One Night

by A. J. Pine

  He says this to me, but the words are more for himself, a reminder of his reality. Maybe there’s not so much distance between someone like him and someone like me.

  I stand up, my empty coffee mug in hand.

  “I’m going for a refill. How ’bout I grab you a cup? It’s on me.”

  “Thought you’d never ask. I didn’t want to have to call your bluff with the whole coffee carrying/crutches thing.”

  The smile and confidence are back, for him at least.

  It’s coffee, in the hospital, where I am technically his PT, even if I am just an undergrad intern. That’s all it is. I don’t care if he wants to buy me free coffee or if what he admitted somehow connects us in a shared experience of loss. And I’m going to ignore that it’s pretty damn adorable how his dark hair flips up, ever so slightly, where it reaches just past his ears. I don’t care about these things.

  “How do you take yours?” I ask.

  “Straight from the pot. Black.”

  He shifts again in the seat, and I know he’d be more comfortable anywhere but here, yet he stays.

  “Thanks, Jess.”

  Fuck. As if I needed another sign to run as far from him as possible. I pour his coffee, straight from the pot, and make myself a promise that whatever this is, it goes no further than the hospital cafeteria. Not that I care.

  4

  My weekend is spent in the study cave. I stay away from the hospital in an attempt to avoid distraction, but all studying at home does is make me think of why I don’t want to study at the hospital. In other words, I’m totally distracted.

  Still folded on my desk is the neon green flyer from the PT lab. I haven’t looked at it since.

  If there’s a class offered today, I tell myself, I’ll go. I can’t focus on school and have nothing better to do, so I take a breath and open the flyer.

  Classes take place four days a week, Thursday through Sunday. Well, I guess I’m in luck. It’s Saturday, and today’s class starts at three o’clock. I can make it if I leave now.

  Zoe is gone most of the weekend. Come to think of it, I’m not really sure where she is. Despite our new connection over campy vampires, I don’t think I know what her major is, let alone how she spends her weekends. I wasn’t always a shit friend. But I never intended Zoe to take an interest in me, so I never took one in her. I make a mental note to ask her something about herself the next time I see her.

  When I get to the hospital’s fitness center, I make it far enough inside to stand outside the door of the room where the class is held. What was I thinking? Apparently I wasn’t. Though physical activity and I are no longer well acquainted, I know I should have changed out of my jeans or at least brought with me more workout-friendly attire. I’m about to head back the way I came when I hear a familiar voice.

  “Jess?”

  I turn so I’m face-to-face with Tracy. Instead of scrubs, the only clothes I’ve ever seen her in, she sports a fitted white tank and a replica pair of Easton’s green and white basketball shorts. She grips the strings of the boxing gloves hanging over her small shoulder. I’ve always known Tracy was fit, but the muscle definition in her shoulders and upper arms has stayed well hidden. She must be a class regular.

  “Tracy. Hi. Yeah, I was just leaving.” Or, I would be leaving if this petite wall of muscle wasn’t blocking my way.

  “Why?” she asks, her expression taunting, as if I wasn’t scared of her already.

  I wipe my palms on my jeans. “What do you mean, why?”

  She pulls the gloves from her shoulder and starts to untie them.

  “I saw the flyer in your back pocket the other day, and now you’re here. You’re interested in my class, so why were you just leaving?”

  My eyes widen. She knows I stole the flyer? Her class?

  Her stony gaze breaks into an unexpected smile, and she nudges me toward the door.

  “Don’t worry. I was nervous the first time I tried it too, but you’ll love it.”

  I don’t argue, because it’s Tracy.

  Backing into the room, I turn to find it lined with long, black, cylindrical punching bags. There are only ten, since the room isn’t huge, but the view is both impressive and disconcerting. I so don’t belong here.

  “You’re lucky it’s the first class of the day,” Tracy says as she heads to a large metal cabinet in the corner of the room. “The gloves are fresh.”

  She hands me a pair, and I hold them as if she’s handed me a pile of dirty laundry.

  “Don’t worry,” she assures me. “It’s like bowling shoes. We spray them. They’re clean . . . ish.”

  I try to hand the gloves back to her. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m not even dressed for this. I don’t know why I’m even here.”

  If she would just take the gloves from my outstretched hands, I could leave. But she doesn’t take them. She won’t take them, despite my evident need for her to do so.

  “Look, Jess. You’re here.” Her voice is even, almost soothing as she pushes my arms back toward me. “The class is still new, so I’m not expecting a huge turnout. So far we haven’t had more than five at a time. We’ll take it slow. I’ll show you a couple of basic moves, and if you don’t like it, you can leave. Sound like a plan?”

  I drop my arms, my admission of defeat.

  “Just lose the hoodie, because your hands aren’t the only things that will sweat like a waterfall.”

  Ew, I think. But I do as she says. The T-shirt and jeans will have to do.

  My gloves Velcro rather than lace like Tracy’s. Pulling them on is easy, but I feel more out of place once I’m wearing them. Three other people show up as I stand by a bag, waiting. All three walk to the closet and pull out gloves. Great, I’m the only newbie.

  Two of them are girls, I’m guessing freshmen by their obvious display of the Greek alphabet on their tanks. The other is a guy. He’s blond and built and looks familiar. Maybe he’s in one of my classes, but I can’t place him.

  All three stand by a bag, but none of them wear the gloves. Instead they lay them on the ground.

  “All right, everyone,” Tracy calls as she heads over to us. “As always, we’ll start with some stretching and breathing before we hit the bag.”

  Duh, I think, rolling my eyes at myself. My own mother teaches Pilates. I shouldn’t flake on the stretching.

  “Jess, come on up to the front with everyone else. There are only four of you, and as much as I love the sound of my own voice, I don’t want to shout if I don’t have to.”

  So much for hiding. I trudge up to the front, reluctance rolling off me like the beads of sweat will be soon.

  “Before we start, I’d like you all to meet Jess.”

  I wave my giant red hand. The heat spreads up my neck to my cheeks, and I peel off the gloves, already warm with my own perspiration, as Tracy continues.

  “Jess interns at the hospital in the PT department. Jess, this is Lindsey, Becca, and Zach, all students here at Easton.”

  Lindsey and Becca wave, in unison, and then totally start laughing because they waved in unison. I’m gonna vom.

  “Hey,” Zach says along with a singular nod. I’m positive I’ve never met him, but I can’t shake that I know him. He makes no indication of knowing me, so I chalk it up to nerves. It’s not like I want anyone I know watching my first attempt at whatever it is I’m about to do.

  After fifteen minutes of stretching, we get the go-ahead to put on the gloves.

  “Zach, Lindsey, and Becca, why don’t you three work on the combo we did on Thursday, the jab and right cross. Go one at a time. Watch each other. Critique each other. I’m going to get Jess up to speed, and then we’ll learn a new combo together.”

  I’ve been the new kid in class before, but it’s never felt like this. The intimacy of the group makes me feel more on display than I already am.

  “I’m glad you came,” Tracy says as she approaches my bag. “I bet this will be good for you.”

  I’m not sure wha
t she means by that. All I know is I want to get through this without looking like too much of an asshole. And then I’m never coming back.

  All I say is, “Thanks.”

  “Mirror my stance,” she says. “Everything I do with the right side of my body, I want you to do with your left.”

  I nod and watch, placing my left foot in front of me, my right moving backward so my stance is slightly wider than shoulder width. Tracy’s left hand rests below her chin, so I do the same with my right. My left hand, fist at the ready, hangs in the air a few inches in front of my face, anticipating its first move.

  “A jab is quick,” she says. “Like this.”

  Tracy stands next to me now, no longer mirroring me but leading with her left like I will. I flinch when her fist makes contact with the bag, not from fear but from awe at the wave of power coming from this small person.

  After a slight pivot, Tracy hits the bag again. And again. I back away as she makes an entire circle, never once miscalculating or punching with any less force than she did the one before.

  “Now you,” she says. “Get back in your stance.”

  I do as I’m told.

  “Extend your left arm so it touches the bag.”

  She nudges me forward.

  “Good. Now take a tiny step back.” She waves her hand in the space between mine and the bag. “This is the zone, the space between you and your opponent. It’s the gap you have to close to make contact.”

  I haven’t thrown a punch, and already my arm feels like a noodle from holding it out in front of me.

  “Okay. Get back in position. Time to close the gap. Watch me one more time.”

  Tracy executes a jab, this time in slow motion. I watch as her shoulder rotates, the palm of her glove facing the floor as she strikes the bag.

  “Then adjust, like this.”

  She steps left with her lead foot, and the right follows.

  “Each time you adjust, jab again.”

  I clear my throat. “Okay.”

  She steps away. “Go.”

  I hesitate, sure Tracy isn’t my only audience.

  “Stop thinking, Jess, and hit the bag.”

  Stop thinking, as if saying it will make it so. Instead my thoughts flood me. Bryan, Ashley, my parents and their constant worry, and Adam—the reason I’m standing here about to make a fool out of myself. I want to do what she’s asking of me. I want to stop thinking, but the flood threatens to drown me. If I’m not studying, not at the PT lab, I’m exactly where I am right now—stuck in my head, buried by everything I can’t control, all that’s happened that I cannot change.

  “Now, Jess.” Tracy’s volume rises, trying to break through what holds me back.

  My eyes focus on the bag. I want to let it all out, to unleash the fear that holds me in the limbo that has been my life for over a year. But the fear is stronger than I am.

  “Now!”

  Tracy’s voice explodes, and so do I.

  My body closes the gap, and my fist makes contact with the bag, my opponent. My eyes burn. “No,” I whisper under my breath. Not today. I adjust and hit the bag again, this time with more focus and force. For however long it takes me to get around this bag, I have the strength. I get to win. Again and again, I round the bag, every impact driving the flood further back until I’ve made a complete circle. My shoulder hurts, as does every muscle in my core. Sweat trickles from my hairline, and my breath escapes in ragged exhales, my lungs refilling with desperate gasps, but the sting behind my eyes is gone. It’s all gone, tucked away for one more day.

  Take that, asshole, I tell the fear. I win that round.

  “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” The praise doesn’t come from Tracy. I look to my left, and Zach is clapping. The girls do the same, most likely because they’re drooling over the cute boy in the room, but they clap for me nonetheless.

  “Thanks.” I run my arm across my forehead in an attempt to dry it off.

  “Not bad,” Tracy adds, stepping closer to me. “But where’d you go, Jess?”

  My head jerks in her direction, my eyes widening in a mixture of surprise and confusion.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Becca, Lindsey, and Zach were clapping and yelling your name for at least ten seconds before you acknowledged them, before you actually heard them. Are you okay?”

  I let out a long breath, acknowledging my victory’s short life span. Tracy doesn’t want me to answer. Not with the truth. Burdening her with that won’t change anything. It won’t fix anything. So I answer the way I always do. I lie.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m good. I guess I was in the zone.”

  I’m back now. Can’t stay in the zone forever, though I think I’d enjoy a longer stay. Zone Jess, as it turns out, is pretty kick-ass. Real-World Jess, not so much. At least I’ve changed my mind. I’m so doing this again.

  5

  I clean up the best I can before heading home, but I decide to treat myself to dinner first. My favorite Chinese takeout place is on the way home, so I make a quick stop.

  The late-September air is cool and damp. I zip my hoodie and shove my hands in the tiny pockets. The wind forces me to look down as I walk, which is why I don’t see anyone walking out of Yu’s as I’m about to walk in.

  “Jessica? Oh my god, is that really you?”

  Why is that everyone’s reaction to me today? But then the recognition sets in, and it’s too late for me to retreat.

  I know that voice. How could I not? I lived with her for two years. The shock isn’t that it’s Ashley, my former roommate and best friend. It’s who she’s with. Bryan. And he’s caught too off guard to remove his arm from around her shoulder fast enough.

  “Jess, hey. How are you?” Bryan asks, and I do everything in my power to keep my feet planted, to not stagger at the sound of a voice that used to melt me to my core. Because the sadness creeping into his greeting? It’s not fair. He doesn’t get to be sad when he has Ashley and I’m on my own, permanently.

  Bryan shifts his weight from one foot to another, uncomfortable while I’m sure Ashley basks that she’s with him and I am not.

  Despite how disconnected I am to my life before that emergency ambulance ride, I still hear things. And I’ve heard the rumors about Ashley and Bryan. Though this is the first time I’ve seen it firsthand.

  “Omigod, yes! It’s really me!” I squeal in mock enthusiasm. Not my best moment.

  I don’t bother to respond to Bryan. He knows the answer to his ridiculous question.

  How am I? I think. I am what you made me. Alone.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you, to see how you’ve been,” Ashley says, an epic fail at sincerity.

  It’s not so much the feigned sincerity I can’t stand. It’s the phrase, I’ve been meaning to call you. Can that please be stricken from all of human vocabulary? File it under, You’re full of shit and are just trying to make yourself feel better for stepping out of my life.

  A smart person would take the high road. A smart person would throw out a faux pleasantry or two and call it a day. But when it comes to Ashley and Bryan, I’m anything but smart. Old habits die hard, as does the lingering love for my best friend, a feeling I can’t seem to shake completely, no matter how badly she betrayed me.

  I look her right in the eye and hold her stare with a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

  “How long have you been meaning to call me, Ash? Since the surgery? Since Bryan dumped me a week later? Maybe it was when I took a semester off of school last year to deal with all of this? Or wait, was it when I got back and lived in the same fucking house as you, but you treated me as if we’d never met? Tell me, Ash. How long?”

  Ashley trembles where she stands, and my heart sinks to my stomach. Maybe that was a little much, but it felt good in the thick of it. Funny the difference a little more than a year can make. Go back and ask me sophomore year if I ever would have wished this kind of venom on either of them, and that question wouldn’t e
ven have computed with me. Now I can’t restrain it, the hurt—the need for them to hurt so they know what I’ve been going through. Yet it kills me to feel like this, to see what my words have done.

  Bryan pushes the visibly shaken Ashley away from the doorway before coming back to deal with me.

  “Don’t take it out on her, Jess. I’m the one you’re mad at.”

  It’s been so long since I’ve heard him say my name, even if it is tinged with anger and regret. Something twists in my gut, a longing for the sweet boy I met as a freshman, the boy for whom I saved myself and then lost more than I’d ever imagined. Hearing his voice, hearing Jess fall off his lips, I want it all back. All except for one stupid night that should have been magical, that was magical, until it wasn’t.

  This is where the tears should come, the torrent I’ve been holding back since he said the words that changed everything—I don’t think there’s a future for us anymore. But thanks to my little boxing experience, the torrent is tucked neatly away.

  He played an equal part in altering our future. Now it’s just mine.

  “Jess, come on.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You don’t want to do this here.”

  I laugh, an aching and bitter sound.

  “No, Bryan. You don’t want me doing this here.”

  I look at the boy who was supposed to be the one, his sandy hair and blue eyes. Something is missing in those eyes, replaced with a sadness I don’t want to believe, a right he cannot claim.

  I can still hear him telling me he loved me, still recall the nervous delight of sleeping with him for first time and the unprecedented joy of every time after.

  My eyes dart to Ashley, standing at the curb. Her arms wrap around her torso, and her long, auburn waves billow in the wind. I ignore her glassy eyes, letting my anger fill all the empty spaces she and Bryan left. She should have been there for me. Instead, she chose him.

  I shrug his hand off, but he tries to touch me again. The shout comes from behind me.

  “Hey, man! I don’t think she wants you touching her.”

  Bryan holds his hands up in surrender.