravity of the disclosure. Randy, meanwhile, went on quietly eating his pancakes.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally, “I had no idea. Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. The pain never leaves you, especially on days like today. But over time, you find ways of managing. She always wanted to come to Vegas, but between one thing and another, we never got the chance.”
“She sounds like a lovely woman.”
“She was,” said Randy. “The loveliest.”
He paid for our meal, and we took a cab back to the hotel. It was one of those scorching spring days where the temperature climbs into the nineties and waves seem to be rippling off the desert sands. Randy sat staring out the window at the Strip, his mouth creased into a frown.
If we had been drinking, I might have told him that I had also lost someone; that while I could never know the agony of losing a spouse, I knew something of the pain of losing a lover and best friend. For a moment as we sat in the car, I was tempted to lean over and reveal all. But then we pulled up to the curb, and the moment passed. We climbed out, and I thought no more about it for the rest of the day.
Chapter Thirteen
Braxton
“I really wouldn’t worry about it,” said Nick as we stood backstage. We had about an hour before the fight, but the auditorium was already beginning to fill up. “She probably didn’t even see us.”
“We were the only two people in the hall,” I reminded him. “We would be hard to miss.”
“Sometimes people aren’t paying attention because they have other things on their minds. Sometimes you walk right past them and say hello, and they don’t hear you because you don’t talk loud enough. I never thought I’d be telling you this, but you need to be firm and aggressive.”
“I am, just—not when it comes to women.”
We’d been arguing about the snub for most of the afternoon. I might have let it go by now if I hadn’t made the mistake of mentioning it to Nick when we were out by the pool. Insisting that I had caught her at a bad time, he encouraged me to try hitting on another girl. “Just smile at somebody if you’re feeling too shy to say hello.”
So I had. But the girls either rolled their eyes, or glared in disgust, or said, “Eww!” and walked away.
“Okay, well I don’t know what the deal is with these girls,” said Nick after our fifth attempt. “Maybe it’s Vegas.”
“You’d think somebody with a body like mine wouldn’t have trouble picking up girls,” I replied, my eyes on the departing figure of a woman in a bikini. “Do I have something stuck in my teeth?”
Nick shook his head. “I think your problem is that you’ve lost confidence. Remember the other week when we were out at the bar, and you picked up that girl?”
It took me a second to remember who he was talking about. I hadn’t thought about that girl since the night she left my house. She still hadn’t come back by to claim her panties.
“Yeah, that was effortless.” I put on another layer of sunscreen. “I never had a problem picking up girls in Boulder.”
“See, that’s what I’m saying. I think this girl has gotten into your head.”
“Which girl?”
“The one you won’t shut up about. The OG snub.”
“Ah, yes.” I raised a hand over my eyes to shield them from the intense heat. “It was rather mean of her to ignore me like that.”
Nick dipped a toe into the pool. Apparently finding the water to his liking, he waded slowly in until his trunks billowed around him. “My dad once gave me some advice that I’ve never forgotten. He said: ‘If a man charges forward with confidence, he will be irresistible to women.’ A healthy sense of one’s own worth is far sexier than muscles.”
Nick seemed to hope this would motivate me; but as we stood together in the green room that night, I continued to nurse my bruised ego.
“Do you think if I complained to her boss,” I asked, “he could talk some sense into her?”
“The funny thing is, I don’t think you even give two shits about this girl,” said Nick, a white towel slung over his shoulder. “If she’d come over and invited us out to breakfast, you’d have said no and forgotten about it.”
“Weird how you never give a second thought to someone,” I said sadly, “until they snub you.”
Just then we heard the creak of a door and Bruce came walking up, shirtless and smiling. I only felt a brief twinge of envy as he motioned toward the now rapidly filling auditorium.
“That’s gotta be the largest crowd I’ve ever seen for an MMA fight,” he said, his eyes bright. “I really need to get out of Boulder more often.”
“I’m telling you!” shouted Nick over the roar of the crowd. “It’s like a rock concert. If you win this match, you can have your pick of any girl here.”
I beamed at the thought. Next week I would have my chance, and then all the girls who had snubbed me today would be begging forgiveness. When I went out to the pool, they would remove their tops, hoping for a moment of my attention, but I would look away. The president’s assistant would greet me in the hall, and I would ignore her.
I was awoken out of these pleasant visions by Coach, who had just come walking toward us. “You ready for this?” he asked us.
Bruce nodded eagerly, Nick and I with varying degrees of hesitation. “I feel like Bruce has been preparing for this moment his whole life,” said Nick. “Look at him; he’s so ready!”
Bruce smiled a shy smile. “So when do we go out there?”
“In approximately two minutes. When the music starts, I need the two of you to lead him out there. Don’t be afraid to play to the audience. I want you to herald him the way you would herald a king. You are his John the Baptist, so to speak.”
He left. When The Killers song “The Man” started playing, we ushered Bruce out of the green room and onto the walkway, intoxicated by the sight of the crowd. In the first row, about a dozen teenage girls stood pressed together, their arms raised high as though hoping to touch us. One of them tore off her sleeveless blouse and threw it up onto the stage, where it landed near Bruce’s feet as he walked past.
“Remember, you’ve already done the hard part!” shouted Nick, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve worked so hard for this, and you’re more than ready.”
“Yeah, and don’t put too much pressure on yourself,” I added. “Even if you lose the match tonight, you won’t die hopefully.”
But I had reason to be cautious when we saw his opponent, a mustachioed bruiser with dreads who bore a passing resemblance to Khal Drogo from Game of Thrones. He wore blue spandex, a gaudy oversized golden belt buckle, and kohl eyeliner. When he walked into the octagon and the referee introduced him, half the crowd erupted in cheers, while the other half booed and jeered. Seizing the microphone, he bellowed, “My name is Luther Van Bones, and I am about to smoosh your bones!”
Nick and I glanced at each other, perple
xed.
“What do you suppose are the chances that Luther Van Bones is his real name?” asked Nick.
“What do you suppose are the chances he’ll smoosh me?”
The fight started, and the crowd held its breath, watching. Bruce and Bones regarded each other warily from their respective corners.
Coach came over and stood next to me. “Now aren’t you glad you waited until next week?” he said loudly.
“A little bit. This Bones guy could snap me in half like a wishbone!”
“You’d have been fine!” said Coach with a laugh. “Don’t let his size terrify you. He’s really an old teddy bear at heart.” He added in a quieter voice, “I probably should’ve told Bruce that.”
Yet in spite of Bones’ fearsome size and intimidating manner, Bruce acquitted himself capably in the first round. Knowing that he couldn’t defeat his opponent through sheer strength, he adopted a strategy of slowly wearing him out by hovering just a few steps out of reach, only making the occasional jab. Fleet of foot and surprisingly agile, Bruce managed to elude him for the most part.
“I can tell Bones is getting mad,” said Nick at the end of the first end. Bones stalked back and forth like a lion as though looking for something to throw. “Bruce has done pissed him off now.”
“At one point he came bearing down on Bruce like Darth Vader with a light saber. Did you see that?” Nick nodded, eyes wide. “For a moment, I thought that was the end of our old friend, Bruce.”
“RIP Bruce,” said Nick.
Meanwhile, Coach and Bruce stood a few feet away, quietly discussing their strategy for the next round.
“Now you want to be careful,” Coach said, “because if you try to evade him too much, the judges may count it against you. You stayed pretty engaged in this round, but you want to make sure you don’t give off the impression of being scared of him.”
“Right, so how do we win?” Bruce asked.
“You need to meet him on his own turf. He’s a wrestler, so you wrestle him. It’s as simple as that.”
“But—”
But just then the bell rang, and they were back in the octagon. Bones made a series of feints designed to scare Bruce, who for the first time in the game looked genuinely nervous. Pale-faced and sweaty, he lowered his gloves, waiting for an opportunity to lunge forward and tackle his opponent by the waist.
“Oof. I can already tell this isn’t going to be pretty,” said Nick, nervously untwisting the lid on a water bottle.
I was afraid to watch and yet I couldn’t bring myself to look away. Nick winced in horror as Bruce attempted a running tackle and was knocked flat. “I suppose one of us will have to call his mom tonight and tell her he didn’t make it,” I said sadly as Bones began to pummel him senseless, a malicious leer on his face.
At least it was over quickly. The moment the round ended, Coach and the referee ran into the octagon and helped the aching Bruce to his feet. Bones, meanwhile, trotted in a circle around the octagon with his hands in the air, shouting, “YOU BEEN SMOOSHED BY THE BONES!” to the delight of the crowd.
I knew if I didn’t intervene soon, the game would be lost. When Coach took Nick aside, I saw my chance.
I knelt down beside him and placed a hand on his arm. “Listen,” I said in an urgent tone. “I want you to forget everything Coach just told you.”
“Okay?” said Bruce, looking baffled.
“In fact, I want you to do the opposite of that. Bones is a wrestler, and if you wrestle him, you’re only playing to his strengths. What are you best at?”
He didn’t even have to think about it. “Boxing.”
“Yes. I want you to get in there, and I want you to box his face in, you got it?”
Bruce smiled uneasily. “Yeah, I got it. Thanks.” He stood up and began to stretch.
Within another few minutes, the third round began. This time Bruce fared better. Following my advice, he refused to be drawn into wrestling with Bones even when Coach shouted at him from the sidelines in exasperation. Although Bones had already proved his physical superiority, Bruce was persistent and light on his feet; he started punching early and never let up.
Nick, whose knuckles were white from gripping the top of a folding chair, began to relax. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “I think our boy could actually win this.”
“I think he will win it,” I replied, beaming with pride. “He always had it in him; he just didn’t know it.”
Right as I said this, Bruce landed a punch to the jaw, delivering a knockout blow. Luther Van Bones twirled and fell to the ground like a figure in a cartoon.
When the fight had started, the crowd didn’t seem to know who to cheer for. But by now they had decisively sided with Bruce, the underdog to Bones’ heel. As he raised his arms in the air and roared in delight, they rose to their feet in adulation.
“DID YOU SEE THAT?” shouted Nick, unable to contain his excitement. “THE SMOOSHER HAS BEEN SMOOSHED!”
“How does it feel?” I exclaimed, making an air guitar motion with my hands.
Together, we climbed into the octagon and ran to his side.
Whatever feelings of inadequacy I had been grappling with earlier were forgotten now in the glow of our shared triumph. As we stood together shoulder to shoulder in the glare of the lights, I felt a surge of confidence that warmed my insides like strong liquor. Everywhere, hands were raised, and women gave us admiring glances. One held up a sign that said, in bold red letters, “WE LOVE YOU, BRUCE.”
As my eyes scanned the room, I was surprised to see the girl from earlier, the president’s assistant. She was looking right at me—had been following me with her eyes even before I noticed her in the crowd. I winked at her. Momentarily startled, she blushed and looked away, pulling out her phone as though hoping to distract herself.
It was the only thing that could have made the moment more perfect. She could try to snub me all she wanted, but here I was in her face, projected on a TV screen the size of a small house. At the end of the day, I was the one onstage in front of thousands, and she couldn’t ignore me even if she wanted to.
Chapter Fourteen
Jaimie
Hoping to beat the crowd out of the auditorium, I left shortly after the fight ended. I couldn’t believe Braxton had winked at me as he stood onstage in front of the TV cameras. It was such a dorky thing to do, the sort of thing you might do on impulse and then regret as soon as it happened. He looked so smug about it, though. What a dope.
Leaving the building, I emerged into an Italian-style courtyard with marble statues and white fountains. It was a joy to be outside again for a few minutes breathing in the night air. After about an hour in a crowded room, I began feeling anxious and tired and instinctively looked for the exits. The fight had gone on for too long, and now I was in desperate need of a drink.
As soon as I reached my room, I called Ren.
“Do you ever just feel like you’re cursed?” I asked her.
“Nope.” I could hear the insistent meowing of a cat in the background. “Why, do you?”
“I think I might be, because I would love nothing more than to be sitting at home writing, and that’s the one thing I can never do.”
“Perhaps Randy is a minor demon, and he’s torturing you by constantly making you travel places.” She stifled a yawn. “I suppose there’s only one real way to find out.”
“What’s that?”
“The next time he invites you to Chattanooga or wherever, tell him you can’t go. Then if he turns into a flaming six-eyed monstrosity with wings before and behind, you’ll know.”
“Perfect. Hey, you’ll never guess what happened tonight.” I told her about how Braxton had winked at me in front of everyone at the end of the fight.
“You’re excited about a wink?” asked Ren, a note of concern in her voice. “Is that the only interaction you’ve had with him this weekend?”
“Yeah, this is the first I’ve seen of him. I didn’t even know he was here until he sh
owed up on the big TV.”
“So he still hasn’t given you the D?” Ren clucked her tongue. “Shame.”
I stifled a laugh. “You know, I might think you were serious if you had ever gotten the D in your life.”
“Well, I’m a writer. I demand solitude and seclusion like a witch in the forest, and having a boy in my life could make that more difficult.”
“Or, it could inspire your writing to new heights!” I said with perhaps too much enthusiasm.
“Yeah, maybe, but I think mostly it would just be a distraction,” said Ren. “That’s why I have to live vicariously through you, and I insist that you bone him posthaste.”
“I don’t know if I should be insulted that you apparently think so little of me.”
“Is he not worth boning?” Ren replied.
“I couldn’t honestly tell you.”
“Well, you must have an opinion.”
I picked up one of those miniature bottles of shampoo off the rim of the sink and turned it over absently. “First of all, he’s like nineteen. So, literally a teenager.”
“Still legal,” Ren pointed out.
“I know, but still… ick.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three, as you know very well.”
“That’s only a four-year age difference.”
“Literally a teenager,” I said again, clapping between each word for emphasis. “Not only that, but he’s an MMA guy. I know better than to date MMA guys.”
“Jaimie, my doll, boon companion of my heart, there is a world of difference between dating and boning.”
“I’m listening.”
“You don’t have to date someone to bone them,” she explained. “Even I know this.”
“True, but doesn’t it usually mean more if you actually know the person and have a loving and intimate relationship? I seem to recall you telling me this when I asked why you had never slept with anyone.”
“We’re not talking about me, dear.”
