by Meg Maguire
When she’d seen them all, she turned them over, surprised again. Each had a note from her grandma—her mom’s mother—written on it in her distinctive cursive, dating and detailing the event. Tears welled. Her grandma had passed away just two years before, and this was so like her...dismissing the drama and doing what she felt was right. And her dad had cared enough to keep them.
Setting the cigar box aside, she pulled out a shoebox next. More photos, and a couple of videotapes labeled Jenna’s First Meet and Family Reunion ’02. She wondered if he’d watched these, and what he’d done as he did. Drink? Cry? Strain to feel anything for the girl on the screen, by then a stranger to him?
A third box also held photos and tapes, but the one on the bottom, the biggest of the stack, didn’t.
It held letters, bound together by the dozen with rubber bands. From her grandmother, she imagined...but no. That wasn’t her grandmother’s writing. And the return address was here, the apartment she was sitting in, and the letters were addressed to Jenna, at her parents’ place in Sacramento, where she’d grown up. She frowned.
Why would her father write her letters, and never send them? Why bother with an envelope? Why bother with stamps? Then she realized, those stamps had all been processed. These letters and cards had all reached the house, but they must have been collected and shipped back, probably with a bitter note from Jenna’s mom to quit sending them, that Jenna didn’t want these.
She noticed her hands shaking, and couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or shock or anger.
She remembered the few times she’d spoken to her dad on the phone, and realized she couldn’t recall ever having been summoned for the call. No, she must have answered the phone herself with no one around to play bouncer. Her dad’s voice had sounded strange...off. She’d mentioned that to her mother once, and been told he was probably drunk. She wondered now if maybe he’d been crying, relieved to have reached her.
She chose one card to slit open. It was a lumpy pink envelope the post office had stamped nearly twenty-five years earlier, a week before her fifth birthday. She slid out a girlie card with a hula-hooping cat on the cover, shedding ancient glitter across her bedspread. A bracelet fell out. Plain silver links with a lobster-claw clasp, one tiny silver charm attached, shaped like a star. She opened the card.
Happy birthday, pumpkin!
Miss you so much. Wish I could give you your birthday hugs in person. Hope you like your present. Your aunt helped me pick it out, and she said you should add a new charm to it every year. But don’t wear it yet—it’s too big and you might lose it.
Be good for your mom. Hope I’ll see you at Christmas.
Love, Dad
Jenna felt odd. Drunk without a sip of alcohol.
She tore the rubber bands from the other stacks and squeezed them all until she’d amassed a pile with lumps in them. Most had been sent around Christmas and birthdays, a couple on Valentine’s Day, and each held a charm. A clarinet, from the time she’d first started playing. A little pair of swim goggles and a tiny whistle after she’d gotten her first camp counselor job. More generic ones as well, hearts and birds and music notes, a shamrock on St. Patrick’s Day. There had to be twenty of them, at least. And after the first stack of letters came back, then the next and the next, he’d kept sending them.
Jenna glanced around the room, feeling scared and alone. She wished Mercer were around, so she could demand some answers. Why had her father continued to send her letters and cards when he knew they’d never get to her? And why on earth hadn’t he sent them to her grandmother, who’d maybe have seen fit to sneak them into Jenna’s hands?
She tried to picture him, big scarred hands fumbling through a rack of charms at a jewelry store, but she could barely remember.
She pulled on a sweater and slipped her feet into flip-flops and headed downstairs. The gym was busy, men getting in their evening workouts. Jenna was ignored as she wandered to the back wall.
Normally she’d have paused at the clippings about Mercer, but she skimmed the articles, stopping only when she caught glimpses of her dad. Usually in someone’s corner, hand on some tired boxer’s shoulder. A big man, heavy in his middle age, with a mustache and thick head of hair, wire-framed glasses. He looked very...real. Very human, and very happy in the shots where he wasn’t shouting from the ropes. He looked loved, by the family he’d been so dedicated to.
Her throat tight and aching, Jenna escaped back upstairs. She poured herself a large glass of wine, and though it felt like an invitation to more confusion, sat down on her bed and opened the next envelope.
* * *
BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK, Jenna was a bit tipsy, and dehydrated from crying. She set the latest letter aside. There were still stacks and boxes to go, but she couldn’t take any more.
She felt a thousand things. Heartsick for the man who’d sat down and written all those letters, trying to connect with a daughter who’d only grown more distant with each passing birthday and holiday. Angry with her mother. Livid with her mother. Above all, confused about her own feelings and doubting a lifetime’s worth of assumptions she’d made about the man she’d so long ago quit calling her dad.
She considered phoning her mother and having it out, but she was too upset. Instead she opened her computer and searched her email for another number, dialing with shaky fingers. The line picked up after a couple tones.
“Yuh?”
“Mercer?”
“Hey, Jenna. Everything okay?” She heard sleep in his croaky voice.
“Everything’s...weird.” Her own voice was weak, too, tight with tears.
“Why, what’s happened?”
“Nothing to get panicked about. But you know that big tub of stuff you left me?”
“Sure.”
“Did you know there’s letters in there?”
“No. I thought it was all photos and tapes. What kind of letters?”
“From my dad, to me. I’ve never seen them before.”
She heard a grunt, the sound of him sitting up, she thought. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I don’t know. He sent them, dozens of them, and it looks like my parents must have returned them all. But he kept sending new ones.... It’s weird. It’s like he didn’t realize I never got them, or...” She trailed off, overwhelmed.
“You sound upset.”
“I am, a bit. A lot.”
“Well, maybe he didn’t really write those for you. After the first ones got returned, I mean. Maybe he wrote them for himself. To feel better about never talking to you or something, to feel like he was at least trying? It’s hard for me to guess. He never told me about any letters.”
“Right.”
“Sorry, I wish I had more answers for you. And sorry if it messed you up, my leaving all that stuff on your bed. I thought it might be nice for you to go through the photos, with me away...”
“No, I’m sorry. For waking you up.”
“No worries—it’s not even midnight. Plus our motel’s next to the freeway. If it wasn’t you it’d be another sixteen wheeler going by five minutes from now.” He yawned and Jenna wished she was there, that she could wrap herself around him and feel anchored to someone so strong and calm.
“I’ll let you go, get back to sleep.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I will be. I was just...blindsided. I’m sorry I called you.”
“Shut up about that. I’m glad you called. I’m glad I heard my phone and you got to talk to somebody.”
“I am too.”
“You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, reminding herself it was true—she would be okay. “I probably just need to sleep it off, wake up with a clear head. I drank a couple glasses of wine, which probably didn’t help things much.”
A soft laug
h. “Probably not.”
“Anyhow, thanks. I guess I’ll see you Sunday. Have a good trip. Promise I won’t interrupt you again.”
“Jenna, I invite people to try to punch me in the face on a daily basis. I can handle getting drunk-dialed at eleven p.m.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I’m not drunk.”
“Maybe not, but you’re cute when you’ve had a couple of glasses. Get some sleep, okay?”
She sighed, finally feeling more exhausted than upset. “I will. You too.”
“’Bye now.”
“’Bye.”
She tossed her phone on the pillow and rubbed her throbbing temples, willing her racing brain to slow. The bedspread was covered in photos and envelopes, but her body felt leaden at the thought of gathering and reorganizing them.
An idea came, a bad one. Before she could change her mind, Jenna had brushed her teeth and washed her face, downed a couple of aspirin and tiptoed to Mercer’s dark room. She crawled under his rumpled covers and breathed him in, swaddled herself in a facsimile of his warmth and strength. Hugging a pillow tight, she admonished herself for being this pitiful. Still, when she drifted off, she dreamed only of Mercer.
8
THANK GOODNESS FOR HARTFORD.
The two-hour drive down had given Mercer and Delante a chance to breathe the same air without shouting at each other. When they got into town, Mercer had been in luck. One of his friend Dave’s hottest kickboxing prospects was on hand and ready for a friendly spar with Boston’s finest.
Life had started to feel elemental again, his responsibilities reduced to the task of keeping Delante on track...at least for a weekend. Then Jenna’s call had come, reminding him that what he was feeling outside the ring was far from simple.
After they said goodbye he sat up in bed, watching the headlights streaming by, restless to the marrow. Knowing Jenna was back in Boston in a still-unfamiliar apartment, her dad’s apartment—struggling to make sense of what she’d learned... If only he hadn’t left her that box the one time he wasn’t going to be around to run damage control.
Midnight came and went and Mercer gave up on sleep. He tried channel surfing in an attempt to bore himself into unconsciousness, but when one o’clock arrived and he’d failed to register a single thing that’d flashed by on the screen, he turned the TV off. Turned his light on. He dressed and pocketed his keys and scribbled a note to slide under Delante’s door. Then he climbed into his car to start the long drive back to Boston.
* * *
JENNA’S EYES FLEW OPEN at the flip of a dead bolt.
She clutched Mercer’s blanket to her chin, frozen. She glanced at the clock, wondering who on earth would show up at three-thirty. An ex of his? A friend? A burglar with superior lock-picking skills? A light came on past the hall—the living room. She shot upright, hugging the covers tighter.
“Who’s there?” she shouted.
“It’s just me.”
Her heart attack ceased at the sound of Mercer’s voice, then her worries flip-flopped, humiliation taking the place of fear.
More footsteps, then he called, “Jeez, where are you?”
“I’m, um, in your room.” In your bed, under your covers. Like a moron.
He appeared in the doorway and eased the dimmer switch up. “What are you doing in here?”
Making a fool of myself. “I got overwhelmed after going through all the photos and cards in my own room. My dad’s room, you know?” Good save.
“Oh, right.”
“Sorry. That’s probably a little creepy of me.”
“Not really. Not like you haven’t slept in that bed before.”
She smirked. “True.”
He took a seat at the foot of his bed, laying a hand on her shin through the covers.
“What are you doing back?” she asked.
“I was worried about you.”
She blinked. “Worried enough to drive all the way here in the dead of night?”
“Looks that way.”
“Oh. Wow. And thank you. I feel bad now, dragging you away. I was upset—not, like, in danger or anything.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t drag me. Plus Delante’ll be happy for a chance to sleep in, and I’ll head back early. I won’t miss anything aside from a bit of rest. Looks like you managed to nod off, at least.”
“Yeah. Just not in my own room.” She rolled her eyes to admit she realized how silly she was being.
“They’re all your rooms.”
The thought stung, reminding her he might not be here much longer. And he’d be gone because of her intrusion, same as the gym, come January. The thought saddened her. Could the place have actually grown on her, so soon? Possibly. And like it or not, she was falling for Mercer.
She sighed. “I should really give you your bed back.”
“Move over,” he said softly.
She slid to the side and he lay down beside her on top of the covers, clasping his fingers over his ribs.
You really like him, a thought whispered. More than you’ve liked anybody before. And so, so fast. “It was awfully nice of you, caring enough to come all the way back here.”
“Well, I feel sort of responsible for you, with your dad gone. Not like your guardian or anything—nothing patronizing.”
“Of course not.”
“Just like... The same way I’m happy to watch over the gym for him.” He turned to look at her, eyes full of kindness.
“I don’t know what to make of him anymore.” Him or this man he’d mentored.
“You still think he was involved in that shady shit that went down all those years ago?”
“I have no clue. But I grew up assuming he really didn’t care about me, and now I know he did and I feel...just awful. It would’ve meant so much to him, my sending him a letter, a Father’s Day card, and I never did. And I don’t understand, either. He could have mailed all those letters to my grandma, and she’d have gotten them to me, behind my mom’s back.”
“You know,” Mercer said, “your dad used to say the smartest thing your mom ever did was leave his ass and get you away from here. He didn’t make any bones about the fact that he was a pretty lousy husband—unreliable and hot-headed—and that he regretted it.”
Jenna held her tongue, lost for words.
“I was thinking about this the whole drive from Hartford. I think maybe he sent those letters and things where he did, knowing she’d have a chance to vet them. To show her he respected her wishes enough to let her have the final say in what was best for you.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s just a guess. For all his shortcomings, your dad had a really strict code of ethics when it came to respect.”
“It’s as good a guess as any. Maybe I’ll find more answers, the more I keep reading.” A daunting thought. She sighed again, blinking up at the ceiling. “I feel like a jerk, that I showed up here just assuming I’d close the gym. I was so ready to side with my mom, and the franchise, and all the other business owners on the block, in condemning this place. Like, figuratively and pretty much literally.”
“Yeah. We’re the mangiest of underdogs.”
“And I was ready to just lump you and all the other guys down there in some folder labeled ‘stuff my dad cared about more than me.’”
“Does that mean...? What does that mean?”
“It means I’m softening. It means I’d like the gym to stay open, if we figure out a way to make it viable.”
Mercer spoke quietly, as if physically holding back whatever hope he felt. “Would you extend the trial period?”
“I will. For as long as it takes to see any effects from the tournament. And I’ll do my best to fund your improvements...the modest ones, at least. Enough to give it a real chance.”
> Mercer didn’t say a word at first, just brought his lips to her throat, kissing her softly and holding her tight. After a minute’s quiet he rolled onto his back and murmured, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I can’t claim to know my dad yet, but it’s what he would’ve wanted.”
She sensed Mercer nodding in her periphery. They were silent for a few minutes, until a random thought drew a laugh from her lips.
“What?”
She turned onto her side. “Rich wants to join Spark.”
“No surprise there. He’s a shameless attention-whore. Bodes well for his fighting career, at least.”
“Guess I won’t be signing you up anytime soon,” she teased.
“I like to think I do all right on my own.” A funny little smile quirked his lips. “In fact, I recall doing better than just all right, not too long ago. Right in this bed.”
She blushed, then let impulse guide her hand out from the covers to rest on his stomach. “You were right about all this being really confusing. About you and I being too many things to each other.”
“For now, yeah. But before you know it, ‘roommates’ will be off that list.”
She stroked his belly, barely realizing she was doing it until he covered it with his warm, rough palm.
“I got no clue what to do with you,” he murmured.
“Ditto.”
“Or any clue what to do with all these...feelings. About protecting you, or just frigging caring this much, you know?”
“Do you resent me a little, that my dad left this place to me instead of you?”
“Of course not. I’ve never been taught to think anybody owes me anything.”
She nodded.
“And I don’t share your priorities, but I can imagine that matchmaking means as much to you as fighting does to me. And I get that my life must seem just as weird to you as meddling in other people’s romantic lives does to me. You want to help people fall in love. I want to help guys get real good at beating each other senseless. Neither of us is exactly aiming to save third-world orphans. We’re just passionate about things. And nobody gets to choose what they’re passionate about. It just chooses you.”
