by Robin Huber
My cheeks blush against my will, which is working desperately to keep them creamy white. I look up at Sam, who smiles and gives me a wink.
Miles points at one of the female reporters. “First question. And I’ll bet I can guess what it is.”
The crowd chuckles again and I can’t help but admire the effortless way Miles took control of the room.
“As much as I’d like to prove you wrong, Miles, I have to ask”—she looks at me and raises her perfectly pointed eyebrows—“how did you land boxing’s most eligible bachelor?” She holds her phone out to record my answer. “You’re certainly not the first to try.”
The other reporters laugh quietly behind her.
Sam leans into his microphone to answer the condescending question, but I put my hand on his shoulder to stop him. A lifetime of certainty about who Sam and I were long before any of this happened fortifies my answer. I lean into my microphone and say confidently, “Actually, I was the first.”
“How did you meet?” another reporter asks out of turn, and Miles grumbles at him.
“In foster care,” Sam answers anyway. “I’ve known Lucy for most of my life. She’s my day one,” he says, glancing over at me, and I smile at his sweet words.
When the next reporter is prompted to ask his question, my smile wanes. “Lucy, you grew up in Brighton Park, correct?”
“Yes, I did.”
“But you’re trying to make it as an artist now. I understand you recently hosted an art exhibit in Atlanta.”
“Is that a question?” Miles asks irritably, but I beam with pride anyway, delightfully surprised that he knows about it.
“Yes, I did. It was very successful. Thank you for mentioning it.”
“So, how is it that you got into the art community?” he asks with a blank look on his face.
“I’m sorry, I’m not exactly sure what you mean.”
“You grew up in poverty. You didn’t exactly get exposed to the arts in Brighton Park.”
Sam leans into his microphone and says, “Lucy’s a born artist. The community found her. And yeah, we had a hard start in life, there’s no denying that. But Brighton Park made us who we are. It’s the foundation of my career, and Lucy’s.” He glances over at me again. “Hopefully one day, we can do something to give back.”
I smile at him.
“She’s a fighter like you, then.”
“Absolutely.”
“She must be,” he says, taking his seat.
“I’m sorry, what exactly does that mean?” I ask as my nerves take a back seat to my defenses.
“Just that with such a rough background, it’s got to be hard making it as a real artist.”
“She is a real artist,” Tristan says from the back, defending me.
“I’m sorry,” Sam says, laughing without an ounce of humor in his voice. “Can you just elaborate on her rough background?”
“Just leave it alone, Sam,” I say, away from the microphone.
The reporter stands back up and looks at Miles, who does little to help him. “Well, you grew up in the most impoverished suburb of Atlanta, which is known for its high crime, drug use, and poor education. That’s pretty rough,” he says carefully.
“You think those things pertain to her?”
“I don’t see how either of you could have escaped them. Sam, you’re a fighter, which that environment primed you for. But it’s not one that lends itself to the arts. I imagine it casts a pretty big shadow that will be difficult for Lucy to escape, no matter how talented she is. Especially with the negative media attention she’s been getting lately. Do either of you care to address any the headlines you’ve been making?”
“Yeah, they’re all bullshit,” Sam says.
“Look,” Miles interrupts, “the only headlines you need to worry about are the ones that highlight Sam’s win tonight.”
“Is there a particular rumor you’d like to ask me about?” I ask the reporter, who insinuated that my career isn’t going anywhere. If what he said is true, I don’t have anything to lose anyway.
“Okay. I’ll be frank.”
“Oh, were you not being frank before?” I ask, and soft laughter fills the room.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he says, exasperated.
“Funny. I’m pretty sure you did.” I shrug. “So, shoot. Which rumor would you like me to address? The one where I’m only with Sam because of his money? Or was it because he’s famous? I can’t remember.” I shake my head and smirk at Sam. “I bet it’s the one where I trapped you with a surprise pregnancy.”
Sam crinkles his eyes and laughs.
“Oh, wait, it’s not even your baby. According to that super reputable magazine that published the fake story,” I say, looking at the reporter again.
“Okay, you’ve made your point,” he says, appearing unamused as he crosses his arms and sits back down in his chair.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
The room fills with light chuckles again.
Miles winks at me and leans into his mic. “Obviously the rumors are just that, rumors. I don’t think we need to waste any more time talking about them. Next question. And make it about the fight.”
Chapter 9
Lucy
So, how was Savannah?” I ask Sebastian, who’s standing beside me in the store aisle gazing at boxes of Christmas lights stacked five shelves high. “Did you and Paul get a chance to talk about kids?”
“Yes. And it went okay, surprisingly.”
“Really? That’s great. What did you decide?”
“That we’re going to start researching options together, so that when we’re both ready, we’ll be prepared and know where to start. But no pressure.”
“Oh, Sebastian, that’s great.”
“You know what they say, marriage is all about compromise.”
“I think that’s a good compromise.”
“Paul and I had a great time, but our weekend wasn’t nearly as exciting as yours,” he says with wide eyes. “I still can’t get over how you put that asshole reporter in his place. I just wish I could have seen it in person.”
“I don’t know. It felt good in the moment, but I really hope I didn’t make things worse.” I stand on my tiptoes and stretch for a box of white lights.
“Are you kidding? It was incredible. I mean, what decade is that guy living in? Overcoming adversity is something that deserves praise. Your story is inspiring.”
“I hope so.”
“Believe me. It is.” He glances up and down the store aisle, which is adorned with blow-up Santas and snow globes. “You could put one of those tacky things on your balcony.”
“Do you think it would fit?”
He stares at me for a long second. “No.”
“Can you”—I stretch—“reach that?”
Sebastian reaches above my head and grabs the box of lights with ease.
“Thank you.”
“What about a tree? I saw it on your list. You’re not going to get a real one are you? The pine needles gets everywhere.”
“I wanted to get one with Sam, but he’s not supposed to lift anything heavy. Doctor’s orders—which he has to follow this time.”
“How’s he doing?”
“They think his ribs didn’t heal properly after the Quebec fight because he did too much in Exuma, so he’s reluctantly taking it easy.”
“Isn’t that why you went to Exuma? So he could rest and get better. What the heck was he doing there?”
I raise my eyebrows and give an innocent shrug.
“Lucy! You could have at least waited until the second week to start the honeymoon.”
“I tried! But he can be very persuasive. And athletic.” I laugh softly and bite my bottom lip.
“Oh, my God, Lucy. That’s…actually pretty hot,” he says, picking up a box of lights. “But no more athletic bedroom antics until he’s better, or he won’t be able to keep fighting.”
“
Are you saying this is all my fault?”
He shakes his head, but before he can get a word out, I groan, “Ugh, it is my fault. This rift between Joe and Miles is because of me, isn’t it?”
“What rift?”
“Since Sam got hurt again so soon, Joe wants him to stay out of the ring for a while. He wants him to take a real break from boxing.”
“And Miles wants his paycheck.”
“Well, I think it’s more than that. I think Miles is thinking about the longevity of Sam’s career.” I look at him and ask, “Is that really what you think?”
“Well, isn’t that what most sports managers want?”
I shake my head, considering it, but that’s not Miles. “Miles loves Sam. He’s just worried about the perception it’ll give off if he’s out of the ring for too long, because of the retirement rumors.”
“I like these, get these,” he says, handing me another box of twinkle lights. “So, are they just rumors?”
I give Bas a preposterous look. “He’s not going to retire, Bas. He’s twenty-seven.”
“Yeah, and in the boxing world, that’s practically an old man.”
“What? No. That’s crazy.”
“Not when you’ve been taking hits to the head since you were a teenager. You want him punch-drunk by the time he’s forty?”
I try to ignore the worry Bas has painted all over me, but it sheens my skin in the form of dewy sweat.
He looks up from the box he’s reading and stares at me for a moment. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “I feel like I…” I pant and swallow the saliva pouring into my mouth. “I think I—I think I’m going to be sick.”
I throw the boxes of lights back on the shelf and run down the aisle, which thankfully has a Restroom sign hanging in the middle of it. I make it to a stall just in time to throw up.
“Hi. Pardon me. Sorry, my friend’s in here,” I hear Bas saying to the ladies walking out, who are mumbling under their breath. “Sweetie? Are you okay?”
I wipe my mouth and stumble over to the sink, where I proceed to wash my hands and face. I dry them with a paper towel. “I’m fine. I feel better now.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you. Geez. I wasn’t expecting that reaction.”
“I think I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed by everything right now. I wanted this, Bas, I did. I do. But it’s a lot to take. Between the media constantly making up stories about me and Sam—”
“Which you dispelled during the LA interview.”
“And the paparazzi splashing topless pictures of me across the internet. And Sam’s ex-whatever-she-was pressuring me to work with her. And that stupid reporter insinuating I’m too uncouth to make it as a real artist.” My eyes start to well up. “And Sam getting beat to a pulp for a living.” The tears spill over and run down my cheeks. “Now he’s going to be punch-drunk?”
“Lucy,” Bas says softly, approaching me with caution.
“I just want to have a house that’s mine and decorate it with Christmas lights and a stupid Christmas tree,” I sob against Bas’s shoulder, which is pressed firmly against my cheek now. “So much for having a nice, normal life.”
He holds me and uncharacteristically lets me cry in his arms for several long seconds.
I step back and look at him with pathetic, watery eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say into the rough paper towel in my hands that scratches my puffy eyes.
He pulls his dark eyebrows together and says, “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’ve just had a lot to deal with lately. It’s going to get better. The media will settle down, it’s inevitable. One minute you’re news, the next no one cares. Sure, there will people who make stuff up about you and presume to know things about your life, past or present, but that’s true of anyone. And Sam isn’t going to get punch-drunk, because you won’t let him.”
“Let him? Have you met Sam? When he wants something, no one can deter him.”
“He wants you, Lucy. You’re probably the only one who can deter him, which I know you would only do to protect him. So you have to be the voice of reason when that time comes. He’ll listen to you. And only you.”
I bob my head and wipe my nose. “How did you get so smart?”
He shrugs. “One of my many gifts.”
I inhale a deep breath, discard the tear-soaked paper towel in my hand, and splash some water on my face. I pat it dry and look at my pink nose and watery, pale blue eyes with matching pink rims.
Sebastian snaps a picture of me with his phone and I spin around.
“What are you doing? Delete that.”
He shows me the picture. “Paint this.”
“What?”
“Paint this. It’s…a moment.”
I pull my eyebrows together and drop my chin. “What should I call it? Bathroom Breakdown?”
“Stronger.”
“Stronger?”
“Stronger,” he says seriously. “Because you’ll only get stronger from here.”
I press my lips together and nod at his poignant interpretation of a painting I haven’t even created yet. “I love you.”
“I know. Now…” He glances around the bathroom with distain. “Can we please exit this public lavatory?”
“Yes.”
* * *
I adjust the lights in my studio and position my paint cart next to my easel, which I lower a bit so I can reach the top of the four-foot canvas that it’s holding. I gauge my blank workspace, but before I begin, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Hey,” I answer.
“What are you doing?” Sam asks, and I smile automatically.
“Painting. I was about to anyway, before you called.”
“You didn’t have to answer.”
“Yes, I did.” I smile and tell him, “I’ll always answer when you call.”
“Good.” He laughs softly. “It’s getting late. You coming home soon?”
I look at the time on my phone. “It’s six fifteen.”
“It’s after dark.”
“I won’t be too long.”
“Want me to bring you dinner?”
“You’d do that?” I ask happily. I’m starving, and Sebastian left hours ago.
“Of course. What do you want?”
“Chicken biryani,” I say without hesitation. I’ve been craving it all day.
“That’s very specific. Care to tell me where I can find that?”
“It’s Indian. You’ve never had it?”
“No. Can’t say I have.”
“Well, you’ll love it, it’s spicy. There’s a really great Indian place around the corner from your—I mean, our apartment.”
“Okay.” He laughs. “I’ll ask Terrance. Be there soon.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Lucy,” he says, making me pause before I end the call.
I put the phone back up to my ear. “Yes?”
“Is the alarm on?”
“Yes. And the doors are locked.”
“Good.”
I push my lips together over a small smile. Always the protector. “Remember the code to get in?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, hurry up. I’m hungry.”
“Okay.”
He hangs up and I slip my phone back into the pocket of my painted, tattered cutoffs and my stomach growls loudly. I grab my water bottle off my paint cart and take a sip, but it does little to assuage my hunger. My mouth begins to water, so I take another sip, but it doesn’t stay down for long. I run to the bathroom and heave over the toilet.
I close my eyes as the nausea leaves me and get up to wash my face. I rinse my mouth with mouthwash and make a mental not to not skip lunch again.
I walk over to the couch on wobbly legs and sit down…just for a minute. I lean against the worn leather armrest and pull feet up on the cool cushion.
Lucy.
…
Lucy.
…
“Baby, wake up.”
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I crack my eyes open and see Sam hovering over me with small, concerned smile on his face. “Hey.”
I sit up quickly and catch myself on his arm.
“You okay?” He laughs softly.
“Yeah.” I pull my hand to my face and rub my eyes. “I guess I fell asleep. Sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
“I don’t know. I just…didn’t mean to fall asleep. What time is it?”
“Almost seven. You couldn’t have been out long. I did get a little worried when I called a few minutes ago and you didn’t answer.”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and see his missed call. “I didn’t feel it vibrate.”
“You were out cold. You sure you’re feeling okay?”
“Yeah. I feel okay. I got sick after we hung up, but—”
“You threw up?” His hand goes straight to my forehead, and it reminds of when we were kids. We always took care of each other when one of us got sick.
“Yeah, but I’m not sick. I just went too long without eating. I skipped lunch today.”
“Oh.” He makes a funny face. “Well, don’t do that again.”
“I won’t, believe me.” I breathe in the delicious smell of the warm, spicy chicken and rice and my mouth waters again. “Let’s eat.”
We sit on the couch, eating our biryani, which Sam soon discovers he loves as much as I do, and we catch up on the day. When he’s full, he throws his paper bowl back in the bag and waits for mine, which I scrape clean before handing it to him.
“That was so good. Thanks for bringing it to me.”
He props his elbow on the back of the couch and looks at me.
“What?”
“I don’t know, there’s just something about being here.” He grins. “Seeing you in those shorts.”
I wrinkle my nose at my ratty old cutoffs.
“Reminds me of that day we kissed, right over there.” He glances at my easel.
I smile automatically, recalling how he made me drop my paintbrush. “I remember.”
