by Jessica Kate
“So when did his Rose period begin—”
“My left butt cheek lost feeling ten minutes ago, if anyone’s interested,” Jem said.
“You’re such a crybaby.” Natalie formed her lips into a mock pout.
His eyes focused on those lips, as pink as those roses she’d just mentioned and softer still.
It took a moment to realize Natalie was snapping her fingers.
“Earth to Jem.”
“What?”
“Your phone’s ringing.”
The girls smirked to each other as he grabbed for his phone. His brother’s name flashed up on the screen.
“Mike?”
“Hey, sorry, I left my phone at Dad’s and just got your message from earlier,” his brother said. “I’ve got time to chat now, if you want. Come on over.”
“Sounds great.”
He grabbed a notepad, scribbled Can you watch the kids? 1 hr and held it up in front of Natalie.
She gave him a thumbs-up, and he resisted the urge to fist pump. His big brother had just saved his numb rear. “Where do you want to meet?” Jem shifted the phone closer to catch the background noise coming through the speaker. Rhythmic, dull thuds that almost sounded like—
“I’m at Dad’s. We’re doing a few rounds in the ring. Join us?”
The words froze in Jem’s throat. Besides some awkward politeness at church each week, he hadn’t spoken to his father since Natalie’s first day on the job. He’d purchased and hung photo frames. Created an album. Even bought three cushions and a throw rug.
But he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to talk to his dad.
Still, the sooner they got a handle on this Lili thing, the better. And now that he counted back, Lili had been at his place for three weeks, and no one had mentioned her going home.
Maybe this trouble wasn’t just a boy thing.
He shut his eyes. This would not be fun. But maybe it was the nudge his spineless self needed. “Yeah, I guess I can.”
“Cool. See you soon.”
The call ended, and Lili looked at him with an unreadable expression. “You’re going to see Dad?”
“Just going to do a few rounds with him and Granddad in the boxing ring. I won’t be long.”
Natalie’s gaze flew to him at the words “boxing ring.”
Jem paused, focusing on Lili. “Do you want to come?”
She stuffed a packet of jelly beans into a bag. “No, thanks.”
“Okay.” He met Natalie’s eyes, and she gave a tiny nod.
She’d remember what Dad’s boxing ring meant.
Pure torture.
* * *
The smell of rubber and sweat smacked into Jem’s nostrils. Memories flew from the corners of his mind like disturbed bats. He trudged down his father’s basement stairs and paused four from the bottom.
Thud-thud-thud-thud. Dad never broke his rhythm as he pounded his black boxing bag in time with “We Will Rock You” blaring from the stereo. And he wouldn’t—not till the timer beeped and the three-minute round ended.
Jem gazed around the room while he waited to be acknowledged. The place had barely changed in seven years. A new boxing bag hung from the rafters, red and shiny compared to the worn black sack swinging next to it. The “ring,” a makeshift square marked by old jump ropes tied together, still dominated the back half of the underground space. Dad’s trophies lined the windowsill, next to a couple of Mike’s.
Jem peered at the sill. There were no trophies for him—he’d never won any—but a familiar child-sized glove rested next to the golden lineup. Had Dad actually gotten sentimental over—
“Jeremy, stop gawking and get down here.”
Jem stepped down the final stairs. “You couldn’t leave the door unlocked for me, Dad? I had to climb the porch and get in through my old window.”
“I’m a cop. I know better than to unlock anything.”
“Then I don’t feel bad about the foot-shaped dent in your gutter.” He relished the way Dad’s jaw ticked when he said “dent.”
A black-and-white glove flew in his direction, and he caught it against his chest. “Quit yapping and suit up.”
“Thanks, but I have enough trauma for one childhood.” He dropped the glove to the floor and looked around for his brother. “Where’s Mike? He’s the reason I’m here.”
“Coming.” The steps rattled as Mike jogged down, wrapping black material around his wrist in a practiced move. “Sorry. Had to take a call.”
Dad folded his arms and assessed Jem. Jem matched his posture and did it back. Dad’s gray T-shirt steamed—he’d probably put in a good hour’s training already. The old bulldog, built like a tree trunk, had the same muscular frame as always. A little thing like his sixtieth birthday was no reason to go soft. The only difference from seven years ago was the gray in his hair and a few wrinkles carved into his forehead.
That granite facial expression never changed. Unless Jem said something like . . .
“Nice to see you’re keeping up with the exercise. They say a few leg raises each day wards off dementia. Some five-pound arm weights should help too.” He lounged against a concrete pillar and crossed his ankles.
Dad jerked a hundred-pound barbell over his head and glared. “Why don’t you step into the ring and we’ll see who’s got dementia?”
“Nice to see you still use humor as your defense mechanism.” Mike clapped a hand on Jem’s shoulder.
He winced. What a way to undermine it. “Nice to see you still love analyzing me.”
“How’s Natalie?” Mike stretched one arm, then the other. Quads next.
Jem stayed against the pole. “Overworked. Your wife’s got her all wound up about this festival.” He wrinkled his nose a little. Could he smell . . . cigarette smoke? Just a faint whiff when Mike walked past him. But Mike had quit years ago, before he was a pastor. Six-year-old Lili had learned about the dangers of smoking and begged him to stop, and he hadn’t smoked since.
The smell faded. Must’ve been imagining things.
The smile drained from Mike’s face. “That’s Steph for you.” He moved toward the boxing ring. “What brings you here? How’s Lili?”
Jem picked the glove up from the ground, tossed it into the corner, and grabbed a couple of catching mitts from a steel trunk full of equipment. Maybe a light workout would help ease the tension tightening his muscles. The strain increased every time Dad looked at him. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Dad dropped his barbell to the ground. “She’s too much for you to handle?”
What was it about Dad’s voice that made Jem feel like he was tied to the ring ropes, open to every blow that came his way?
He tightened his grip on the mitts. He wasn’t fourteen anymore. He didn’t have to prove himself. “She’s fine, Dad. She’s just a little quiet. I wanted to do some recon before I go poking around a woman’s emotions.”
Dad shrugged.
Jem ducked beneath the sagging rope and jammed the mitts on. He clapped them together, and the sound whipped through the air. “Jab, cross.”
Mike punched his right hand, then left. Jem brought the mitts down to meet each fist, every blow sending a snap through the room.
“Jab, cross, hook, cross.”
Mike pivoted his torso with the hook, and the impact knocked Jem back a step. Jem grinned. He’d thrown down the gloves as a seventeen-year-old after Dad criticized his technique one too many times. But he’d taken them up again when he moved to Chicago—and gotten pretty good at it.
His pulse quickened to the tempo of a Bruce Springsteen classic, and he shoved his right foot forward, strengthening his stance. “So, do you have any insights?” He raised his hands again, and Mike repeated the combination of punches.
“Into Lili? Ah—how is Grace doing? Those two were always joined at the hip.”
“Grace moved to North Carolina last week, so that might be it. Lili’s also hung out with Nick Kent a few times.”
“Was that when I p
icked her up?” Dad slung his arms over the ropes. “Shift your feet, Jem. You’re not stuck in the mud.”
Jem bounced on his toes as sweat stung his paper cuts. But if he whined about paper cuts in the boxing ring, he’d never hear the end of it.
“Yes, that was then. Jab, cross, hook, cross, uppercut, slip.” He rattled the combination off without a thought. It’d been cemented into his subconscious.
“She was crying,” Dad said.
“What?” Jem dropped his mitts and Mike smacked him in the eye. Pain splintered across his eye socket. “Hey!”
“Whoops.”
“Don’t apologize.” The coach’s tone was back in Dad’s voice. “Don’t drop your guard, Jem. Why didn’t you notice Lili that night?”
He ground his molars and raised the mitts again. Mike was Lili’s father. Why was Jem getting the third degree? “I had Nat on the phone when she came in. A pipe burst and flooded her apartment.”
Dad grunted. The short sound translated into so much. Typical. Weak. Unfocused. Not trying.
Jem threw down the mitts. A light workout just wasn’t gonna cut it. “You know what? I’m in the mood to spar.”
His jeans pulled tight as he climbed out of the ropes. He really wasn’t dressed for this. And he hadn’t entered a ring in the ten months since Olly had been born. But tell that to the vein he felt popping out of his forehead.
Jem rummaged through the trunk and pulled two faded red gloves from the bottom of the pile. His old faithfuls. A crusty set of headgear completed the ensemble.
“Mouth guard?” Mike bounced on his toes and shadow punched.
“Don’t have one. Don’t need it.”
The brothers tapped fists and circled. Jem feinted left, ducked Mike’s cross, and delivered an uppercut to the ribs. Tempering the blow at the last moment, he hit him enough to hurt but not enough to wind him.
“Ooof!”
Jem bounced out of reach and grinned. “Gotcha.”
Mike sucked in a breath. “Lucky punch.”
“Got anything else you want to tell me before your pretty face is black and blue?”
The corner of Dad’s mouth lifted. Jem’s chest puffed out, just a little.
Smack.
A jab to the eye socket snapped Jem’s head back, and he staggered against the ropes. The headgear protected him from any real damage, but it still didn’t tickle.
“Gotcha.”
Jem shook off the stars and resumed his stance. “It’s on, big brother.”
“I play the winner,” Dad said, his tone full of challenge.
The warning voice in the back of Jem’s mind shouted louder. If he took on Dad, nothing good could happen.
He shut the voice up with a jab to Mike’s jaw.
His brother slipped the punch and grinned. “You can take a dive now, Jem. I know you don’t want to face Dad.”
Jem swung again, connected with Mike’s ribs. “That’s the only way you’d win.”
The two ducked and weaved, but neither landed anything for a long minute.
Dad shifted his stance and covered a yawn, and Jem clocked Mike’s chin with a fast left hook.
The timer buzzed, and Jem leaned against the cement pillar behind him. Pulling in deep breaths, he tried to not look like he was panting.
Mike rubbed his chin. “Someone’s been practicing.”
“Chicago. Before Olly.”
Mike nodded, but his eyes focused somewhere around Jem’s left knee. Finally, he looked up. “The truth is Steph and I are going through a rough patch.”
Jem absorbed the information, tapping his glove against his thigh. So that’s why Lili had been at his place three weeks and no one had mentioned her going home. He’d begun to suspect something was amiss between Mike and Steph, but actually hearing it saddened him more than he expected. “You think that’s why Lili . . .”
“Probably. She’s been avoiding me. Then she finally asked me out for ice cream, and I was stuck in a meeting. I don’t think she trusts that I’m trying to fix this.”
Jem dragged his glove over his forehead, and it came away shiny. He stole a glance at Dad, still stone-faced at the ropes. “How rough are we talking?” He sent up a fast prayer that Dad wouldn’t turn into Judgey McPerfect Marriage.
Mike shrugged. “I’m trying to convince Steph to see a marriage counselor.”
Jem winced. Saying the word counselor in front of Dad was like entering the ring with one hand taped to the top of your head.
“That’s good.”
Jem jolted, then turned to stare at his father.
Dad cleared his throat. “It’s a good idea to get counseling. Before things get out of hand.”
Wow. Was this one of those dreams where he was in a Men in Black movie? Had aliens taken over his father?
Mike shook his head. “She won’t go. She’s worried what the church will think if they see their pastors can’t even hold a marriage together.”
“That’s bull.” Dad looked ready to knock the lights out of any parishioner who dared disagree.
Muscles finally sated with oxygen, Jem stood up straight. Here was a sentence he’d never thought he’d say: “I agree with Dad.”
Both other men snapped their attention to him. Obviously he wasn’t the only one who never expected to hear those words.
He gestured in the direction of home. “Think of Lili. Family comes first.”
Mike looked between them. “Even though I agree, that’s a bit rich coming from you two.” He turned to Dad. “Is Oliver going to grow up with his grandfather ten blocks away and never know him?”
Jem looked to Dad. This would be interesting.
Dad shifted on his feet. “Lili sends me photos.”
Unbelievable. Of course he’d think that was enough. Jem barked a short laugh. “Believe it or not, Dad, kids need actual affection.”
Dad’s tone took on that I’m-right-and-you’re-ungrateful quality he’d perfected. “I gave you affection.”
“A hook to the ribs is not affection.”
“I gave you time.” Dad rose to his full height and glowered, even though Jem still outstripped him by a good three inches. “That’s more than my father ever gave me. And if I was harsh, it’s because I needed to straighten you out.”
Jem rolled his eyes. “If you were harsh?”
The buzzer sounded, signaling the next round. Saved by the bell.
Mike bowed out of the ring and Dad stepped in.
Jem slapped his gloves together. He could do this. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He was a man.
A man who’d picked a fight he probably couldn’t win, just because Dad goaded him.
The CD in the stereo switched to Blur’s “Song 2.” Mike fist-pumped in sync.
Jem and Dad circled each other. Jem stayed light on his toes. I can do this. He’s got power, but I’ve got reach and speed.
Dad threw a left jab, and Jem slipped the punch. Blocked two right hooks. Ducked a haymaker that could’ve knocked him flat.
If he got hurt without his mouth guard, Natalie would kill him.
Jem came up from the duck with a rip to Dad’s diaphragm and two quick jabs to the head.
Dad fell back a step, then raised his gloves and spit on the floor.
Jem grinned. All that training would be worth it if he bested Dad in the ring.
A duck and two quick slips. Dad couldn’t land a punch. Jem hit him with a quick one-two and drew his arm back for a right hook.
A sledgehammer slammed into his right ear. The force threw his head sideways—straight into the concrete pillar. His teeth crunched into his tongue, and he slid to the ground. His mouth flamed like he’d gulped boiling coffee and couldn’t spit it out. Propped up in a semi-seated position by the pillar, he let out a deep groan.
“Jem?” Meaty hands touched his chin and the back of his head. The world shifted, and the grooves on Dad’s face deepened to canyons. “Michael, get me some ice.”
A clatter sounded from the stairs, presu
mably Mike off to do Dad’s bidding.
Dad squatted before Jem and held up several fingers. “How many?”
“Fwee,” Jem spit a mouthful of blood and ripped the Velcro loose on his gloves.
“Show me your mouth. You didn’t loosen a tooth, did you?”
Jem ran a finger across his teeth. The pain radiated from his tongue, not his gums. “Nuh.”
“Bite it clean through?”
“I-uh-o.”
“Stick it out.”
Jem did, and blood dripped to the floor.
Dad snagged a clean towel from the corner and offered Jem the edge. “Put pressure on it. I don’t think it went right through.” A grin cracked across his features. “Looks like Chicago’s not quite as tough as the old man.”
Jem bit down on the towel. The ringing in his head eased, and the tunnel vision cleared. He’d had one or two harder knocks before, enough to know he wasn’t seriously hurt. But few of those blows had been followed by concrete to the face.
Mike returned with a handful of ice wrapped in a tea towel. Jem leaned back against the pillar and shoved the ice between his head and shoulder.
Dad clapped him on the shoulder and stood. “I hope you can parent better than you can take a blow.”
Jem glared at him from his spot on the ground. From his tone, it was hard to tell if Dad was joking or not.
“I’ll give you a chance to prove it.” Dad wandered a few steps away and stripped the faded red wraps from his hands as he spoke. “Dinner, Friday next week. Your place.” He turned to Mike. “Get your keys. I’ll drive Jem and his car home. You’ll need to pick me up.” He gave Jem a lopsided smile. “Natalie can deal with him.”
Jem groaned and rested his head against the pillar. He’d rather pull the gloves on again.
But when Dad delivered him back to the apartment, Natalie met them at the door with a mumbled sentence about Oliver sleeping and her laptop charger being at home. She was gone so fast she didn’t appear to see the bruise he felt forming on his jaw, nor raise her eyebrows at the presence of his father.
Even Dad took note, turning to watch her swinging ponytail disappear out the door as he pulled fresh ice from the freezer for Jem. “I was genuinely scared of facing her . . . but she didn’t even notice.” His tone sounded like that of a man saved from the noose.
