But I’m still breathing.

I’m still feeling.

The bell sounds, and I falter back to the stool, where Bill goes to work quickly, my view of him skewed now from the swelling happening around my eye.

“You’ve never been hit like this,” he says. He won’t make eye contact with me, and it pisses me off.

“I’m fine!” I shout, spitting in the bucket he is holding under my chin.

“Yeah…” he says, pulling my chin up with his monster hand, the roughness of his calluses scraping my face so I’m forced to look him in the eye. “You’re fine, huh? Then go out there and you end this. This is it. No more rounds for you, no matter how fucked up you are and how much you think you can take, you got it?”

Four rounds. I knew the gig. I got it. I stare at him without answering, though, because he’s pissing me off. He growls at me, pushing my face from his view with disgust.

The bell rings, and I find Pitch once again ready for me in the center, his feet still nimble, his arms still up at his sides, everything about him fresh. I’m a bloody mess, and it makes me start to laugh.

“You’re a crazy motherfucker, you know that?” Pitch pushes back a step, bouncing, as he stares at me.

“Oh, I’m crazy. And I can take anything you’ve got. Bring it, big man,” I slur, my smile big as his fist elevates then rushes forward, landing squarely on my nose.

Oh fuck! Oh yes!

His swings don’t stop. The pain keeps coming. I feel every single shot, as if time slows down just so I can take in the sensation of the leather of his glove pushing deep inside my gut, my chest, my face. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists. I bleed. I land. The ref counts, and Bill drags my torn and broken body to the corner amidst the roar of the crowd around me; they’re celebrating my fall, my failure.

They love me for it, and I’m drunk on my self-loathing.

“I’ll do my best, kid, but I think you’re gonna need to make a trip to the emergency room for some of this,” Bill says, his face somber. Bill’s disappointed too.

“I’m fine,” I growl.

He laughs once, but his face remains serious.

“I said I’m fine!” I repeat, my face square with his. His eyes stay on mine, and we both breathe while they announce Pitch as the winner and people rush the ring to congratulate him, to touch him. I’m lost in the corner with Bill and my pain and nothing else.

“Okay, kid. But I don’t like putting you back together. If this were my call, this wouldn’t have been you tonight,” he says, pressing a wet towel on my face. I grab it from him and stand.

“Well it’s not your call. It’s mine. And Harley’s. And we say I’m fine,” I say, spitting once more at his feet as I climb through the ropes and out to the back rooms where Harley is waiting for me.

The envelope exchange is fast, and unlike Bill, Harley hardly spends time looking at my face. The bruising and blood disgusts him, and I think I scare him a little. It’s fine; I scare myself.

I don’t count the money until I get outside and to my car, but before the rest of the crowd starts to spill into the streets, I pull the envelope from my backpack and leaf through the hundred dollar bills, counting twice and getting eighty-four each time. My lips can’t fight against smiling no matter how badly it hurts my face to do so. The laughter comes when I hit the highway, pressing the pedal down with ease, crawling the car up to ninety-five as I weave into the flow of traffic, passing anything in my way.

The rush will carry me home.

And when I come down, I’ll be at my next destination. I’ll be at her house, and she can bring the pain back all over again.

* * *

Emma

Graham has been the perfect gentleman. His mother would be proud. Or, I think she would be. It’s still hard to say—I’m not clear about their relationship.

I didn’t let Lindsey know I was leaving to meet him. I didn’t want to deal with expectations. I brushed her attempt to talk off last night, telling her I was just stressed after the awards dinner. I told her I was walking to the store and back—instead, going to Andrew’s to confront him. I wanted to see him without the veil, to see if he would be the same if it were just us.

Turns out he was worse.

He’s so broken, and I don’t know why. I let that consume me, and it was starting to push me into depression when Graham called and asked if I wanted to meet for a quick dinner. I jumped at his offer, wanting to find something else—anything else—that would mesmerize me for a while.