Danny’s students had convinced him to take part in a three-day full-contact tournament. They’d said they wanted to watch him in the ring so they could learn from him, and that argument had won him over.

The tournament started on Thursday evening, and it was being held near the town of Sinsheim. Since Danny didn’t feel like driving an hour each way every night, he got hotel rooms for Christina, me, and himself. Dogan had come as well, not wanting to miss the opportunity.

There were several fights each evening, all knockout. I was a bundle of nerves the whole time. Having Christina gripping my arm nonstop and murmuring, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” under her breath didn’t really help the situation.

During the next-to-last fight, Danny started getting tired and losing concentration, and ended up taking a hard kick to the face. Blood began streaming down his temple from a wound above his right eye, and the fight was interrupted.

He was still hanging from the ropes, gasping, with Dogan mercilessly barking strategy instructions in his ear, when the ring doctor came over to treat the wound.

Five stitches, without giving him time to sit down, and with no anesthetic. It was all I could do to keep Christina from running over and holding Danny’s hand, at which his opponent probably would have died laughing right on the spot. I, on the other hand, was mostly afraid he’d end up with a scar—the doctor was sewing him up quickly and indifferently, as if they were in a war zone.

After that, somebody wiped the blood off the mats and signaled for the fight to continue.

Danny ended up winning, wound and all, and advanced to the final round. He won the last fight easily, practically without trying, but he still insisted he wasn’t making a return to full-contact competitions. Despite my constant worrying, I was somehow disappointed, too.

On Sunday, Danny was actually exhausted for once. He skipped his morning run and slept until nearly nine—both of which were extremely unusual for him. We had a long, leisurely breakfast at the hotel before checking out and heading for home.

 

***

 

One night the following weekend, I lay stretched out on Danny’s bed, thumbing through a magazine. Christina was in her room, painting her nails, and Danny was watching TV in the living room. Leika was curled up on the rug in the dining room, dozing. To an outsider, we’d have probably looked like we’d fallen out, but nothing could be further from the truth.

Although we were each in a different room, doing our own thing on this Friday night, we were one. If I’d felt like having company, I could have gone into the living room and cuddled with Danny on the sofa. He’d have greeted me with open arms. I’d have been perfectly welcome in Christina’s room, too. It was wonderful to belong somewhere, to feel like I was part of a community. I felt good, more comfortable than I had at almost any other time in my life. Our lives were hardly free of problems—our future far from rosy—but all three of us were determined to make the best of it. As long as we were together, nothing could shake us.

In the middle of this languid reverie of mine, Danny came into the room. “I’m going out,” he said, sitting on the bed to rub my neck.

“Now?” I grumbled. “It’s already almost nine. Where are you going?”

“Nine is early on a Friday night,” he said defensively. “Ricky just called. He and Simon are going out for a drink and then to a club. They want me to come along for once. Like old times.”

I rolled over onto my back to give him a look of outrage. He laid his hand on my collarbone. “You could at least ask if I want to join you,” I growled.

He shook his head. “Sorry. Guys’ night.”

I grabbed his hand and used it to pull myself up. “Let me guess: you’re going to play your stupid number-hunting game again?”

He shrugged apologetically. “It’ll probably end up happening, yeah.”

I rolled my eyes. “Dirty cheater,” I muttered, insulted.

Danny took my face in his hands, looking deep into my eyes. “It’s all just for show,” he whispered against my lips. “You know that. I’m not going to call any of them.”

My breathing sped up, and my outrage faded as quickly as it had developed. Goddamn, how does he do that? “That’s true. You didn’t call me either,” I retorted, looking a little hurt.

“I would have. Really. I promised I would.”

“Those poor girls, sitting around waiting for your call for days on end, crying their eyes out.” Like I did, I added in my head.

He laughed softly. “Oh, come on, it’s not really that bad. You survived.”

“Barely, though. Seriously, those girls are getting their hopes up, and you’re just playing with them. It’s not fair.”

He shrugged again. “Nothing about my life has ever been fair.”

So this was his way of dealing with the fact that he thought his life was unfair? Well…I could accept that. It could have been a lot worse.

“Go on, then,” I muttered, pushing him off the bed. “Get out of here. And don’t you dare lose that stupid game!”

“Thanks, Ducky.” He gave me a kiss. “You’re the best. Don’t wait up—I’ll probably be late.”

A few moments later, I heard his car start, and I turned back to my magazine. I knew he would come back to me, and I knew he was mine. He would always be mine.

I read for a little while longer, took Leika for a walk, said good night to Christina, and went to bed. As I was lying there, I thought of the guys walking around with a girl on each arm at that very moment. Smiling, I shook my head. The thought didn’t make me jealous in the slightest.

 

It was definitely a scream, but I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamt it or if it had come from outside. Yawning, I rubbed my eyes and checked the radio alarm clock on the nightstand. It was just after three, and the other side of the bed was still empty.

Still half-asleep, I rolled over onto my side, but then I heard the bedroom door open. It wasn’t Danny in the doorway, but Christina. The light from the hallway flooded the room, and I could see her wide eyes. She was clutching her pillow tightly against her chest.

“Danny?” she whispered into the dark room. She looked like a five-year-old, not like a woman of nearly twenty.

“Danny’s still out,” I whispered back.

“When’s he coming back?” Her voice was thin and wavery—she’d clearly been crying.

“I don’t know. It could be a while yet.”

“Okay,” she squeaked, turning to go. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“Tina?” I called after her, and she stopped uncertainly.

“Yeah?”

“If Danny were here right now, what would he do?”

She hesitated for a moment, before finally admitting, “He’d let me get in bed with him.”

I raised the blanket and patted the mattress decisively. “Come on.”

She didn’t have to be asked twice. She switched off the hall light and crawled into bed with me.

“What do I do?” I asked quietly.

“Nothing,” she whispered back. “Just be there.” She turned her back to me and snuggled in close. Even though the window was open and it was cool in the room, I was only wearing cotton short-shorts. Our bare legs were touching, and her mostly bare bottom was pressed against my lower body. Danny’s body radiated such heat in bed that I was always warm enough. He usually slept in a T-shirt and boxers, and when I imagined her pressing herself against his pelvis like this, I found it nearly impossible to believe that there was nothing erotic about it, as he had once assured me.

But then I discarded the thought with a sigh. It didn’t matter.

Tentatively, I wrapped an arm around Christina. Her entire body was completely tense, and every so often she let out a heavy sob. I brushed a few stray hairs out of her face, the way Danny would have. The way Danny did with me, too.

At that moment, I realized just how much my life had changed in the past few months. I could barely remember the last time I’d given any serious thought to who paid rent and who paid utilities around here. Thinking about such banalities almost made me laugh out loud. Problems like those were part of another life, a life I had once thought was real, but now knew was just a distorted version of reality. This, right here, was reality: an abused girl who had just gotten out of rehab a few months ago, sobbing, half-naked, in my arms, waiting for my boyfriend to get home.

Had I actually once thought it was unfair that someone would pay the bills for someone else? In this lifetime? Absurd. It was just absurd. Far more absurd than lying beside a former drug-addicted prostitute in my HIV-positive boyfriend’s bed while he was out flirting with other girls at the club.

I snuggled closer to Christina, burying my face in her soft hair. I’d never felt better in my life. I’d never been so emotionally fulfilled.

By the time Danny crept into the room, barefoot, it was nearly dawn. If he was surprised to find me lying there holding Christina, he didn’t let on. He came around to my side of the bed and climbed in. Carefully, I let go of Christina, who was sound asleep, and turned in his direction.

“Hey,” he murmured, kissing me.

“Hey,” I said. “How many?”

“Fifteen. Fourteen for Ricky, nine for Simon. Winner!”

I kissed his forehead and gave him a thumbs up. “I’m proud of you. Sweet dreams.”

He rolled over and curled up a little, and I scooted in against his back. Whether it was because I’d had Christina in my arms for the past few hours or because I was just that tired, I don’t know, but for a moment I forgot our unspoken agreement and wrapped an arm around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. Within a fraction of a second, his body was stiff as a board, his breathing rapid and shallow. I froze in horror, not daring to move again.

After a while, he began to relax, and I laid my hand on his stomach. Immediately, he put his arm down over mine to prevent my hand from sliding any further up.

I made a mental note. Touching stomach: okay. Touching chest: not okay. Well, it was a start, anyway. Even small victories were victories. Tentatively, I began stroking his stomach, first with my thumb, then with my entire hand, covering a tiny bit more ground each time. He let me do it but kept the barrier firmly in place. His breathing was ragged.

“Danny,” I whispered softly in his ear. “Everything’s okay.” Our code word again.

Suddenly, he took my hand, and I was sure he was going to push it away. Instead, he laced his fingers with mine, guided my hand underneath his T-shirt, and laid it on his bare chest, over his heart. He pressed my hand down firmly and maintained a tight grip on it, making sure I couldn’t move it an inch.

I knew how much courage that had taken him, and I could only imagine the internal struggle he’d gone through before he’d been able to take that step. That knowledge alone made his tiny gesture so special that it moved me to tears. Without moving my hand, I shifted upward a bit and pressed my tear-streaked cheek to his.

He took three more deep breaths and let go of my hand. I held it still, keeping it right where it was, feeling his heartbeat. It took him a long time to calm down again.

I’d been planning on waiting up until he fell asleep, but I didn’t make it. I probably fell asleep long before he did.

 

He woke me with a gentle kiss on the nose. “Good morning, Ducky,” he said, brushing my cheek with the back of his finger.

“Morning.” I stretched languidly and turned over. The other side of the bed was empty. “Where’s Tina?”

“She got up a little while ago. She’s out walking the dog, and she said she’d make us breakfast when she got back.” He smiled at me. “So we can stay in bed a little while longer.”

It was his way of thanking me for the previous night.

“Woo-hoo! Three cheers for Christina!” I pumped my fist in the air jovially. “I love that woman!”

“Yeah, I love her too!” he called, raising his own fist. “Christina’s the best!”

“What’d you just say?”

“Hm?” He shrugged innocently. “The best?”

“Before that.”

“Christina?”

I pinched his side. “Before that! You know what I mean!”

“Ohh.” He yawned theatrically, stretching like a cat. “That I love her? You know that already.”

“Get out of my bed, you dirty traitor!” I pinched him in the ribs to shoo him away.

“It’s kind of my bed too,” he whined, letting himself roll off the bed on his side before coming around to leap in again on mine. Before I could react, he jerked my pajama shorts off and threw them into the corner of the room.

“You’re an ass!” I stuck my tongue out at him. He reached out to pull my top off as well, but I held it down and gave him a provocative look. “You first!”

His mood shifted instantly. “No!”

“Please?” I took the hem of his T-shirt between my fingers.

Hesitantly, he shook his head. “No.”

“Danny,” I pleaded, “there’s nobody here. Just us. Nothing else matters. Everything’s okay!”

“Okay,” he said uncertainly. “Give me two minutes.”

“You can have two hours if you need.”

He took another deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes, trying to collect himself. It took him five minutes. I simply sat there, waiting, still holding the hem of his shirt.

“Okay,” he repeated at last, raising his arms. I pulled the T-shirt up over his head with a fluid motion and handed it to him—throwing it into the corner with my shorts seemed unfair. He stuck it under the pillow.

I let my eyes travel over his body. Powerful chest, soft, flat belly, not an ounce of extra fat anywhere, muscular arms, hairless torso. He reminded me of Michelangelo’s David.

Although the urge to touch him was almost overwhelming, I restrained myself—but I also decided that I wasn’t going to let him hold me down today, the way he always had. Before I could tell Danny that, though, he seemed to read my mind, and he lay down behind me.

He sank down onto his back, and I rolled onto his chest. Arms propped against the bed, he eyed me skeptically.

Cautiously, I ran my fingertips up his arm toward his shoulder, feeling goosebumps rise. Take it slow, my inner voice warned. One step at a time. Not much further to go now. I did the same thing again, only with my entire hand. Then I let my fingertips drift across his chest, barely touching him until I reached his stomach. Touching his stomach was okay, or at least more okay than his chest.

Danny had his eyes closed and was taking deep, slow breaths. I knew he was mentally counting to ten over and over again, doing the concentration exercises he always did before kickboxing tournaments. That was okay with me—it was still another huge step in the right direction. He was reluctant about it now, but eventually he’d get used to me touching him this way, and maybe someday he’d even learn to enjoy it.

What would he have been like, I wondered, if his father hadn’t done all this irreparable damage to him?

His relief was practically palpable when we heard a knock at the door and Christina trilled cheerfully, “Get up, you two! Breakfast is ready!”