Chapter Twenty-Two
Jaimie
“You know what I’m looking forward to?” asked Randy with a hint of eagerness in his voice.
“Hmm?”
“Fall. I can’t wait to sit down again beside a crackling fire in my jack-o-lantern socks, drinking spiced wassail and eating baked apples glazed with cinnamon.”
“Fall is a long way away,” I pointed out.
“I find that it gets closer and closer the older you get. At my age, it doesn’t seem like it’s that far off.”
We were seated in the second row of a sun-drenched conference room that was rapidly filling up with reporters. A woman in a neatly pressed black suit stood near the door breathlessly talking into a camera. A tall podium stood on a raised platform at the front of the room, surrounded by a row of chairs.
My heart fluttered nervously as I awaited any sign of Braxton. Every time I heard footsteps behind me, my skin prickled. It felt like I was back at summer camp sitting in one of the chairs under the pavilion pretending to read my Bible while I waited for my crush to appear and sit down beside me.
“I think we could be in for a hell of a show today,” said Randy. “Of course, Bruce is the headline speaker, but his record is squeaky-clean. Braxton’s the one the media’s going to hone in.”
“How do you think he’s going to handle it? I understand he’s not known for keeping his head under pressure.”
“I honestly have no idea!” he exclaimed, a smile lighting his face. “That’s what makes it so exciting!”
But we didn’t have long to find out. Within a few minutes, Coach Aardman walked onto the platform, looking uncharacteristically dapper in a gray woolen suit, flanked by Bruce and Braxton. I turned away to avoid locking eyes with Braxton, who flashed me a cocksure grin as they strode to the podium.
Aardman took the podium to introduce the two boys. But almost from the moment he began speaking, he was bombarded with questions.
“Mr. Aardman, what’s your response to the drug abuse crisis among professional MMA fighters?”
“Mr. Aardman, what’s the potential for things to go badly wrong during one of your matches? What precautions have you taken to ensure the safety of all participants?”
“Mr. Aardman, we understand that one of your prize fighters has been in and out of jail. Can you tell us a little more about the nature of the crimes he committed?”
“Mr. Aardman, in your opinion, who is your best fighter?”
The noise level in the room rose to such heights that Coach Aardman stopped talking and stood there quietly for a moment, his hands gripping either side of the podium.
“One at a time, please,” he said finally. “I’m sorry to say I won’t have time to answer every question. But my boys are going to speak, and they’ll try to take as many as they can.”
He invited Bruce to the podium. Fresh off his win in Vegas, Bruce seemed surer of himself than ever. It was clear that some of the journalists were hoping to start a feud between him and Braxton. At first, Bruce resisted admirably, waving away their questions with declarations of modesty. But when the reporter in the black suit stood up and said, “Mr. LaMotta, there have been whispers that your success in the octagon last weekend is entirely owing to the counsel of your friend Braxton.” Bruce let out a low grunt of annoyance and glared as if wanting to set the room on fire.
“I owe my success in the octagon to three things,” he said slowly and softly. “Myself, my mom that raised me, and my coach that trained me. Braxton hasn’t done a damn thing for me.”
Braxton flinched, looking slightly stung, but said nothing. He drew a couple of deep breaths and appeared to be counting to ten.
A second reporter spoke up. “Okay, but we’ve spoken to friends and even fellow players who maintain that Braxton Savery is the ‘crown jewel’ of FAF and that Aardman only allowed you into the octagon last week under intense pressure from Randy Carruthers.”
“I don’t know who these people are who are saying these things,” said Bruce, visibly agitated, “but they ought to be dunked in the sea.”
There was a smattering of laughter, but Bruce did not smile—nor, for that matter, did Braxton.
“But what does Mr. Savery have to say in his own defense?” asked the first woman, who was clearly looking to start something.
Braxton leaned forward, into the microphone. “I, um, guess we’ll find out in a week or so who the real champion is.”
Incredibly, there was a chorus of “oooo.” The press conference was beginning to take on the feel of a live wrestling match. Randy turned to me, grinning, and pulled a large can of cashews out of his blue duffel bag.
Sensing blood, the reporters began shouting their questions willy-nilly at each of the two boys.
“Mr. Savery, how would you rate yourself on a scale of one to ten compared to your opponent, Mr. LaMotta?”
“Mr. LaMotta, if you were trapped in a room with Mr. Savery and Bin Laden, and there was only one bullet in your gun, who would you kill?”
Bruce smiled a crooked smile. “That one’s easy,” he said. “Bin Laden is already dead.”
While this was going on, Braxton stood quietly in the back, his head turning increasingly darker shades of red, barely keeping a lid on his anger. Finally, as the room erupted in laughter, he charged across the platform and around Coach Aardman, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
Randy and I both rose to our feet. This was the moment we had been dreading, the moment when Braxton blew up and attacked his fellow player. Bruce, seeing what was coming, had only a second to prepare himself.
But there with the camera lights and the eyes of the room on him, he seemed to hesitate. For a moment he stood motionless, a look of uncertainty on his face—then, to the surprise of everyone present, he placed a single finger on Bruce’s noise and said, “Boop!”
The effect was instantaneous. As one, the entire press corps rose to its feet in applause, cheering in surprise and delight.
The moment the conference ended, Randy rose from his seat and ran straight for Braxton. I followed behind a little shyly, my hands in my back pockets.
“I don’t think I need to tell you how incredibly you carried yourself,” said Randy, shaking his hand eagerly. “You could very well be the one we’ve been looking for.”
Braxton gaped incredulously, as though not entirely sure what he had done. Rallying quickly, he said, “Thank you, Mr. Carruthers. I aim to please.”
“I have to say, you’ve really gotten a handle on your anger. I thought you were about to deck LaMotta, but it’s to your credit that you didn’t. It’s a bit like firing a missile at another country, but the missile is filled with confetti and glitter. Annoying, but no one dies.”
“Yeah, I wish all missiles were like that,” said Braxton, still in showman mode. “Then we might truly have world peace.”
Giving him a serene pat on the arm, Randy left to speak with Coach Aardman, leaving the two of us to stare awkwardly at each other.
“So, guess it’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” he said finally, not quite able to look me in the eyes.
“Guess it has.”
“Sorry, I would’ve texted you, but you never left me a phone number. I figured I’d run into you again before too long.”
“Well, maybe I didn’t want you having my number.”
Braxton looked perplexed, as if he couldn’t conceive why any woman wouldn’t want him to have her number. At almost the same instant it must have occurred to him that I might be upset about Saturday night.
“Hey, are you okay? You left in kind of a hurry last time.”
“I’ve been better,” I said tersely. “It wasn’t exactly my proudest moment.”
Braxton rolled up his eyes as though doing sums in his head. He was such a goof, but there was something irresistibly adorable about him. So young, delightful, and dumb.
“Are you upset about what happened?” he asked slowly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m getting the feeling you’re not too happy with me.”
“I’d really rather not talk about it here,” I said, motioning to the reporters who were still standing nearby.
Braxton motioned to the sunlit windows. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
***
We took a walk along the boulevard, past pawn shops and beauty salons and little rectangular patches of uncut grass where daisies and dandelions were blooming. The noise of traffic on the freeway made it hard to talk, and for a short while, we walked along together in silence.
“So,” said Braxton shyly as we passed an abandoned strip mall containing a sushi restaurant and what had once been a Captain D’s. “Are you mad at me?”
“I don’t know how to answer that question.”
“Oh.” He winced painfully, as though having just been hit in the jaw. “So is that a yes, then?”
Feeling slightly exasperated, I said, “I’ll be straight with you: our little rendezvous could have gone better. Do you even remember what happened?”
“Vaguely,” he said with a sheepish grin. “I remember us talking, and I remember us making love.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
“Sorry it wasn’t good for you.”
“It had nothing to do with your performance.” There was a slight edge in my voice. “I once made love to a wonderful guy. And he was shy and awkward and clumsy and didn’t know what to do with his hands, but I loved it because he wasn’t just in it for himself. He made me and my pleasure paramount.”
As I spoke, the color flooded back into Braxton’s face. He seemed to be remembering what had passed between us.
“I’m not even going to bother asking what exactly we did,” he said at last. “I can tell you didn’t enjoy it, and for that I’m sorry. All I remember is you being next to me, breathing in the scent of your hair and your body, and wanting to stand there holding you close to me always and never move from that spot.”
“Thanks for saying that.” I could tell he was being sincere, and I felt strangely moved by his eloquence. “It helps.”
“I just really liked you,” said Braxton. “And I never thought I’d say this, but I liked talking to you, and I think you’re smart, and I’d like to talk to you more if that’s alright with you. And sometimes, maybe I’m not good at expressing that, and I’m sorry. I’m young, but I’m learning.”
It was disconcerting how charming he was. He was like a great big, fluffy white dog that I wanted to cuddle with beside a fire forever: so cozy, and dumb, and largely unaware of his own strength.
We passed an auto repair shop where a man in a baseball cap and aviators was mowing grass. He grinned and waved at us, and Braxton returned the wave cheerfully.
“Have you ever seen the Before series?” I asked him.
“No, what’s that?”
“It’s this brilliant series of movies starring Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy. In the first movie, this man and woman meet one night on a train and spend a couple hours walking around Vienna. The whole movie is just them talking. The second one catches up with them nine years later, and the third one nine years after that.”
“That sounds sweet.” I couldn’t tell if he was just trying to humor me or if he really meant it.
“That’s what this conversation reminds me of—like a low-budget, rural version of those movies set in a decidedly less glamorous location.” I motioned at the cell phone store to our right, its parking lot filled with broken beer bottles and grackles eating discarded French fries.
“Do you own them?” He seemed to be having trouble thinking of things to say, so he was letting me direct the flow of the conversation.
“Yeah, I own all of them.”
“We should get together and watch them sometime. If they’re that important to you, I think I would like to see them.”
I gave him a tender look. He was trying so hard to atone, and he was so sincere. “I think I would like that.”
“How about tomorrow night?”
“Only if we can go to dinner first,” I said without a second’s thought.
“Deal. I’ll pick you up. It won’t be like walking around Vienna, but maybe we’ll have fun for a couple hours in Boulder.”
“Well, hopefully our relationship won’t end up like theirs does.”
“Don’t they end up together? They must have, if there are sequels.”
“Yes, but it’s complicated.” The third movie had disturbed me more than any horror movie I had ever seen. “I suppose the best we can do is to take things as they come.”
“Yeah, I like that,” said Braxton. “We’re just starting out, after all.”
When he put it in those terms, it sounded like we were officially dating. We weren’t dating yet; we were just going on a date. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go steady. All I wanted at the moment was dinner and a nice movie. I had already gotten my apology, which was more than I could have hoped for and the only reason we were still talking.
“Well, I think I need to be heading back,” I said. “I left my car at the conference center.”
“Okay,” he replied. “I think I might walk around for a bit and then take the bus home. See you.”
“See you.”
I turned to leave. But I hadn’t walked more than a few paces when I felt a firm hand on my arm. Slightly alarmed, I turned to find him smiling at me.
“I can’t pick you up,” he said, “if I don’t have your number.”
“Oh, of course.” How could I have been dumb enough to forget? I scribbled it down on a fading yellow slip of paper and handed it to him.
“It’s my real number,” I assured him. “You can text me if you want, to be sure.”
“Okay, bye.” He floated away down the sidewalk, past a garage where a couple guys were repairing a cherry-red Mustang.
I walked in silence for a bit, trying to ignore the peculiar fluttering feeling in the pit of my stomach. After our tryst this weekend, I had written him off altogether, and yet somehow we were about to go out again. He might have been the most persuasive person I had ever met. Either that or I was the most foolish. Perhaps both.
It took me about ten minutes to reach the parking lot of the conference center. As I reached into my purse for my keys, I pulled out my phone. I had one new message, from Braxton.
Dinner at eight tomorrow, he had written. Looking forward to it.
I smiled and placed the phone back in my purse, feeling strangely buoyant and hopeful.