Dad is happy and that means something is very, very wrong.
Duncan and I both share a mutual look of confusion. We both know that if Dad is this bubbly about something, it means that it’s good for him.
What’s good for him is almost invariably bad for us.
The dining room is dimly lit. Dad brought out the candles, and their flames fall upward almost in an exact straight line, and I remember that he mentioned something about having the windows in the house resealed.
Dad’s wearing a suit, charcoal grey, jacket open, tie a little too skinny for his wide body. His white shirt beneath is creased along the sides of his chest; it’s too tight.
Duncan and I are dressed far more casually, and I wonder if we’ve both come underdressed for some big announcement.
“Tonight we celebrate,” Dad says, lifting his glass of red wine.
We lift our cups of water.
Dad drains half the glass in one sip, then sets it down carefully, making sure to place it in the exact center of the square, cork coaster.
He smiles at each of us in turn. Well, maybe smile is not the correct word. His lips peel thinly up over his teeth, and his eyes narrow, and creases push into the leathered skin of his face, but there’s not an ounce of warmth or even something relatable in his expression.
“Duncan!” he booms from nowhere, shocking me. I jump visibly in my chair, and I shut my eyes for a moment, feeling nothing but impatient frustration.
Duncan gives him a wry look. “Glass, what are we celebrating?” he asks.
“You two,” Dad says, shaking his head. “You both leave the nest, and never return to even visit. I have to call together a family dinner on a special occasion to see you two together.”
I roll my eyes. I wish he would just quit with the woe-is-me melodramatics.
“What’s the special occasion, Dad? I’ve got work I need to do tonight, so I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible.”
Dad bristles, but, to my surprise, he bites his tongue.
“You ever heard of Conrad Butler, Duncan?”
I look across the table, see an expression of recognition fade-in on Duncan’s features.
“Yeah,” Duncan says slowly. “Fighter up in Canada. Best in the country, from what I’ve read. Very fast, very violent. They call him ‘Manic’.”
“He’s agreed to fight you.” Dad beams at both of us.
“And?”
“And he’s the favorite!” Dad says, slapping the table with exhilaration. “Damn it, Duncan, nobody is going to bet against Manic Butler! Even you, no offense, lose on paper. He’s taller, faster, and stronger. He’s got more experience on you, and he’s on a similar win-streak to you. The physicals alone make him the favorite, but when you take in his extremely effective moves, not to mention the fact that his trainer is a God damned heavyweight ex-champion… shit, we’re going to win big.”
Dad picks up a fork and knife, squeezes them both in his hands until his sausagey fingers go white. “We couldn’t have asked for a better opponent.”
I look in mild horror at Dad’s gleeful expression, the excitement he has at the prospect of a fighter that not only matches up well with Duncan, but could beat him. Hurt him.
“I could lose, you know,” Duncan says, his voice gravelly. “You’re the bank, you take all the risk.”
Dad points his knife at Duncan. “But you won’t lose. You’ll win. I know it, I can feel it. You’re a better fighter, Duncan. You’re tougher up here.” He taps the sharp steak knife to his temple. “We’ll get you ready for this one. The fight is in four days, and tomorrow I have some pro scouts flying in. They’ll go over all of Manic’s favorite moves with you, so you can learn to counter them.”
I can see from Duncan’s disinterested expression that he’s not particularly impressed by this idea. How much he has changed since the beginning. At first, he wanted to fight, wanted to make a name for himself. He was determined to do something.
But now… now each fight feels perfunctory. The passion is gone. Duncan knows that to everybody, he’s just a gladiator. Most gladiators were forced to fight against their will.
He meets my eyes for a moment, and I nod at him, telling him silently, I know.
“What, you afraid, boy?” Dad asks, glowering. His whole demeanor has changed, and his eyes might as well have turned red, and he might as well have sprouted horns from his forehead.
“I’m not afraid,” Duncan says. You’d be hard-pressed not to believe him, the way he says it so casually. “Once I beat Manic, though—”
“There will be a few fights left, don’t worry. I know for a fact Falcone is scouring Mexico for a fighter, and one of the other families has connections in Russia and they are looking there. There will be a few more big time guys they’ll bring in, ex-pros and the like. You’ll still have work. Then, once that well dries up, we just move to another. The pros. I’ll get you into the biggest legit tournament and you’ll run the gauntlet and come out on top. I’ll put down numbers so large in just one event we’ll make enough to live like kings for the rest of our lives. With something like UFC, it’s not just national betting. It’s international betting. We’re playing with money from all across the world. Think about it, your children, their children will be set for life!”
Duncan remains non-committal, though, and I decide it’s my turn to speak.
“How good is Manic?” I ask. When Dad opens his mouth to speak, I silence him with a wave of my hand. “I’m talking to Duncan.”
My ears are burning, and I know Dad is staring bullet holes through me, but damn it, I get to speak at this table.
“I know him mostly by reputation,” Duncan says. “I’ve watched a couple of his fights, that’s it. He’s hard and fast, likes to get dirty on the mat.”
“What do you mean ‘dirty’?”
“He’ll tap your balls.”
“Can’t you wear a cup?”
“He pulls other cheap shit, too. Stuck his finger in a guy’s ass once.”
I frown in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, yeah,” Duncan says. “That’s part of his reputation. It’s not that uncommon, anyway. Just a moment’s distraction, he locks you, submits you, and then doesn’t stop. He’ll tear your arm from your socket even after you tap-out. Manic’s a little crazy.”
Dad butts in now: “When you’re on the mat, anything can happen. Just submit him fast. No need to draw this one out. He’s too big of a name. He’s been the top fighter in Canada for nearly a decade. But you’ve got the younger body! He may be strong, but he lacks your sheer athleticism, something only I know about. I’ve seen you squirm out of leg holds in ways that would have professional instructors asking for your secrets.”
I watch Duncan as he seems to weigh the idea in his head for a moment. Soup is brought in, but none of us start eating.
“Fine,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, kick his foot under the table. “Duncan, are you sure?”
“I can beat him.”
“Yeah, you might win the fight, but what could you lose in the cage?”
“An eye is always a possibility, especially with Manic.” He grins at me, as if doing so can make my worries just evaporate away.
I fold my arms. “I don’t like it. If people are already lining up to bet against Duncan, despite every win he’s notched, then there must be something about this Manic guy. If he fights dirty, they’ll no-doubt be whispering in his ears to do so.”
“Of course they will, there’s no need to state the obvious,” Dad snaps. He turns to Duncan. “You may need to pull out a few tricks.”
“I’m not fighting dirty,” Duncan says. “Maybe you loaded your gloves, you know, a little Plaster of Paris, but I won’t.”
Dad is visibly taken aback, stammers, “I-I never once—”
“Whatever, Glass,” Duncan says. “I’ll fight him, but I’ll fight him clean.”
I can hear Dad’s teeth grinding against each other. “Good,” he says through a strained voice. “Well, this wasn’t a very pleasant dinner, was it?”
He gets up, tosses his napkin into his bowl of soup, extends a finger at Duncan. “I want you to win that fight, boy. Do whatever it takes. We’re going to rinse these fucking fools who are going to bet against you, we’re going to take everything they’ve got. For this fight, I’m bumping your share to ten percent. Don’t say I never fucking took care of you.”
Dad stomps out of the room, and we hear a series of doors slamming in the house.
“That was quick,” Duncan murmurs, leaning on the table. He’s taken an extra pleasure in getting a rise out of Dad recently. I know he thinks he’s turning Dad on him, and away from me, but really all he’s doing is putting us both in Dad’s sights.
“You shouldn’t have said he fought with loaded gloves.”
Duncan shrugs, and so I get serious.
“You just make it worse for me when you do that.”
He just looks at me for a moment, and there is no contrition in his features, but I know that he’s measuring what I’ve said in his mind. After a moment, he agrees with me.
“You’re right. I’ll stop.”
“Now, this fight.”
“It’ll be fine, Dee. I can beat Butler.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods. “I’m sure, Dee.”
“I want to study the film with you. I might see things you don’t.”
“Good, I was going to ask you.”
“Is he dumb? Manic, I mean.”
“He’s no idiot, but he’s not good at adapting from what I saw.”
“So you’ll have to surprise him, catch him off-guard.”
“I was thinking about trying southpaw.”
I push my lips together. Fighting left-handed? That’s not a bad idea, would throw off the timing, make Duncan hard to predict, difficult to counter.
“Think you’re good enough with your left?” I ask. I know I don’t need to ask it – he is almost completely ambidextrous – but I want to know what his mindset is.
After all this time being with him, I know that leading with your strong arm – and while he can use both effectively, his right is stronger – is very risky.
“Yeah, I am, but I need to watch him fight a bit more first. He’s a grappler, he’ll want to take me to the mat. Do I try and grapple with him, use my angles, my agility, hope I don’t get pinned? Or do I play defensive striker, turtle up and trade blows, try to wear him out?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him truthfully. “But if he has trouble adapting, then you need to be changing your style constantly. Don’t let him get comfortable.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You’re right.”
I nod, and then lean forward over the table, and sigh.
“What is it?” he asks, his eyes darting toward the dining room door for a moment before he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“I don’t want you fighting anymore. I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear that, but these last few fights…”
I trail off, thinking about all the people he’s gone up against in the last month, since that night at the pool in the hotel. They’ve been tough opponents, and even though he’s won all those fights, he’s taking more hits. He’s coming back home bruised, bleeding, and in pain.
I find nothing good in the idea of my man getting beaten up, even if he dishes out a worse beating up in the process. You should see the other guy is something that doesn’t work when both men get fucked up, no matter how much he says it in jest.
And I don’t want my man fucked up.
“I won’t fight forever,” he tells me. There’s a soft certainty in his voice, and yet the pronouncement is vague.
“When?”
“Soon. Just a little more.”
“But why?”
“I’m planning something, Dee. Don’t push me on this one. I know when to stop.”
“Are you sure you do? What if you leave this fight with a broken jaw? A torn ligament? Brain damage!”
“Then Manic will be in much worse condition.”
“But I don’t care about Manic!” I hiss at him, my temper flaring unexpectedly. “I care about you!”
That damn stupid tongue comes out of his mouth and wets his lips, and somehow it drains some of my anxiety away.
“I’m not going to get hurt.”
“You got hurt last time.”
“Just bruises, Dee. How can a fighter not pick up cuts and scrapes on the way?”
“Some fighters pick up paralysis on the way,” I say, knowing it’s unfair.
“Just a little more, Dee. Trust me.”
“But why can’t you just tell me why? It’s clear you’re not interested in the fighting anymore. It’s clear you loathe Dad. I can see it in your body language. Don’t think I can’t tell, Duncan. I know you! You have to be honest with me, I deserve that. So why can’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m not ready to, yet!” he says, his voice rising a little. “I haven’t figured it all out yet.”
I see now a kind of uncertainty in his expression. Usually he’s so assured about everything, like he knows the way life is going to unfold, and that he’s going to be able to bend the creases the way he likes.
But this… this is something different. This is something that’s scaring him.
“You can tell me, Duncan. Lean on me.”
“I do, and I will,” he says. “I promise you I will, but not now.”
“Why not now?”
“I can’t answer that.”
I blink, shake my head in frustration. “What the hell kind of answer is that? After everything we’ve been through, now is when you stop trusting me?”
“I still trust you.”
“So, tell me!”
“I can’t,” he says, his voice lowering to something guttural. I can see what’s about to happen. I’ve been with him long enough to know when he’s about to get all broody and introspective; shut me out.
“This is unfair to me.”
“Damn it, Dee, I don’t know how to say it.”
“Just use the first words that come into your head.”
“I already have. You need to just believe me, okay? A few more fights, I’ll have everything sorted.”
“Have what sorted?”
But he doesn’t reply. We just sit in silence for a while, looking anywhere but each other.
“Excuse me,” I say, and I get up and go to the washroom to pee. There, I check. Still nothing. I grip onto the edge of the sink, and look into the mirror. Shit.
My heart starts to beat quicker, and I feel a nervous shiver run down my spine. I’m late. It’s only been a few days, but up until now I’ve always had very regular periods.
I tease my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and tap on the calendar app, count the days for the umpteenth time today. It should have come by now. It’s been a little over two weeks since that night at the hotel, but that was the only night we had unprotected sex.
I tap my nails against ceramic, realize that I can’t even keep a steady beat. My fingers are trembling. I’ve researched it all, looked it up online, but I only feel one of the early warning signs of pregnancy: My nipples tingle. Beyond that, I haven’t been feeling unusually tired, and I haven’t been feeling sick. I don’t ache, and I’m not irritable. My appetite hasn’t changed at all, either.
I sigh. They say morning sickness won’t come for another two weeks. I’m almost afraid to buy a test. In my mind, maybe I can hold out a few more days. Maybe I’m just late, maybe I’ve just been too stressed at school. Maybe…
I can’t be pregnant. Not now.
Not with him!
I’ll wait. Just a few more days. I’ll wait a week, and then I’ll buy a pregnancy test. For a moment, just a fleeting moment, I think about mentioning this to Duncan.
But immediately I know I’m not going to. I don’t know for sure, yet. I don’t know anything, yet. I don’t want to scare him.
I don’t know what he’ll think!
“What’s wrong?” he asks instantly as I enter the dining room.
“Nothing,” I say. “I’m tired.”
He looks like he’s about to press, and so I put up a hand, shake my head. “Really, I’m fine. I just want to leave this place.”
“Then let’s go.”
We leave the house without saying bye to Dad, and I go back to his apartment with him. Both our moods are subdued as we no doubt consider the future.
Duncan likely wonders about his fight with Manic. He’s probably going through the moves in his head, over and over. How to counter this, that, when to strike, when to turtle.
And me… well, I’m only thinking about one thing.
And it just goes round and round in circles in my mind.
I have no idea what I’m going to do.