Lie to Me

by Chloe Cox

  “Don’t get excited,” I told her. “Pops is old.”

  “So?” she asked.

  “So I’ve never seen a woman in this gym, ever,” I said.

  “Then there’s got to be a first,” she said, looked me in the eye, and laughed a crooked little laugh. Her eyes were twinkling, I swear. One moment she’s young and scared, pretending to be tough, and then the next she does something like that, laugh up at me like she can’t wait to cause trouble, and it’s like she knows far more of the world than she lets on. First too young, because two years can be a long ass time when you’re in high school, then too damn beautiful. All the time seeing through me.

  That was my first hit of Harlow. That was the first time I saw how beautiful she really was. And I didn’t know what I was feeling, but no way in hell I was going to let any other man get at her. No way I was going to let anyone else mess with her. I was fucking mesmerized.

  I liked the idea of her learning how to defend herself, I’ll tell you that.

  “Yeah, I’ll talk to Pops,” I said. “Come on.”

  It was my fault, no doubt, opening the gate and leading her through the parking lot and in through the open double doors of the gym, feeling all of those male eyes on her and just having to take it. If I did it again, fully grown and knowing what’s what, I’d have knocked every single one of those guys the fuck out.

  But like an idiot who still believed in the men he looked up to, I actually thought Pops would help her.

  “No,” Pops said, looking at me like I was crazy, shaking his head. “No, no good.”

  Normally you didn’t argue with Pops. His gym, his rules, his way. But it was almost like I couldn’t believe he’d heard right, that’s how wrong he was.

  “Just give her a chance,” I said, looking down at Harlow. “You work hard, right? You don’t slack off.”

  “I always work hard,” she said. But her voice was softer.

  “No,” Pops said, angry now, the way he got when a fighter broke his diet or didn’t show any heart. He was shaking his head back and forth, coming out from behind the front desk, waving his arms to get us to go back outside. “What kind of girl wants to fight? Don’t bring this in here, no, no good,” he said again.

  Looking at me like he was the one who was disappointed.

  And Pops didn’t even look at Harlow. Treated her like she was invisible, not even worth talking to. I looked down at Harlow and I recognized the expression on her face, and that’s when I realized I got it. That’s how I would have looked if he’d shut the door in my face when I’d come to the gym. Pissed off and hurt and disappointed and, above all that, humiliated. Cut down.

  That’s how I felt around my dad all the damn time.

  So it’s what she did next that sold me.

  Right in the middle of that disappointment and hurt, she crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at Pops’s back as he walked away.

  Now, I know it sounds stupid. It was stupid, yeah. And it sounds juvenile, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t a serious response to a serious thing, it was like…man, I don’t know how to tell it. It was like she took this unfair bullshit and treated it with the seriousness it deserved, which was none at all. Like she took that humiliation you feel when someone treats you like less than what you are and disarmed it with just a silly face.

  That’s not something I knew how to do. She taught it to me. I didn’t know it then, but I think that’s when I started to fall in love with her.

  And then she looked at me and smiled as we walked back out, still trying to hide that disappointment. She said, “He’s never heard of feminism?”

  I wasn’t the most educated guy in the world, but I at least knew enough to laugh at that idea.

  “Maybe I should go back and burn my bra,” she said.

  I stopped and held the gate open for her, and, I admit it, I looked down. Maybe she wasn’t grown into her limbs, long arms, long legs, and all that, but damn she was grown into that chest. Jesus.

  “I’m not gonna let you do that,” I said gruffly.

  She smirked up at me. “Maybe I should go back and burn his bra.”

  For the second time that day, I smiled wide and laughed. Pops had let himself go and had grown himself some man-titties, as the other fighters called them—but never to his face.

  Then she got real serious. Softly she said, “Thank you.”

  Right then, my heart cracked open a little bit, and she got in. She got right in. And I opened my mouth and said, “I could train you. You come in the mornings, no one else is here but me, I could train you. Just don’t tell anyone.”

  And she said yes.

  ***

  That’s what I’m thinking about as I run across that bridge in the rain, my eyes locked on the back of that bus like a goddamned heat-seeking missile, refusing to lose her again, even if it’s only temporary. This is where I draw the line of screwing up, of losing Harlow, and that’s why I’m running. And I’m thinking about the first time she cracked open my heart, and then the last time, which was just a few minutes ago, when she danced in the rain with a little girl and then looked at me like she missed me. After how I left her, after what I’ve done and what I’ve failed to do, she still feels for me. My heart is broken open and filling with happiness, or the memory of happiness, for the first time in five long years. My rotten, withered, crusted over heart is warm again, and it feels good. And I know I don’t deserve it, but I don’t care: I want more.

  I yell out into the rain, glad to feel the burn in my legs and my lungs, dare my body to fail me, and run harder. I will catch her. I will.

  And when I do, she gives me the greatest gift she can in that moment: She shows me she’s still got that fight. Harlow looking me in the eye, telling me she doesn’t talk to ghosts? I’m happier than I’ve been in months. Years.

  Until I get the text from Mr. Alex Wolfe, professional ruthless bastard: “Take care of Harlow Chase. I don’t need to spell out the alternative.”

  chapter 3

  HARLOW

  Leaving Marcus on that rainy street corner is harder than it should be. Every step farther away from him feels like pushing against a current, like the whole world is screaming at me to go back, to finish this. To get some answers. I still can’t think straight; my mind just a jumble, my body aching to turn back. I have to fight the whole way.

  The worst part is that it’s physical. Being near him, thinking about him? It’s awakened something. It’s awakened memories, physical memories, and now it’s all I can do to keep walking forward away from him, with the ghost of his touch all over me. Remembering what he smelled like. What he tasted like.

  It kind of shocks me—I thought this part of my life was over. And why should this be the thing that stands out? Why don’t I think about the nights I couldn’t sleep from crying, wondering why he’d left? Or hell, why not even think about the good times, the times he was there for me emotionally? I know why, though. It’s because it’s too hard to bring those memories up. They’re too big. They’ll swallow me whole.

  I cannot deal with Marcus on an emotional level.

  But on a physical level?

  I’ve never felt like this before. Ever.

  I feel like I’m burning up, grateful for the rain, something, anything to cool me off as I force one foot in front of the other. My core is liquid heat, my body aware of every sensation, every touch of cold water, every brush of harsh fabric, all of it charged with the knowledge that Marcus Roma is nearby.

  It is beyond inappropriate. I’m relieved, in a sick, sad way, to know I can feel these things again, but really? Now?

  I mean, honestly. I’m trudging back through the rain, past the new condo developments with their glass walls and trust fund hipsters, past the developments still in construction, past the few old houses left between them like lonely baby teeth just waiting to be replaced, and I’m doing all this on my way to what is likely to be a very important meeting with Alex Wolfe.

  I cannot be turned on righ
t now. Never mind the fact that it’s kind of twisted, considering. I have to handle this.

  Alex Wolfe gave me Dill. Whatever else he did, he gave me Dill. I have to treat this with the respect it deserves.

  At least, that’s what I think happened. I was probably more surprised than anybody when Judge McPherson awarded me full custody. I’d expected to have to keep petitioning the court, building my credibility over time or something, but nope. First time. Custody of my little brother. The one thing I wanted more than anything in the world, and I was still technically a teenager. And there was Mr. Wolfe, whom I’d spoken to what—once, twice? When he’d come by to see Marcus, before Marcus left me to go work for him. Alex Wolfe, the guy I associated with Marcus leaving me, sitting right there in the front row of Dill’s custody hearing, smiling.

  Smiling.

  And then, when it was over, and I couldn’t believe what had just happened, Alex Wolfe looked right at me and winked. I went up to him, dumbfounded. All he said was, “Do a good job.”

  I knew it was him. Knew he’d somehow fixed it so that I got Dill. I didn’t ask any questions, didn’t want to know how he’d done it, didn’t want to jinx it—but I never knew why he helped me, either. I still don’t. I only know that it’s because of him that I have what’s left of my family back.

  Kind of a big debt, right?

  I never saw Mr. Wolfe around much after that. Rumor is he has real estate and construction concerns nationwide now, working as a consultant on other things, a finger in many pies. Except that now he’s back, convincing his old neighborhood to sell out to a developer. Maria already told me—Mr. Wolfe had gotten three families to sign on the dotted line in only a few weeks.

  And now I’m going to have to tell him no. The man who gave me my brother back finally wants something from me, and I’m going to have to say no.

  I’m thinking about this as I finally approach the small two-story house my parents left me when they died. When the developers started coming around, trying to buy up property, I’d put a great big “NOT FOR SALE, SUCKERS” sign in the front yard. Now I’m thinking that that was the first thing Mr. Wolfe saw.

  Well, at least I won’t have to break the news to him myself.

  I take a deep breath, try to shake off as much of the rain as possible, and open the front door.

  Maria comes rushing forward to meet me in the hall, her whole body moving in seemingly different directions under a dress layered with her favorite apron. I can hear voices coming from the living room, one of them Dill’s, the other deeper—bigger, somehow. Mr. Wolfe. And the sounds of Dill’s latest video game, sounds that I made for him. I write the music for his games.

  It’s a silly thing to be thinking about, but it bothers me, that Dill’s playing that game—our game, sort of, though really it’s Dill’s—with Alex Wolfe. I have to shake that off, too.

  “You’re soaking wet!” Maria says to me, helping me take off my leather jacket. “What happened to your umbrella?”

  “It broke,” I lie. Maria makes a clucking noise, looking up and down at my wet jeans, soaked through shoes, wet hair. She hasn’t had enough people to mother since her kids moved away. I think maybe that’s why she takes such good care of Dill and me, always volunteering to watch my brother, always bringing over leftovers, coming over to make cookies when she knows I’m working late. I don’t need the help as much anymore, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say Maria had saved us in the beginning, when I had no idea what I was doing.

  People in this neighborhood look out for each other. It’s what makes it worth saving. I learned that the day my parents died.

  “He say anything?” I ask her.

  “No, no,” she says, shaking her head. Maria wrings her hands, like she always does when she doesn’t have something to do or someone to take care of, and I know she’s anxious.

  “Ok, I’ll talk to him,” I say, slipping my shoes off, at least, so I won’t squelch all over the floor.

  “I’ll make cookies with Dill,” she says. I nod, and she’s relieved. You would think it was her house, she’s so nervous.

  I walk into the living room in my bare feet and wet clothes, running my hand through my hair, trying to be as presentable as possible. Dill and Mr. Wolfe look up at the same time, both of them hunched over the computer by the desk, the one piece of high tech gadgetry we have in the house. Dill laughs when he sees me, and Mr. Wolfe smiles.

  “You look like the creature from the black lagoon,” Dill says.

  “Har, har,” I say, and look down to see that I am dripping on the floor.

  “Harlow, it’s good to see you,” Mr. Wolfe says. “I just came by to talk. Why don’t you go change, and—”

  “No,” I say, cutting him off. “Dill, go help Maria with the cookies. Mr. Wolfe and I have to talk.”

  There’s an awkward silence, even from Dill. Mr. Wolfe is not a man who you cut off in conversation, or whom you contradict lightly. He has a definite presence. He stands up and I can see the full height of the man, tall and broad with an athlete’s build and a big shock of silver hair. And gray eyes. Cold gray eyes. He seems to fill the room.

  And he looks right at me.

  I shiver. The truth is I don’t want to go change into warm, dry clothes, because then it will be like Mr. Wolfe is here to stay a while. Like he won’t leave until he’s convinced me to do what he wants if I give him even the slightest opening.

  The only other person I’ve ever met who’s that persistent just chased me across a bridge.

  “Dill, go help Maria,” I repeat.

  I will say this for my bratty, brainiac little brother: The little man knows when things get serious, and he lets me do my thing. Probably comes from those years of being hyper aware around bitchy Aunt Jill, after our parents died and Jill had temporary custody, years I wish I could take back. Dill clears out without further protest, letting Maria fuss over him the way she does, and gives me one worried little look as he passes by.

  That’s it. That’s the look that breaks my heart and hardens it all at the same time. I never want Dill to have to worry like this, ever again.

  But what really messes with my head is the way that Alex Wolfe, Marcus’s godfather, chucks my little brother on the side of the head as he walks past. Affectionately. Familiarly. In a fatherly way.

  And Dill leans into it, smiling.

  And I think about who else Alex Wolfe has been a father to.

  ***

  I should be clear. Watching Alex Wolfe behave that way with Dill messes with me on many levels, but the thing that stands out the most is the way it makes me think about Marcus. And I guess it’s possible that just about anything would make me think about Marcus right now, but most things probably wouldn’t be as scary as this one.

  It makes me think about Marcus and fathers, mine and his both, and the morning my dad caught me sneaking out.

  You wouldn’t think it would be easy for a fifteen-year-old girl to get up at the ass crack of dawn to go train at a boxing gym, but it turns out it is actually incredibly easy to do if that fifteen-year-old girl knows she gets to train with Marcus Roma. Or at least that’s how it worked for me. And believe me, I have never been a morning person. But my alarm would go off at four thirty and I would practically shoot out of bed, full of energy and actually smiling.

  It would have been creepy if there’d been anyone around to see it. But I normally left for school before my parents were up, since the high school got an early start and my parents both worked in creative fields where everyone rolled into the office sometime after ten, and I had, um, elected not to tell them that the school lothario had volunteered to teach me to box in the mornings. Alone. Just the two of us. In a gym.

  I can’t imagine why I didn’t share that particular piece of information.

  Obviously I was rocking a massive crush on Marcus. I mean, I was aware of it. It kind of annoyed me, in a way, because it felt very schoolgirlish. And I was, technically, a schoolgirl, but I also very much wan
ted to be older, wiser. More mature.

  The girls Marcus went out with, for example: they seemed way mature, at the time. They acted like they were, anyway, going out clubbing on weekends, getting wasted, and I was too young to always spot the difference. And they had sex. There were those who had sex and those who didn’t. It was like a divided country, and Marcus and those other girls were on the other side of the wall.

  Basically I felt hopelessly inadequate, but I wanted him to like me. Not just want me, though I wanted that, too. I wanted him to…I don’t know. Approve.

  So I worked my ass off. And I did my best to ignore my silly schoolgirl crush. I decided that if I was going to have a crush on Marcus Roma, it was going to be for real reasons. Like, that we had the same thoughts about literature or something, I had no idea. But definitely not just because he was gorgeous, and not just because every other girl in school wanted him, and not just because it would make me feel special to have him look at me that way.

  Real reasons.

  Later, after the accident, after everything that happened, that felt a whole lot like tempting fate.

  Anyhow, Marcus Roma really got to me, even before the accident, and I know because of what happened the morning I got caught sneaking out in the morning by my dad.

  My dad was not amused. He didn’t entirely believe me at first. Who sneaks out to go to the gym, right? I had to show him all my workout stuff to convince him, and even then he still looked suspicious.

  “Who is this Marcus?” he demanded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the way he did when he wanted me to know he was serious. He was still in his bathrobe and the cow slippers I’d bought him for Christmas.

  “He’s a friend, Dad,” I said. I probably rolled my eyes at him obnoxiously. One of those things I wish I could take back.

  “A friend who gets up to meet you in secret at the crack of dawn?” my dad said. “A male friend?”

  “It is not like that.”