Fighting Pride

by Jennifer Miller

  He did not just say that. “Well, I’m glad you think so because we are having dinner tonight and will do things over the next couple of days until I leave.”

  “Sounds good. My advice would be to let yourself feel whatever it is that you need to. Whatever it is that will help you take positive steps forward. Expect that you will likely have a variety of emotions over the next couple days, and allow yourself to feel them.”

  “Okay. Thank you, doctor,” I can’t help but replay with exasperation. “Do be sure to send me a bill for this phone call.”

  I can hear his sigh and almost smile, feeling a little bit of glee that I managed to irk him like he’s bothered me. He knows that this is a bone of contention between us, yet he can’t turn it off. “Tatum, I just care about you, that’s all.”

  “I know, Blaine. I know.” There’s a soft knock on the hotel door and the timing is perfect. “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” I don’t listen for a reply and press the end button on my phone. Standing from the bed, I nervously smooth the front of my shirt and then realize I’m being ridiculous. Moving quickly to the door, I open it and smile when I see Cole on the other side, also smiling.

  “Ready?” he asks me and I nod in return.

  “Yes. Let me just grab my purse.” I gesture to the door and he holds it open while I dash to the bed and grab what I need. “So, where are we headed?” I ask while we walk to the elevators.

  “You’ll see.”

  “A surprise?”

  “Yeah,” he smiles, “a little bit of the past. A good part,” he says with a smile and it warms me head to toe.

  We’re quiet on the drive to our destination; it feels awkward being together again. It’s an odd combination of comfortable and uncomfortable; it’s like your favorite flannel shirt that fit like a glove and was worn in all the perfect places all of the sudden gets shrunk in the dryer. It still feels familiar, but it’s different now.

  When we head east on the freeway, I immediately have a feeling that I know where he may be taking me. It isn’t long before we pull into the exact place I was hoping we were going. I can’t help but smile when it comes into view. I have so many memories of hanging out here and studying with Cole. They had great affordable food, but what we loved most was the atmosphere. It’s almost as if they picked up a restaurant from the Midwest and plopped it into the middle of the Arizona desert. The property has big full trees in the front and in the back, with lush grass that has to be brought in from somewhere because it’s certainly not Arizona’s dry and itchy version. I can see that picnic tables are still scattered across the property, offering plenty of room to spread out. I’m hoping the inside hasn’t changed.

  “I love Porky Q’s!” I smile and giggle a little at the name. “I’m happy that it’s still here.”

  “Me too. I haven’t been here in a long time. I thought it would be the perfect place to eat tonight.”

  Smiling, I practically bounce into the restaurant excited to eat some good food, and then feel embarrassed for my antics. Standing at the window where we place our order, Cole turns to me, “Do you want your usual? I’m sure they still have it.”

  “You remember what I liked?” He simply smiles and I nod eager to see if he’s telling the truth. When he orders us both BBQ pork sandwiches and their homemade fries, making sure to get extra BBQ sauce on the side, I know he’s not lying. I grab the number they use to track our order to our table, turn out the door, and head to find a place for us to sit. It isn’t too crowded and I snatch us an inviting table in the corner.

  Joining me on my side of the table, Cole and I spend more time looking around the large dining area than at each other. They have various award certificates, pictures and banners hanging up that weren’t here before. There’s pictures from some foodie TV show they appeared on and apparently won something on too. When our food is finally brought to our table, I can’t wait to take my first bite and when I do, I’m not disappointed my sounds of delight making that apparent. They also make Cole laugh. “What?” I ask him innocently, mouth full, and unashamed that I’m not exactly worried about my manners.

  “It’s just your moans sound a bit x-rated.”

  I roll my eyes, “I’m not moaning.”

  “You’re definitely moaning.”

  “Am not.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Remember when your mom catered in Porky Q’s for your family birthday dinner that one year?” I ask changing the subject.

  Cole smiles, and it’s a genuine smile. It’s big and full and he’s holding nothing back. It makes my heart soar and heat burst in my stomach. “We thought she was sick or something.”

  I laugh at the memory, “That’s because in her world, catering in food from somewhere else and not cooking is practically a sin.”

  “She laughed and said, ‘No, I’m not sick, boy. I will be though if I don’t figure out what in the hell they are putting on their BBQ sauce that makes it so damn good. Now take a bite and tell me what you think is in this stuff.’”

  “Yes!” I nod. “And she kept muttering to herself and taking bites.”

  “I’m pretty sure she’d be unhappy if she knew how often we used to come here,” he says.

  “Did she ever figure it out?”

  “The recipe?” He asks popping a fry into his mouth, and I nod. “Nope.”

  We both laugh and hell it feels good to be together like this. Our encounters so far have been emotionally charged, and laughing like this… well it surprises me how easy it comes. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

  He shrugs, “I’m glad we decided to do this, and to spend some time together before you leave.”

  “Me too.” We stare at each other. I wish I could read his mind right now and know what he’s thinking. His words from earlier today, ‘not everything is what it seems’ haunt me. There’s no way I can just ignore that and not try to get to the bottom of what that means. “Cole…”

  “Tell me more about art school,” he interrupts. It makes me wonder if a look on my face tipped him off about my thoughts. He used to be good at reading me.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know… everything…. anything. I know we talked about it a little bit before, but I want to know more. What was your favorite thing about it? Are you happy you went? Is the school as good as what I read? Do you-”

  “What you read?” I ask, my turn to interrupt. “What do you mean what you read?”

  He looks down and I’m not sure he’s going to answer. I watch him closely as he sighs, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and takes a drink of his soda. “I looked up information about the school, you know, back when you thought you wanted to go, before.”

  “Before? And you just happen to remember?”

  “Again with asking me if I remember things. Like I told you before, I remember everything.” His eyes stare into my own and for a split second I wonder if he’s imagining me naked. I’m embarrassed that the thought even crosses my mind. Maybe it’s the way he said ‘everything’ combined with the smirk on his face and the flash of heat I swear I saw for a second in his eyes. Pushing away my completely inappropriate thought, I take a sip of my drink as I find my mouth is suddenly dry.

  Once I compose myself, I begin talking about school. “I loved it,” I shrug. “I thought that given everything,” I gesture between the two of us, “that I would have a hard time jumping into school again. Instead, doing just that worked really well…initially. I joined anything and everything I could. My schedule was loaded. I took extra painting classes, attended all kinds of lectures, basically anything I could. I even took a couple introduction courses for photography, and don’t laugh, but I tried ceramics too.”

  “Why would I laugh?”

  “Well, I guess you wouldn’t about my taking the classes, but you’d definitely laugh at my work. I was awful at ceramics. I have a couple bowls and vases I made that are completely lopsided to prove it.”

  “I
t’s okay, we can’t all be good at everything.”

  I roll my eyes at his comment. “The problem was that while throwing myself into school worked for a little while and helped keep my mind busy, it also meant I wasn’t dealing with anything that happened. It all came to a head when an instructor told us about a new project we were starting involving live models. They were quiet about the models. There was murmuring of course about if they would be nudes, animals, or whatever. So, when a mother with her beautiful baby showed up to our classroom to say it was not what I was expecting is an understatement. I mean, seriously? Of all things, that didn’t even cross my mind.”

  I take another drink and for a moment think about how telling this story isn’t difficult. Being with him feels easier, lighter. After having our blow up at the cemetery, I think maybe we got it out of our system. Said what we needed to say. I’ve come a long way, and that feels good, really good. Coming to Arizona was definitely the right thing to do. “When they sat down in the center of the room, surrounded by students eager to paint them, they just simply lived their life – in front of all of us. She held her baby, coddled her when she cried, changed her diaper, fed her, held her close – I couldn’t look away. I kept imagining myself in her place with Hope in my arms. I couldn’t move. At the end of class I hadn’t painted a thing. My professor walked by my canvas at the end of class and questioned me. I completely broke down and became a sobbing mess.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was incredibly kind. He listened, and then gave me information for the college counselor so I could get a therapist recommendation. The good thing is that even though I was incredibly embarrassed, Professor Epstein held me accountable. He made sure I followed through with seeing the counselor.”

  “Was it the first baby you’d seen since Hope?”

  “No, not at all. I mean, you can’t go out anywhere without seeing a mother with her children, or a pregnant woman. For months I would notice them everywhere I went, as if they had shining beacons of light displaying them to my eyes. Even that was easier than having them in such a personal setting, sitting before me, silently asking me to put my artist hat on and make something beautiful from my pain.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went to the counselor after a couple reminders from my professor, then made an appointment with a therapist. I think I initially avoided it because of the hospital counselor I saw here. I felt like that person just went through the motions and didn’t really help me at all. I wish I hadn’t waited.” I pause and take a drink before continuing. “The next day, class was still tough, but somehow I managed to begin painting. I pushed through the pain and my tentative brush strokes became more and more insistent. Soon I discovered that there was healing to be found in my art. Little by little I started to get better and better. Even though I rationally knew that losing Hope wasn’t my fault, having a third party that was a professional help me understand the same thing, was life changing for me. I still struggle with it at times, but I’m better. Eventually, I didn’t have to push through my pain anymore. It just became a part of me, a part of who I am, and not in a bad way. I learned that it’s part of my story. And using that is how my pieces of Hope that you saw at the gallery came to be. I was finally able to allow myself to think of her in ways that weren’t solely painful. To imagine how she would look, what she’d be doing. It was incredibly freeing.”

  “I have to admit I was a little worried when I saw all the paintings that maybe you had just shifted your grief to your art. That you used it as the only outlet.”

  I shrug, “I did at first, how could I not? Painting is an emotional outlet; it only makes sense my grief would be tied into it for a time. Not with those pieces though, they are nothing but love and light to me. Sure, there’s a touch of sadness too, and regret, there always will be, but they are also so much more. I continued on with therapy for a while and it helped. It helped a lot.”

  “How did you end up having your own gallery show? It takes some artists years to get pieces into a gallery, let alone have their own showing.”

  “A cool requirement my school had for their painting courses was that a few times a year a local gallery in downtown Chicago partnered with our school. They would choose a theme, and we would all paint projects and submit them to the gallery. The themes were different each time - flowers, fruit, people, cities, sports, you name it. Our professors would take our finished pieces to the gallery owner and various paintings were chosen by him to be displayed. Each and every time, my painting was chosen.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing. Although, I’m not really surprised.”

  “Not only were they chosen, they were sold every time too,” I admit a little shyly.

  “That’s awesome, Tatum, but again, I’m not surprised. You’ve always been an extremely talented painter.”

  “Thank you, but I was shocked! From there I ended up finding out that the gallery owner was a friend of…a friend. My friend introduced us formally and my own showing progressed from there.”

  “Sounds like it’s a friend you’re lucky to have.”

  I hesitate, feeling uncomfortable talking about Blaine, although I’m not sure why. “Yes. Yes, lucky,” I agree but say no more.

  “Tell me about one of the pieces you painted. You said one was a sports theme. What did you choose?” He asks with a twinkle in his eyes knowing I’m not at all sports inclined. He may be sorry he asked.

  “Well, actually, it was a piece of you.”

  The smile falls off of his face, “Of me?”

  “Yes. I painted a fighter’s profile, hands taped, head bowed in concentration and with sweat on his brow as he got ready for a fight.”

  “I would have loved to see it.”

  “I have a photo somewhere, I can send it to you.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Even after everything…” I trail off not sure if I should continue. One look into his dark eyes and I forget why I was worried. “I may have been angry and hurt, but my time with you was one of the best times of my life. I always carried you with me, Cole. In here.” I tap my heart and watch as his throat moves with a hard swallow. He nods and needing to move away from this subject, I ask him a question, “You said you are still fighting with the guys. How is that going?”

  He takes a minute to shift gears, eyes still locked on mine. He blinks and looks down, shaking his head a little before returning his gaze to mine. “It’s fine. I mean, fighting is fighting.”

  “You used to love it. Do you still?”

  “There are parts of it I love. Parts of it I don’t.”

  “Do you win?”

  A smile curves his mouth, “Yeah, sometimes. I’ve learned a lot over the years, and I’m always learning from the guys too of course.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. Does Coach Gillespie still train you?” I smile at the thought. I always loved that old man and he loved all the guys like sons.

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “What? Why not? Is he okay?” Now that I think about it, he was getting up there in age before I left.

  “He’s great. Still working with Jax and the other guys sometimes. I’ve got a different coach now, and I train at a different gym.”

  “You don’t train at Jax’s gradfather’s gym anymore? Why not?”

  “I still go there as often as I can to work out and to see the guys, but my official training isn’t done there any longer. And Jax actually owns the gym now. His grandfather passed away and left the gym to him.”

  “Wow. I remember Jax’s dad being kind of an asshole. I bet that pissed him off.”

  Cole grimaces, “You have no idea.”

  “When is your next fight? Soon?”

  “I have one coming up. I’ve been training pretty hard.”

  “Is it a big pay out?” I ask being nosey and smiling, just trying to make conversation and find out more about his life.

  “It’s not too shabby. Are you finished?”

  Looki
ng down at my empty food cartons I smile and nod. “Obviously.” He laughs and takes my tray and his to the trashcan. “Ready?” he asks when he returns and I want to say no, but instead I nod. As we walk back to his car, all I can think about is how I’m not ready for the evening to end. I’m enjoying being in his company. Part of me battles with the feeling a bit, not wanting to turn it into anything that it isn’t, but his eyes are full of something I’d like to be able to define – a sadness that’s heavy and deep and it’s as if he’s just waiting for someone to care. Between that and his comment at the cemetery, I’m not ready to let go.

  “You’re quiet,” he murmurs to me eyes on the road before us.

  “Me? You’re the quiet one.”

  He smiles, a flash of white against the darkness. “Yeah, but I’m always quiet.”

  “True.”

  “How about some ice cream? I was going to get some the other night, I had a craving, but didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that happens to be the night I was handed a flyer that had your pretty face on it advertising your art show. Suddenly, seeing you seemed much more important.”

  “Wow, I rank higher than ice cream? How’s that possible?” I tease, “It’s so creamy and delicious.”

  He laughs softly and something about it makes goose bumps run up and down my arms. “If memory serves correctly, so are you Tatum, so are you.”

  “You did not just say that!” I laugh, but feel my insides heat at the same time. The car suddenly becomes stifling. His laugh rings out in the small space and I’m sure my cheeks are on fire. That’s the thing about him. He can be quiet and then all the sudden will say something that takes you completely by surprise. That’s always been his personality, and it’s nice to know that he’s being himself with me. And hearing his laugh again? It’s the best sound I’ve heard in a long time.